What if Deku was recruited by the S.H.D (Secure. Homeland. Divsion) and became their best agent

The wind atop the roof was deafening, yet it did nothing to drown out the ringing in Izuku Midoriya’s ears.

 

The city of Musutafu sprawled out below them, a vibrant, sprawling metropolis bathed in the golden, dying light of the afternoon sun. It was a world of marvels, a society where the extraordinary had become mundane, where gods and monsters walked the streets in spandex and armor. It was a world Izuku had worshipped since he was old enough to comprehend the glow of a computer screen.

 

But right now, the world felt incredibly small. It felt like it was crushing him.

 

Standing a few feet away was Toshinori Yagi. The Symbol of Peace. All Might. The man whose laugh could scatter storm clouds and whose fists could shatter mountains. Except, the towering, muscle-bound colossus was gone, replaced by an emaciated, hollow-cheeked skeleton of a man coughing up blood into the palm of his oversized hand.

 

Izuku’s trembling hands gripped the straps of his scorched yellow backpack. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had asked the question. The one question that had haunted his every waking moment since the doctor had indifferently pointed out the extra joint in his pinky toe ten years ago.

 

Can someone without a Quirk be like you? Can I be a hero, too?

 

The silence stretching between them was agonizing. Izuku watched as All Might wiped the blood from his chin, his sunken blue eyes carrying a weight that Izuku had never seen on television or a poster. It was the weight of reality.

 

"Heroes are always risking their lives," All Might said, his voice stripped of its usual booming theatrics. It was quiet, rasping, and devastatingly honest. "Some villains simply can't be beaten without power. Can you become a hero without a Quirk? No... I don't think you can."

 

The words struck Izuku with the force of a physical blow. He felt his knees weaken. The air was violently sucked from his lungs.

 

"If you want to help people," All Might continued, turning away toward the roof’s access door, "become a police officer. They get a lot of crap because the villains are delivered to their doorstep, but it's a fine profession."

 

The metal door creaked open, the rusted hinges groaning in the wind. All Might paused, looking back over his skeletal shoulder. "It's not bad to dream, kid. But you also have to consider what's realistic."

 

The door clicked shut. The metallic echo resonated in the empty stairwell, leaving Izuku utterly alone.

 

He didn't cry. Not immediately. The shock was too absolute, a cold, numbing poison spreading through his veins. He stood on the rooftop for what felt like hours, his gaze locked onto the door. His brain, usually running a mile a minute with analysis, contingencies, and frantic optimism, was completely blank.

 

Realistic.

 

The word bounced around inside his skull. Kacchan had told him to be realistic when he exploded his desk. The teachers had told him to be realistic when they handed out career forms. His mother had told him to be realistic when she held him, apologizing over and over again as he pointed at the computer screen.

 

And now, the man who defied reality on a daily basis had told him the exact same thing.

 

Izuku slowly looked down at his hands. They were trembling, pale, and entirely ordinary. No sparks of fire, no shifting gravity, no telekinesis. Just skin and bone. He unclasped his burnt, waterlogged notebook—Hero Analysis for the Future Vol. 13. The pages were wrinkled, the ink smeared from where it had fallen into the koi pond earlier that day. He traced the singed edges with a numb thumb.

 

"Realistic," Izuku whispered to the empty sky.

 

He didn't take the elevator down. He took the stairs, his feet moving on autopilot, each step heavy and deliberate. By the time he reached the ground floor and stepped out onto the bustling pavement, a profound exhaustion had settled into his bones. The vibrant city around him felt muted. The neon signs were dull; the chatter of the crowds was nothing but white noise.

 

He began the long walk home, his head bowed. He didn't know what he was going to do now. For ten years, his singular, blinding purpose had been U.A. High School. The Hero Course. Now, that path was walled off by an impenetrable barrier of reality. He needed a new dream. Maybe a paramedic? A police officer, like All Might suggested?

 

BOOM!

 

The sudden, earth-shaking explosion jolted Izuku from his stupor. The ground beneath his red sneakers vibrated. A thick pillar of acrid black smoke began to rise over the skyline just a few blocks away.

 

Without thinking, Izuku’s legs began to move. The old, ingrained habit took over. A villain attack? Who's fighting? What Quirks are involved?

 

He broke into a run, navigating through the panicked crowds fleeing the scene, moving against the tide of humanity. As he rounded a corner into Tatooin Shopping District, the heat hit him like a physical wall. The narrow alleyways and storefronts were engulfed in roaring flames. Fire hydrants had been shattered, spraying water uselessly onto the pavement.

 

A crowd had formed behind a police barricade. Izuku pushed his way to the front, standing on his tiptoes to get a view.

 

His breath hitched in his throat.

 

It was the Sludge Villain. The exact same gelatinous, vile monster that had nearly suffocated Izuku under the bridge just an hour ago. The monster All Might had captured.

 

He must have dropped him, Izuku realized, a cold wave of nausea washing over him. When he jumped away from the roof... he dropped the bottles because of me.

 

Izuku's hands clamped over his mouth. This is my fault.

 

The situation in the plaza was absolute chaos. The villain had grown larger, a towering, amorphous blob of shifting green sewage and jagged, debris-filled teeth. And he had a hostage.

 

"I've got a great meat-shield right here!" the villain roared, swinging a massive, liquid appendage that smashed a lamppost into kindling. "Stay back, you third-rate hacks!"

 

Pro Heroes were on the scene, but they were paralyzed. Kamui Woods was standing at the edge of the inferno, his wooden arms instinctively shielding his face. "I can't get near him! I'm at a disadvantage against fire!" he shouted over the roar of the flames.

 

"There's no room for me to maneuver in this alley!" Mt. Lady cried out, stuck in her giant form at the entrance of the street. "I can't get in there!"

 

Death Arms, a hero with massive upper-body strength, gritted his teeth, his fists clenched in helpless rage. "He's too slippery! I tried to grab him, but I can't get a solid hold! We just have to wait for someone with a favorable Quirk!"

 

"Are you kidding me?!" a civilian yelled. "They're just going to let that kid die?!"

 

Izuku strained his eyes, peering through the thick, suffocating smoke to see the hostage. A shock of ash-blonde hair cut through the haze.

 

Kacchan.

 

Bakugo was thrashing violently, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and filled with a terror Izuku had never seen before. Explosions were firing rapidly from the blonde's palms, wild and desperate, only serving to ignite the surrounding buildings further. The sludge was forcing its way up Bakugo’s nose and mouth, suffocating him, drowning him on dry land.

 

He's dying, Izuku thought, his mind racing. The heroes aren't doing anything. They're waiting. But he doesn't have time to wait.

 

Bakugo's eyes darted frantically through the crowd. For a fraction of a second, his crimson gaze locked onto Izuku’s. It was a look of pure, unadulterated pleading.

 

Help me.

 

Before his brain could process the danger, before the voices of All Might, his mother, and society could tell him to be realistic, Izuku’s feet moved.

 

He vaulted over the yellow police tape.

 

"Hey! Kid! Stop!" Death Arms roared, reaching out, but his fingers only brushed the fabric of Izuku’s uniform.

 

Izuku didn't hear him. The world had gone silent again, replaced only by the sound of his own ragged breathing and the roar of the fire. The heat blistered his skin, but he didn't care. He was sprinting straight into hell, his legs pumping with desperate adrenaline.

 

What am I doing?! his mind screamed. Why am I running?! I don't have a plan! I don't have a Quirk! I can't do anything!

 

The Sludge Villain noticed him, a grotesque, bulbous eye widening in recognition. "You again! The brat from the bridge!" The villain reared back a massive, gelatinous tentacle, preparing to swat Izuku into the pavement like an insect.

 

Izuku’s hands acted on instinct. He grabbed the straps of his yellow backpack, swung it in a massive arc, and hurled it directly at the villain's face.

 

The zipper burst open. Textbooks, a pencil case, and Hero Analysis for the Future Vol. 13 flew through the air. A single, sharp mechanical pencil spun like a dart and embedded itself directly into the villain’s right eye.

 

"GAAAH!" The monster shrieked, recoiling in agony. The sludge around Bakugo’s face loosened just enough for the blonde to gasp for a desperate lungful of air.

 

"Kacchan!" Izuku screamed, dropping to his knees and plunging his bare hands into the boiling, foul-smelling mud. He clawed at the villain, his nails scraping against nothing but liquid. It was like trying to dig a hole in a river.

 

"Deku?!" Bakugo coughed, his voice ragged and confused. "What the hell are you doing here?!"

 

"I don't know!" Izuku cried, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the soot on his cheeks. "My legs just moved on their own! You looked like... you looked like you needed saving!"

 

For a moment, the villain hesitated, stunned by the sheer absurdity of the Quirkless boy's actions. But the shock quickly morphed into boiling rage.

 

"I'M GONNA CRUSH YOU BOTH!" the villain roared. The sludge coalesced, forming a massive, hardened fist of compressed debris and mud, towering high above Izuku's head.

 

"Kid, get out of there!" Kamui Woods yelled, stepping forward, but he was too far away. The heroes weren't going to make it in time.

 

Izuku looked up at the descending shadow. He braced himself, closing his eyes. I’m sorry, Mom.

 

 

 

"System activated."

 

The voice did not belong to a hero. It wasn't booming, theatrical, or inspiring. It was synthetic, cold, female, and utterly devoid of emotion. It sounded like it came from a high-end speaker, cutting through the roar of the flames with crystal clarity.

 

A metallic object, no larger than a baseball, rolled past Izuku’s feet. It emitted a high-pitched, rhythmic beep... beep... beep...

 

Izuku opened his eyes just as the object detonated.

 

It wasn't an explosion of fire. It was an explosion of absolute, sub-zero cold. A shockwave of blue mist erupted outward, hitting the Sludge Villain dead center.

 

The effect was instantaneous. The massive, descending fist of mud froze solid mid-air, a thick layer of white frost rapidly spreading across the villain's gelatinous body. The monster let out a garbled, horrified gargle as its liquid form crystallized into solid ice.

 

"What the—?" Death Arms gasped, halting his sprint.

 

Footsteps echoed against the pavement. Heavy, deliberate, and entirely unhurried.

 

Izuku turned his head. Stepping out from the shadows of an alleyway to their left was a man. But he didn't look like a Pro Hero. He wore no spandex, no brightly colored cape, and no branding.

 

He was dressed like a modern, urban soldier. He wore dark gray tactical pants, combat boots, and a form-fitting, reinforced tactical turtleneck beneath a heavy ballistic plate carrier. A single-strap canvas backpack was slung over his right shoulder. Covering the lower half of his face was an intricate, carbon-fiber respirator mask.

 

But what immediately drew Izuku’s analytical eye were the lights.

 

On the man's left shoulder strap rested a rectangular, highly advanced communications brick, glowing with a bright, piercing orange ring. And on his left wrist, a heavy, rugged smartwatch pulsed with the exact same, mesmerizing orange light.

 

The man didn't shout a catchphrase. He didn't announce his arrival. He simply raised his left arm.

 

With a sharp, metallic SNAP, a collapsible ballistic shield deployed from a mechanism on his forearm. It expanded into a towering, clear polycarbonate wall, lined with titanium reinforcements.

 

The man lunged forward with explosive speed. He bypassed Izuku entirely, driving the reinforced edge of the riot shield directly into the frozen, crystallized sludge connecting Bakugo to the main body of the villain.

 

CRACK.

 

The frozen sludge shattered like glass. Bakugo, violently severed from his captor, tumbled forward onto the pavement, gasping and hacking up mud.

 

"You bastard!" the Sludge Villain roared, the ice beginning to thaw around his main core. "I'll kill you!"

 

The villain whipped a newly formed, liquid appendage toward the man's blind spot.

 

The man didn't even look. He fluidly holstered the shield, his right hand dropping to the tactical drop-leg holster on his thigh. In a single, blindingly fast motion, he drew a heavily customized, matte-black sidearm.

 

He fired three times in rapid succession. Pft! Pft! Pft!

 

Izuku flinched, expecting the deafening crack of gunfire. Instead, there was only the dull, suppressed thud of subsonic rounds. But these weren't bullets. Three heavy, metallic darts embedded themselves into the villain's central, gelatinous mass.

 

The man tapped a button on his orange glowing watch.

 

The darts detonated. A localized EMP and shock-charge discharged simultaneously. A web of brilliant blue electricity arced through the villain's highly conductive, liquid body.

 

The monster shrieked, its eyes rolling back. The electrical current violently disrupted the cellular cohesion of the sludge. Within three seconds, the villain collapsed into a puddle of inert, twitching mud on the asphalt.

 

The fight was over. It had taken less than ten seconds.

 

The entire plaza was dead silent, save for the crackling of the nearby fires. The Pro Heroes stared in utter disbelief. Kamui Woods' jaw was practically on the floor. A civilian hero, a vigilante, or whatever this man was, had just systematically dismantled a villain that had stumped three veteran Pros, and he had done it without breaking a sweat.

 

The man lowered his sidearm, smoothly sliding it back into its holster. He tapped the device on his shoulder. The orange glow pulsed twice.

 

"Threat neutralized," the cold, synthetic female voice announced.

 

The man turned his gaze to Izuku. His eyes, visible above the respirator mask, were dark, sharp, and intensely calculating. He stepped toward Izuku, his heavy boots crunching against the shattered ice.

 

Izuku froze, terrified. Was he going to be arrested? Yelled at?

 

The man stopped in front of him. He reached down to the pavement, picking up something from a puddle of water. It was Izuku’s burnt notebook, Hero Analysis for the Future Vol. 13. The man wiped a smudge of soot off the cover with his gloved thumb, looking at it for a long, silent moment.

 

"Hey! You!" Death Arms finally found his voice, marching forward, puffing out his chest. "Identify yourself! Using a Quirk without a license is a violation of the Vigilante Accords! Stand down!"

 

The man didn't look up from the notebook. He slowly turned his head toward the approaching Pro Hero. He reached into one of the tactical pouches on his chest rig, pulled out a small, metallic badge encased in black leather, and flipped it open.

 

The badge was a black steel eagle, holding a shield.

 

"Federal jurisdiction," the man's voice was deep, muffled slightly by the respirator, yet commanding enough to stop Death Arms dead in his tracks. "Secure the perimeter, handle the fires, and bag the sludge. Do not interfere with my scene again, hero."

 

Death Arms bristled, but upon seeing the badge, the color drained from his face. He swallowed hard, taking a reluctant step back. "Y-Yes, sir."

 

Izuku watched, utterly bewildered. A Pro Hero, taking orders from a man in tactical gear? Who was this guy?

 

The man looked back down at Izuku. He held out the notebook. Izuku hesitantly reached out with trembling hands and took it.

 

"Good throw," the man said quietly, gesturing to the villain's eye, which was still leaking from where the pencil had struck it.

 

Before Izuku could respond, the man turned on his heel. He walked over to a nearby alleyway, the darkness seemingly swallowing him whole. By the time the police sirens wailed in the distance and paramedics rushed the scene, the man with the glowing orange watch was gone.

 

 

 

The aftermath was a blur.

 

As expected, Izuku was fiercely reprimanded by Death Arms and Kamui Woods. They scolded him for his recklessness, calling him a liability, a fool who almost got himself killed trying to play hero.

 

Meanwhile, a few feet away, Bakugo was being praised. The heroes marveled at his Quirk, complimenting his endurance and the explosive power he had displayed while fighting for his life. Bakugo sat on the back of an ambulance, a towel draped over his shoulders, glaring at the ground. He didn't say a word. He didn't boast. He just stared at the spot where the tactical operator had stood.

 

When they finally let Izuku go, the sun had fully set. The city was bathed in the artificial glow of streetlights and neon advertisements. Izuku walked with his head down, his shadow stretching long and thin against the pavement.

 

He felt entirely hollow. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a swirling vortex of confusion.

 

His dreams were shattered. All Might had told him to give up. Yet, when Bakugo was dying, none of the heroes had acted. Only Izuku had run forward. And then... that man.

 

He didn't use a Quirk, Izuku realized, stopping under a flickering streetlight. The ice was a grenade. The shock was from a taser-dart system. The shield was mechanical. He beat a high-tier emitter villain using nothing but technology, tactics, and raw skill.

 

"Muttering to yourself is a bad habit, kid. It gives away your position."

 

Izuku gasped, spinning around.

 

Standing in the shadow of a large oak tree near a local park was the man. The mask was gone, revealing a sharp, angular face, a slight stubble, and dark, serious eyes. He wore a heavy leather jacket over his tactical gear now, but the single-strap backpack and the glowing orange watch remained.

 

"Y-You're..." Izuku stuttered, taking a step back. "You're the man from the plaza! The one who saved Kacchan!"

 

The man stepped into the light. "My name is Commander Kurosawa. And technically, you saved your friend, Midoriya. I just provided the extraction."

 

Izuku’s eyes went wide. "How do you know my name?"

 

Kurosawa tapped the side of his orange smartwatch. "I know everything about you, Izuku Midoriya. Age fourteen. Student at Aldera Junior High. Single mother, Inko. Father working overseas. Quirkless."

 

Izuku flinched at the word.

 

"I also know," Kurosawa continued, taking a step closer, "that you applied for the U.A. Hero Course. And that today, on a rooftop in the commercial district, the number one hero in the country told you it was a pipe dream."

 

Izuku felt a chill run down his spine. "Were you... spying on me? Are you a villain?!" He instinctively brought his arms up in a defensive posture.

 

Kurosawa sighed, shaking his head. "If I were a villain, you and your explosive friend would be dead. Relax, kid. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here because of this." He pointed to the burnt notebook clutched in Izuku's hands.

 

"My... my notebook?"

 

"I read it while the police were interviewing you," Kurosawa said, crossing his arms. "Hero Analysis for the Future. You break down Quirks. Weaknesses, activation requirements, kinetic outputs, psychological blind spots. You wrote an entire page on how Mount Lady's center of gravity shifts when she enlarges, and how targeting her inner ear would neutralize her completely."

 

Izuku blushed, looking down. "I... I just observe things. It's a hobby."

 

"It's not a hobby. It's a tactical threat assessment," Kurosawa corrected him sharply. "You don't think like a fanboy, Midoriya. You think like a field commander. You look at a godlike being and immediately calculate how to take them down."

 

Kurosawa walked over to a park bench and sat down, gesturing for Izuku to do the same. Hesitantly, Izuku walked over and sat on the far edge of the bench, clutching his backpack tightly.

 

"Tell me, Midoriya. What is a Pro Hero?" Kurosawa asked, staring out at the empty park.

 

"They... they stop villains. They save people," Izuku answered instinctively.

 

"Wrong," Kurosawa said bluntly. "Pro Heroes are peace-time celebrities. They are highly trained, state-sponsored law enforcement officers whose primary function is public relations. They wear bright colors. They shout catchphrases. They exist to make the public feel safe, to maintain the illusion of absolute control."

 

Izuku frowned, feeling a surge of defensiveness. "That's not true! All Might saves hundreds of people every day!"

 

"And what happens when All Might isn't there?" Kurosawa shot back, his dark eyes locking onto Izuku’s. "What happened today, Midoriya? When the fire got too hot? When the villain was too slippery? The Pros stood around and watched a kid choke to death because the conditions weren't 'favorable' for their specific genetic mutations."

 

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. Kurosawa was right. The heroes had waited.

 

"Quirks have made humanity lazy," Kurosawa continued, his voice lowering into a deadly serious tone. "When you rely entirely on a genetic lottery to solve your problems, you forget how to adapt. You forget how to survive. When the system breaks, when the heroes fall, when society is brought to the brink of collapse... the government doesn't call them."

 

Kurosawa lifted his left wrist. The orange ring on the watch pulsed in the darkness, casting a warm, eerie glow over his scarred knuckles.

 

"They call us."

 

"Who is 'us'?" Izuku whispered, mesmerized by the glowing technology.

 

"Two hundred years ago, when Quirks first manifested, the world almost ended," Kurosawa explained, his voice taking on the cadence of a history teacher. "Governments collapsed. Militaries were wiped out by glowing, super-powered infants. In the chaos, a shadow protocol was enacted. A fail-safe designed to ensure the continuity of government and the protection of the innocent when all other institutions failed. Directive 51."

 

Kurosawa tapped his watch. A small, holographic projection sprang to life from the face of the device, rotating slowly in the air between them. It was a glowing orange eagle, the same insignia from the badge.

 

"The Strategic Homeland Division," Kurosawa said. "We are autonomous sleeper agents. Embedded in civilian life. We hold no jurisdictions, answer to no police chief, and carry absolute executive authority during a catastrophic crisis. We don't do press conferences. We don't wear capes. We eliminate threats by any means necessary, and we rebuild."

 

Izuku stared at the hologram, his brilliant mind racing to process this massive revelation. A secret government agency? Operating outside the law?

 

"Why... why are you telling me this?" Izuku asked, his voice trembling. "I'm just a kid. I'm Quirkless."

 

Kurosawa turned off the hologram. The park plunged back into dim lighting. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, looking Izuku dead in the eyes.

 

"Because you ran in," Kurosawa said softly.

 

Izuku blinked. "What?"

 

"I was watching from the roof. I observed the tactical scenario. Kamui Woods was useless. Mount Lady was pinned. Death Arms lacked the grip strength. The kid was a goner," Kurosawa said analytically. "I was preparing to intervene. But before I could draw my weapon, a Quirkless fourteen-year-old boy sprinted into an inferno with a backpack and a pencil, completely disregarding his own life to save a hostage."

 

Kurosawa reached out and tapped the center of Izuku’s chest, right over his heart.

 

"You have the mind of a tactician, Midoriya. But more importantly, you have the heart of a Division Agent. You act when others freeze. You don't rely on genetics; you use what you have in your hands."

 

Izuku felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. After a day of having his heart trampled on, of being told he was worthless, of being told to be realistic, a hardened, lethal operator was sitting in front of him, telling him he had worth.

 

"I'm offering you a choice, Izuku Midoriya," Kurosawa said, standing up from the bench. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a sleek, black metal case. He popped it open, revealing a heavy, matte-black smartwatch. The screen was dark. Dead.

 

"Choice one," Kurosawa said. "You take All Might's advice. You be realistic. You go to high school, get a normal job, become a cop, and live a quiet, safe life. I walk away, and you forget this conversation ever happened."

 

Kurosawa held the open case out to Izuku.

 

"Choice two. You take the watch. You become an initiate of the Strategic Homeland Division. I will train you. I will break you down and build you back up. I will teach you Close Quarters Combat, marksmanship, hacking, and tactical deployment. You will be pushed harder than any hero course student in the country."

 

Izuku stared at the black watch. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

 

"If you choose this path," Kurosawa warned, his tone grave, "you will never get the glory. There will be no action figures of you. No cheering crowds. Your family can never know. To the rest of the world, you will just be a normal, Quirkless kid. But when the lights go out, and the 'Symbols of Peace' are bleeding in the streets... you will be the shield that protects this city."

 

Kurosawa lowered the case slightly. "Do you want to save people, Midoriya? Or do you just want to be famous?"

 

The question hung in the cool night air.

 

Izuku looked down at his burnt notebook. He thought about Kacchan's terrified eyes. He thought about All Might's skeletal, exhausted frame. He thought about a world that relied entirely on a fragile, smiling man holding up a crumbling pillar.

 

What happens when the pillar breaks?

 

Izuku didn't hesitate. He didn't cry. The fear and confusion that had clouded his mind for the past ten years suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity.

 

He reached into the box.

 

His fingers brushed the cold metal of the watch. He pulled it out, feeling the surprising weight of the technology. He strapped it onto his left wrist and pulled the strap tight.

 

Kurosawa smirked behind his collar. He tapped a command into his own watch.

 

Suddenly, Izuku’s watch vibrated violently. The dark screen flashed to life. A brilliant, piercing orange ring illuminated around the bezel, casting a warm glow over Izuku’s determined, freckled face. A small earpiece in the box clicked. Izuku picked it up and placed it in his right ear.

 

A synthetic, female voice echoed in his head, crisp and clear.

 

"ISAC system online. Biometrics registered. Welcome to the Division, Agent Midoriya."

 

Izuku looked up at Kurosawa. The tears were gone. His green eyes were sharp, focused, and burning with a new, quiet fire.

 

"When do we start?" Izuku asked.

 

Kurosawa nodded approvingly. "Tomorrow at 0400 hours. Dagobah Municipal Beach. Wear clothes you don't mind ruining, Agent. You have ten months until the U.A. entrance exams, and we have a lot of work to do."

 

"Wait," Izuku frowned, confused. "U.A.? But you just said the Division operates outside the hero system. Why would I go to U.A.?"

 

"Because," Kurosawa said, turning and walking away into the darkness of the park, "a sleeper agent needs a cover, Midoriya. And what better place to hide a government operative than in the General Education department of the most heavily guarded hero school in the country?"

 

Kurosawa paused, looking over his shoulder, the orange ring on his backpack fading into the shadows.

 

"Get some sleep, kid. Your old life is over."

 

Izuku stood alone in the park. He looked down at his left wrist. The orange circle pulsed, a steady, rhythmic heartbeat of technology. He clenched his fist. He didn't have a Quirk. He didn't have super strength, or explosions, or fire.

 

He had something better. He had a purpose.

 

Izuku Midoriya turned and walked toward his apartment, his footsteps falling silently on the pavement, ready to step into the shadows.

 

 

 

 

The air at Dagobah Municipal Beach at 0400 hours did not smell like the ocean. It smelled of tetanus, rotting kelp, and the suffocating odor of stagnation. For years, the beach had served as a dumping ground for illegal refuse, a sprawling metallic mountain range of broken appliances, rusted out cars, and shattered glass.

 

It was also, according to Commander Kurosawa, the perfect urban combat simulation zone.

 

"Again."

 

The word cracked like a whip in the freezing pre-dawn air.

 

Izuku Midoriya peeled his face off the wet, oil-stained sand. His lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen, and there was a metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His gray sweatpants were soaked through, and his white t-shirt clung to a frame that, a mere three months ago, had been soft and frail. Now, it was beginning to pull taut with the beginnings of lean, wire-cable muscle.

 

He spat a mixture of sand and saliva onto the beach. He forced his arms to push his center of gravity up, his triceps trembling so violently he thought the bones might splinter.

 

"Your footing was sloppy," Kurosawa said. The older man was casually leaning against the rusted hull of a discarded refrigerator, arms crossed, not a single bead of sweat on his brow. "You telegraphed the right hook. When you rely on a wide stance, you sacrifice mobility for power. You aren't All Might, Midoriya. You will never out-punch a Quirk. If you try to trade blows, you die. Again."

 

Izuku took a ragged breath. He raised his fists, settling into a tighter, more compact guard.

 

Kurosawa didn't move. "Attack."

 

Izuku surged forward. He didn't aim for the head. He remembered the lesson from last week: The head is a small, moving target armored in bone. The joints are fragile hinges. Izuku feinted high with his left, stepping inside Kurosawa’s guard, and drove his right elbow toward the Commander's solar plexus.

 

It was a perfect, textbook strike. Fast, brutal, and entirely unexpected from a fourteen-year-old.

 

But Kurosawa wasn't there.

 

With a subtle pivot, the Commander allowed Izuku’s momentum to carry him forward. Kurosawa’s hand clamped down on the back of Izuku’s neck, his other hand sweeping Izuku’s leading leg. The world flipped upside down.

 

SLAM.

 

Izuku hit the sand hard enough to force the breath from his lungs in a sharp hiss. Before he could even blink, Kurosawa’s knee was pinned against his throat, and the cold, unyielding polymer barrel of a training pistol was pressed directly against Izuku’s forehead.

 

"Dead," Kurosawa said quietly.

 

Izuku closed his eyes, his chest heaving. "I... I thought I had the angle."

 

Kurosawa withdrew the weapon and stepped back, offering a hand. Izuku took it, pulling himself up.

 

"You had the angle," Kurosawa conceded. "But you assumed the enemy would react like a street thug. You committed to the strike. Never commit your entire balance to an offensive maneuver unless you are absolutely certain of the kill. The moment you overextend, you are a liability. Close Quarters Combat isn't about strength, Agent. It's about leverage, physics, and exploiting human anatomy."

 

"Understood, Commander," Izuku rasped, rubbing his bruised throat.

 

The first three months of his training had been nothing short of a living nightmare. When Izuku had accepted the watch, he had imagined tactical briefings, shooting ranges, and learning how to use high-tech gadgets. Instead, Kurosawa had dragged him to the beach and systematically broken him down.

 

There were no gadgets. There was only pain.

 

They ran ten miles every morning before the sun came up, wearing heavy backpacks filled with scrap metal. They climbed mountains of junk to build grip strength. But the most brutal aspect was the CQC training. Kurosawa taught Izuku Systema, Krav Maga, and Kali—martial arts designed not for sport, but for survival.

 

Izuku learned how to break a wrist in three seconds. He learned how to sever an opponent's equilibrium by striking the inner ear. He learned how to turn everyday objects—a pen, a flashlight, a handful of sand—into lethal tools.

 

At first, Izuku’s inherent gentleness held him back. He would pull his punches. He would hesitate before simulating a lethal strike. Kurosawa beat that hesitation out of him with ruthless efficiency, reminding him constantly that the villains he would face would not hesitate to tear his head off.

 

"You're improving," Kurosawa finally said, looking at his tactical watch. "Your reaction time is down to 0.4 seconds. Still a fraction too slow for an emitter-type Quirk, but you're getting there. Go shower. We're moving to Phase Two today."

 

Izuku’s head snapped up. "Phase Two?"

 

"You've learned how to bleed, Midoriya," Kurosawa said, turning to walk toward the seawall. "Now, I'm going to teach you how to bite back."

 

 

 

Phase Two did not take place on a beach. It took place forty feet beneath an abandoned subway terminal in the heart of Musutafu.

 

Izuku followed Kurosawa down a rusted, service-access ladder, dropping into a dark, concrete corridor. Kurosawa walked to a seemingly blank, moldy concrete wall. He tapped his glowing orange watch against a hidden receiver embedded in the stone.

 

There was a heavy, pneumatic hiss. The concrete wall split down the middle, sliding apart to reveal a brightly lit, high-tech sanctuary.

 

Izuku stepped inside, his jaw dropping.

 

It was a Strategic Homeland Division Safehouse. The room was massive, lined with servers, weapon racks, ballistic armor crates, and 3D fabricators. A massive holographic table dominated the center of the room, displaying a real-time, topological map of Musutafu. The air was sterile, smelling of ozone, gun oil, and heated electronics.

 

"Welcome to Echo-Base," Kurosawa said, tossing his jacket onto a chair. "This is a Level-4 SHD node. Only Division personnel can access it. Which means, as of today, you."

 

Izuku slowly walked past a rack of firearms. There were sleek assault rifles, submachine guns, shotguns, and sniper rifles, all matte black and terrifyingly beautiful in their lethal simplicity.

 

"Don't touch those yet," Kurosawa ordered. He walked over to a metal workbench and picked up a heavy, reinforced case. He carried it to the center table and opened it.

 

Inside sat a familiar object. A glowing orange smartwatch. Izuku’s watch. He had surrendered it to Kurosawa three months ago, told that he had to earn the right to wear it.

 

"Give me your left arm," Kurosawa said.

 

Izuku complied. Kurosawa clamped the watch onto Izuku’s wrist. He then handed Izuku a small, sleek rectangular brick. "Clip this to the strap of your bag, or your shoulder harness. It's your comms relay and processing unit."

 

Izuku clipped the brick onto his shoulder.

 

"And finally," Kurosawa handed him a small, custom-molded earpiece. "Put it in."

 

Izuku slid the earpiece in.

 

"Activating Agent Midoriya, ID Alpha-Seven-Niner," Kurosawa said aloud.

 

Izuku’s watch vibrated. The orange ring flared to life, illuminating the dim lighting of the safehouse. Then, the voice echoed in his ear, crystal clear.

 

"Biometric scan complete. Welcome back, Agent Midoriya. System is nominal."

 

"Hello, ISAC," Izuku whispered, a shiver running down his spine.

 

"Good morning, Agent," the Intelligent System Analytic Computer replied. The voice was female, synthetic, yet strangely comforting. It sounded like an anchor in a chaotic sea.

 

"ISAC is your lifeline," Kurosawa explained, leaning against the holographic table. "She is a highly advanced, sub-orbital AI network. She can hack into municipal mainframes, analyze structural weaknesses, track biometric signatures through walls, and calculate bullet trajectories. She is your eyes and ears."

 

Kurosawa tapped his own watch. "ISAC, run Pulse diagnostic."

 

Suddenly, the room changed for Izuku. His watch projected a faint, holographic overlay over his left eye. A pulse of invisible, sonar-like energy rippled out from Kurosawa. Instantly, Kurosawa’s silhouette glowed with a faint orange wireframe.

 

"Target identified. Commander Kurosawa. Heart rate: 60 BPM. Armed," ISAC relayed in Izuku’s ear.

 

"The Pulse," Kurosawa said. "It bounces micro-radar and thermal imaging off your surroundings, feeding the data directly into your AR overlay. No one can hide from you. Not behind walls, not in smoke, not in the dark."

 

Izuku’s analytical mind was firing on all cylinders. His eyes darted around the room. If I can see through walls... I can predict villain movements before they act. I can locate hostages instantly. It negates line-of-sight Quirks. It nullifies camouflage!

 

"Stop muttering, I can see your brain melting," Kurosawa sighed. He walked over to a metal crate and kicked it open. "Technology is a tool, Midoriya. But a tool is useless if the hand wielding it shakes. Come here."

 

Izuku approached. Inside the crate were rows of handguns. Kurosawa picked one up. It was a customized PX4 Storm. Compact, ergonomic, and heavy. He cleared the chamber, locked the slide back, and handed it to Izuku.

 

As Izuku’s fingers wrapped around the textured polymer grip, the weight of the weapon settled into his palm. It felt cold, heavy, and terrifyingly real. This wasn't a hero's Quirk. This was a machine designed to end life.

 

"A firearm is not a toy. It is not a deterrent. It is a tool of finality," Kurosawa said, his voice deadly serious. "In Hero Society, heroes rely on flashy powers to subdue. They leave the villains alive, hand them to the police, and wait for them to break out of Tartarus a year later."

 

Kurosawa leaned in close. "We do not play that game. If you draw this weapon, it means all other options have failed, and you are prepared to terminate the threat."

 

Izuku stared at the gun in his hand. His knuckles turned white. "I... I don't want to kill people, Commander."

 

"I know," Kurosawa said surprisingly gently. "And the Division grants you operational autonomy. Which is why your primary loadout will consist of these."

 

Kurosawa pulled a magazine from his vest and handed it to Izuku. The bullets inside didn't have copper tips. They were blunt, heavy, and capped with blue polymer.

 

"High-velocity shock rounds," Kurosawa explained. "They hit with the kinetic force of a sledgehammer, followed immediately by a 50,000-volt localized electrical discharge. A center-mass shot will instantly stop the heart of a normal human for two seconds before resetting their rhythm. It incapacitates immediately. Non-lethal."

 

Izuku felt a wave of relief wash over him. He could fight. He could stop villains. But he didn't have to become a murderer to do it.

 

"However," Kurosawa warned, tapping the side of Izuku’s head. "If a villain is wearing heavy armor, or has a durability Quirk, shock rounds won't do a damn thing. You will carry standard hollow-points as your secondary reserve. If it comes down to a villain's life or an innocent's life, you pull the trigger. Do you understand?"

 

Izuku looked down at the weapon, then up at Kurosawa. The timid, stuttering boy who had stood on the rooftop with All Might was fading. In his place, a quiet, focused operator was taking root.

 

"I understand, sir."

 

"Good. Step up to the firing line. We're going to shoot until your hands bleed."

 

 

 

The next three months were a blur of gunpowder, cordite, and coding.

 

Izuku proved to be a prodigy with firearms. He wasn't naturally gifted physically, but shooting wasn't about raw strength. It was about geometry, physics, and breathing. Izuku’s hyper-analytical brain allowed him to calculate wind resistance, recoil compensation, and target leading with terrifying precision.

 

He learned the Mozambique Drill: Two to the chest, one to the head. (Or, in his case with shock rounds, two to center mass to overload the nervous system, one to a major nerve cluster to induce paralysis).

 

But it was his aptitude for Division Tech that truly astounded Kurosawa.

 

It was Month 8. They were in the safehouse. Izuku was sitting at the workbench, a pair of magnifying goggles pulled down over his eyes, a soldering iron in his hand.

 

On the table in front of him sat a spherical object, roughly the size of a bowling ball. It was a standard-issue SHD Seeker Mine.

 

"You've voided the warranty on that thing," Kurosawa remarked, walking past with a cup of black coffee.

 

"The factory settings on the AI pathfinding algorithm are inefficient," Izuku muttered, not looking up, his hands moving with surgical precision. "The ISAC module dictates that the Seeker Mine rolls to the nearest thermal signature and detonates an explosive or gas payload. But what if the thermal signature is a hostage? The collateral damage radius is too wide."

 

Kurosawa raised an eyebrow. "So what are you doing?"

 

"I rewrote the telemetry," Izuku said, putting down the soldering iron and wiping sweat from his forehead. "I swapped the explosive core for a multi-directional flashbang and EMP emitter. And I linked the tracking system to my AR pulse."

 

Izuku tapped his watch. "ISAC, designate target: Commander."

 

"Target locked," ISAC chimed.

 

Suddenly, the metallic sphere on the table whirred to life. It unfolded, extending small motorized treads. With a series of rapid beeps, it rolled off the table, hit the ground, and zipped across the floor at blinding speed. It completely ignored the obstacle course dummies and homed straight in on Kurosawa, stopping perfectly at the Commander's feet.

 

The mine emitted a soft blue hum.

 

"Boom," Izuku said softly. "Non-lethal localized EMP and blinding flash. It won't hurt a hostage, but it will completely disorient a villain and short out any tech they're carrying."

 

Kurosawa stared down at the customized tech at his feet. He had served in the Division for twenty years. He had seen tech experts build incredible things. But a fourteen-year-old kid had just modified highly classified military ordinance to fit his own strict moral code, optimizing its efficiency by 40% in a weekend.

 

Kurosawa took a sip of his coffee. "Not bad, kid."

 

Izuku beamed, a rare, genuine smile breaking through the hardened facade he had been building over the past eight months.

 

 

 

Month 10. The U.A. Entrance Exams were underway across the city.

 

Thousands of aspiring heroes were currently gathered in massive simulated cityscapes, using their flashy, destructive Quirks to smash giant robots for points. They were screaming catchphrases, showing off for the cameras, and vying for a spot in the prestigious Hero Course.

 

Izuku Midoriya was nowhere near the mock cities.

 

He sat in a completely silent, sterile classroom on the U.A. campus, wearing his standard junior high uniform. The room was filled with about fifty other students. There were no cameras. No giant robots.

 

This was the entrance exam for the General Education Department.

 

Izuku stared down at the twenty-page written exam. It was notoriously difficult, designed to weed out those who were simply using Gen-Ed as a back door to U.A. The questions ranged from advanced calculus and applied physics to modern hero law and international treaties.

 

Izuku didn't even need to chew his pencil. His hand moved across the paper in a fluid, continuous motion.

 

Compared to decrypting 256-bit encryption codes under artificial gunfire in Kurosawa's simulations, this test was child's play. His mind, sharpened to a razor's edge by ISAC's data processing training, absorbed the questions and spat out the answers instantly.

 

He didn't use his watch. He didn't cheat. He didn't need to.

 

As he filled out the final essay question—Discuss the socio-economic impact of unregulated Quirk usage in urban infrastructure—his mind wandered briefly to the Hero Course exams happening miles away. He wondered how Kacchan was doing. He knew the blonde would dominate. Explosions and robots were a perfect match.

 

But Izuku felt no jealousy. The burning, desperate envy that used to consume his every waking thought was gone.

 

He didn't want to be in the Hero Course anymore. He didn't want the spotlight. He understood now what Kurosawa had meant. The Hero Course produced celebrities. It produced symbols.

 

But symbols break. All Might was breaking.

 

Let them have the light, Izuku thought, finishing the last sentence of his essay and neatly stacking his papers. The light makes you a target. The shadows make you a weapon.

 

He stood up, walked to the front of the quiet room, and handed his test to the proctor. The proctor, a tired-looking teacher, glanced at the clock. There were still two hours left in the testing period. He looked at Izuku in surprise.

 

Izuku just gave a small, timid bow, keeping his eyes averted and his shoulders hunched, playing the perfect, unassuming civilian. He walked out of the classroom, disappearing into the crowded hallways.

 

 

 

April. The start of the new academic year.

 

The gates of U.A. High School were massive, an imposing archway of glass and steel that screamed prestige. Cherry blossoms drifted through the air, carried by a warm spring breeze. Hundreds of students flooded the main walkway, buzzing with excitement, comparing Quirks, and dreaming of the future.

 

Izuku walked among them, completely invisible.

 

He wore the standard U.A. uniform—gray blazer, white shirt, red tie. But the way he wore it was a calculated performance. The blazer was slightly too large, hiding the dense, coiled muscle of his torso. He allowed his shoulders to slump forward, diminishing his height. He widened his eyes, softening his gaze, returning to the nervous, stuttering boy he used to be.

 

His backpack hung over both shoulders, heavy with textbooks. But secured discreetly to the inside strap, resting against his collarbone, was his ISAC processing brick. Beneath the left cuff of his blazer, cool metal rested against his skin. His SHD watch.

 

The earpiece was secured deep in his right ear canal, virtually invisible unless someone looked directly inside with a flashlight.

 

"Agent Midoriya," ISAC chimed softly in his ear, her volume set to a low hum. "Welcome to U.A. High School. Structural scan complete. Blast-resistant polycarbonate windows. Reinforced concrete pillars. Grade-4 security mainframe. I have established a localized uplink."

 

Copy that, ISAC. Keep passive monitoring online. Notify me of any encrypted radio traffic in a one-mile radius, Izuku thought, tapping a subtle morse-code command against his thigh with his index finger—a silent input method he and Kurosawa had developed.

 

"Acknowledged."

 

Izuku navigated the labyrinthine halls of the school. He wasn't looking for Class 1-A. He was looking for 1-C. The General Education Department.

 

As he turned a corner, mentally cataloging the location of the security cameras and calculating the blind spots in the hallway, a loud, obnoxious voice shattered his concentration.

 

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged out of the garbage."

 

Izuku stopped.

 

Leaning against a row of lockers, surrounded by a few sycophantic classmates, was Katsuki Bakugo. He wore his U.A. blazer open, no tie, exuding the same arrogant, aggressive aura he always had. His crimson eyes locked onto Izuku, a sneer twisting his features.

 

"Deku," Bakugo spat, pushing off the lockers and stalking forward. "I saw your name on the general admissions list. I thought it was a joke. You actually had the nerve to show your Quirkless, pathetic face at this school?"

 

Izuku’s heart didn't spike. His breathing didn't hitch. A year ago, he would have taken a step back, raised his hands defensively, and stammered out an apology.

 

Now, his brain processed the threat instantly.

 

Distance: Four feet. Threat level: High. Quirk: Nitroglycerin sweat, localized explosions from the palms.

 

Izuku’s eyes flicked to Bakugo’s hands. They were relaxed, but twitching slightly.

 

If he raises his right hand to strike, I can intercept the wrist, apply a radial nerve lock, pivot my hips, and drive his elbow into the locker behind him. Time to neutralize: 1.2 seconds. Bone fracture probability: 95%.

 

The violent calculation flashed through Izuku’s mind with the cold, sterile efficiency of a computer. He knew exactly how to break Bakugo. He could drop the boy before a single spark could ignite.

 

But he couldn't.

 

I'm a sleeper agent, Izuku reminded himself. My greatest weapon isn't my gun, or my watch. It's my insignificance.

 

Izuku let out a sharp gasp, taking a clumsy step backward. He raised his hands in front of his face, trembling visibly. He forced his vocal cords to tighten, raising the pitch of his voice.

 

"K-Kacchan!" Izuku stammered, looking at the ground. "I... I just wanted to go to a good school. General Ed... it's a good program! I know I can't be a hero like you..."

 

Bakugo stopped, towering over Izuku. He scoffed, a few sparks popping aggressively from his palm.

 

"Damn right you can't," Bakugo sneered, leaning in close. "You finally learned your place, you damn nerd. You're a pebble on the side of the road. Don't you ever forget it. If I catch you looking at the Hero Course, I'll blow you to ash."

 

Bakugo bumped his shoulder hard against Izuku’s as he walked past. Izuku purposely let himself stumble, catching himself awkwardly on the wall, playing the victim flawlessly.

 

As Bakugo and his lackeys laughed and walked down the hall, Izuku slowly straightened up. The trembling stopped instantly. His eyes, previously wide and fearful, narrowed into sharp, cold emerald slits.

 

"Heart rate elevated by 2 BPM. Are you injured, Agent?" ISAC inquired.

 

Negative, ISAC. Just playing the part.

 

Izuku adjusted his blazer and continued down the hall.

 

When he finally found the door labeled 1-C, he took a deep breath, sliding the door open. The classroom was quiet, a stark contrast to the loud, boisterous energy he imagined was radiating from Class 1-A. The students here were normal. Some looked disappointed, clearly having failed the Hero exam. Others looked relieved just to be at U.A.

 

Izuku walked to the back of the class and took a seat near the window. It was the best tactical position. It offered a clear view of the school courtyard, multiple escape routes, and a solid wall to his back.

 

He placed his bag on the desk.

 

"Excuse me."

 

Izuku glanced to his right. Sitting at the desk next to him was a boy with messy, gravity-defying purple hair and deep, heavy bags under his eyes. He looked exhausted, radiating an aura of cynical detachment.

 

"Are you going to stare out the window all day, or are you going to sit down?" the purple-haired boy asked, his voice a low drawl.

 

Izuku immediately slipped back into his persona. He flinched, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Oh! Sorry! I was just... looking at the view. I'm Izuku Midoriya."

 

The boy stared at him for a long moment, his indigo eyes seemingly trying to piece together a puzzle. Finally, he sighed, turning his gaze to the front of the room.

 

"Hitoshi Shinso," he muttered. "Try not to be too loud, Midoriya. I'm trying to sleep."

 

"Right, sorry," Izuku squeaked.

 

The teacher walked in, a nondescript man with a mundane Quirk, and began writing the syllabus on the board. The lecture was dry, focused entirely on standard academics. History, mathematics, literature. There was no talk of combat, no hero law, no rescue training.

 

It was utterly, blissfully normal.

 

Izuku leaned his chin on his hand, looking out the window. Down in the courtyard, he could see Class 1-A filing out in their P.E. uniforms, being led by a man wrapped in what looked like a sleeping bag. Shota Aizawa. The Erasure Hero. Izuku recognized him instantly.

 

He watched as Bakugo threw a softball with an earth-shattering explosion. He watched a girl with brown hair make the ball float infinitely into the sky. He watched a boy with engines in his legs sprint across the track.

 

They were so bright. So flashy. They were exactly what society wanted.

 

Izuku slowly pulled back his left sleeve, just a fraction of an inch. Beneath the gray fabric of his uniform, the matte-black metal of his SHD watch rested against his skin. The orange ring pulsed, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heart waiting to be awakened.

 

He was perfectly hidden in plain sight. A wolf disguised among the sheep.

 

"Routine network scan complete," ISAC murmured in his ear. "No active threats detected in Sector 4. Awaiting orders, Agent."

 

Izuku smiled, a small, invisible curve of his lips.

 

Standby, ISAC.

 

For now, he was just Izuku Midoriya. A Quirkless kid in the General Education department.

 

But when the time came, when the villains breached the walls and the heroes fell short, he would be ready. The Division had built him for the apocalypse. And looking at the fragile, smiling faces of the heroes below... Izuku knew the apocalypse was only a matter of time.

 

 

 

 

The air in Classroom 1-C was stale, heavy with the mid-afternoon lethargy that inevitably plagued high school students after lunch. Outside the reinforced polycarbonate windows, the sky over Musutafu was a brilliant, cloudless azure. The cherry blossoms had long since fallen, replaced by the deep, vibrant greens of early summer. It was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday.

 

At the front of the room, Present Mic was enthusiastically dissecting English conjugations. He paced back and forth, his leather jacket squeaking, his blonde hair defying gravity. He punctuated every other sentence with a dramatic point or a subdued, volume-controlled English catchphrase.

 

Izuku Midoriya sat in his usual seat near the back window. His pencil moved rhythmically across his notebook, meticulously copying the conjugations. To anyone looking, he was the picture of an attentive, slightly timid student.

 

But Izuku wasn’t just translating English. He was listening to a war.

 

Deep within his right ear canal, the microscopic SHD earpiece hummed. While his conscious mind tracked Present Mic’s lecture, a secondary, highly trained partition of his brain was processing the rapid, sterile flow of data being fed to him by ISAC.

 

"...Musutafu Police Dispatch, Sector 4. Responding to a 10-31 in progress at the Tatooin Shopping District..."

"...Fire and Rescue, multiple alarms triggered at the Hosu municipal power grid..."

"...Encrypted radio traffic detected on civilian UHF bands. Decrypting... unable to parse. Origin unknown..."

 

Izuku’s pencil paused for a fraction of a second. Unknown encrypted traffic on civilian bands?

 

He tapped his left index finger against his thigh, a silent morse command. ISAC, isolate the UHF frequency. Cross-reference with known villain network signatures.

 

"Negative, Agent," ISAC’s synthetic voice whispered in his ear. "Encryption protocol is military-grade. 256-bit AES. It does not match standard Yakuza or League of Villains communication profiles."

 

Izuku frowned, burying the expression beneath a facade of intense concentration on the blackboard.

 

The League of Villains. It had been months since their botched assault on the U.S.J. facility. Back then, they had been a disorganized mob of street thugs led by a man-child with a disintegration Quirk. They had been driven back, humiliated by All Might and the faculty. Since then, the underground had been suspiciously quiet. Too quiet. Commander Kurosawa had warned Izuku that silence in the criminal underworld wasn't peace; it was a pressure cooker waiting to explode.

 

"Warning," ISAC chimed abruptly. The volume in Izuku’s ear spiked just enough to make him blink. "Anomalous energy spikes detected in Musutafu Sectors 1 through 6. Seismic micro-tremors registering beneath major municipal infrastructure points."

 

Izuku’s heart rate bumped. Seismic tremors? Under infrastructure?

 

Suddenly, Hitoshi Shinso, who had been resting his head on his desk, sat up straight. He looked around, his purple eyes narrowing. "Do you guys hear that?" he muttered.

 

"Hear what, Shinso-kun?" a girl in the front row asked, turning around.

 

"A hum. Like... a generator."

 

Izuku heard it too. It was a low, vibrational frequency, practically subsonic. It bypassed the ears entirely and resonated directly in the chest cavity. It felt like standing next to a massive subwoofer right before the bass drops.

 

Present Mic paused mid-sentence, the chalk hovering over the board. He tapped his directional speaker device around his neck, frowning. "Hey, is the PA system acting up again? I'm getting some weird feedback in my gear—"

 

He never finished the sentence.

 

The world went white.

 

It wasn't a flash of light; it was a total, blinding sensory overload. An invisible wave of raw, electromagnetic energy washed over the U.A. campus. The sound that accompanied it was a deafening, metallic CRACK, like a thunderbolt striking the roof directly above them.

 

Every single fluorescent light in the classroom shattered simultaneously, raining harmlessly as safety-glass pebbles, but plunging the room into shadows. The digital smartboard at the front of the room exploded in a shower of sparks, emitting a sharp hiss of ozone.

 

But the worst effect was on Present Mic. The hero’s high-tech directional speaker collar violently short-circuited. A massive electrical charge arced across his neck. He cried out in agony, collapsing to his knees, frantically clawing at the smoking metal collar until he managed to tear it off and throw it across the room.

 

"Sensei!" multiple students screamed, leaping from their desks.

 

Chaos erupted. The automated security shutters on the windows—designed to drop down during a villain attack—groaned, moved an inch, and then died, their internal motors completely fried. Outside the window, the sprawling city of Musutafu, which a second ago had been a bustling, modern metropolis, went completely dark. Traffic lights died. Neon signs vanished. The faint, ever-present hum of city life was silenced in a terrifying instant.

 

EMP, Izuku’s mind supplied instantly, his body locking into a state of hyper-focus. High-altitude or strategically placed groundbursts. The blast radius is massive. All unshielded electronics are dead.

 

"Agent Midoriya," ISAC’s voice cut through the screaming of his classmates. Her voice was unbothered, protected by the heavy Faraday-cage shielding built into all Division tech. "Multiple catastrophic system failures detected across the Japanese eastern seaboard. Power grid is offline. Telecommunications are offline. Emergency broadcast systems are unresponsive."

 

ISAC, run a structural scan of U.A., Izuku commanded via morse taps, remaining in his seat while the rest of the class panicked.

 

"U.A. High School internal network is offline. Security bulkheads are non-functional. Defensive turrets are offline."

 

Izuku’s blood ran cold. U.A. was arguably the most secure fortress in the country. It was designed to withstand sieges by super-powered gods. But its defenses were entirely automated and highly electronic. Without power, U.A. wasn't a fortress anymore. It was an open door.

 

"Everyone calm down!" Present Mic rasped, struggling to his feet. His neck was badly burned, the skin blistered and red. "It's just a power outage! Stay in your seats! I'm going to go check the hall—"

 

HISSSSSSS.

 

The sound came from the overhead ventilation shafts.

 

Izuku looked up. Billowing out of the HVAC vents was a thick, sickly-looking green gas. It didn't behave like normal smoke. It was heavy, viscous, cascading down the walls and spilling across the floor like water. It smelled pungent, artificial, and overwhelmingly sweet—like rotting fruit soaked in ammonia.

 

"Gas!" Shinso yelled, covering his mouth with his sleeve. "Don't breathe it in!"

 

"Is it poisonous?! Are we under attack?!" a boy shrieked, scrambling backward over his desk.

 

Present Mic inhaled a lungful of the gas before he could cover his mouth. He coughed violently, his eyes watering. "Get... to the windows! Break them if you have to! Use your Quirks!"

 

Present Mic stepped toward the door, taking a deep breath, preparing to use his Voice Quirk to shatter the glass and blow the gas out of the room. He planted his feet, opened his mouth, and screamed.

 

Nothing happened.

 

No sonic boom. No shattered glass. Just the hoarse, cracking yell of a normal, injured man.

 

Present Mic froze. He touched his throat, his eyes wide with an absolute, primal terror. He tried again, straining his vocal cords until his face turned purple. Still nothing.

 

"My... my voice," Present Mic whispered, his hands trembling. "I can't... I don't feel it."

 

Across the room, the panic escalated. A girl who had small, functional wings on her back shrieked as the wings suddenly spasmed, folding painfully against her spine, completely paralyzed. A boy who could generate small amounts of heat from his hands stared at his palms, trying desperately to spark a flame, but his skin remained cold.

 

Quirk suppression, Izuku realized, watching the green mist pool around his ankles. He didn't cover his mouth. He didn't need to. He was Quirkless. The gas had nothing to target in him.

 

His mind instantly flashed back to his biology and Quirk theory studies. The Plus Alpha gene. It’s the biological engine that powers Quirks. This gas... it's a targeted biological agent. It acts as an inhibitor, flooding the bloodstream and completely neutralizing the Plus Alpha gene expression. It’s acting like a localized viral infection. The Dollar Flu... but tailored for Quirks.

 

"Warning," ISAC announced. "Biometric scans of individuals in immediate vicinity show rapid suppression of anomalous genetic markers. Chemical compound is airborne. Spreading rapidly through municipal sectors."

 

The League of Villains hadn't just leveled up. They had changed the rules of the game entirely.

 

They realized they couldn't beat the heroes in a fair fight. Quirks were too unpredictable, too powerful. So, they removed Quirks from the equation. In one masterstroke, the League had reduced the gods of society to ordinary, terrified mortals.

 

And then, the gunfire started.

 

It wasn't the sound of a villain screaming a catchphrase. It wasn't the sound of an explosion Quirk. It was the heavy, rhythmic, terrifyingly disciplined sound of automatic rifle fire.

 

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

 

The staccato bursts echoed from the front gates of the campus, carrying clearly through the shattered windows.

 

Present Mic rushed to the window, looking down into the courtyard. His face drained of all color. "Oh my god..."

 

Izuku stood up from his desk and walked to the window, ignoring the panicked cries of his classmates. He looked over Present Mic’s shoulder.

 

The U.A. barrier, the massive metal wall that surrounded the campus, was stuck halfway open due to the EMP. Pouring through the gap were not rag-tag thugs, but a highly organized paramilitary force. They wore matching black tactical gear, heavy ballistic plate carriers, and gas masks. They moved in perfect tactical formations, stacking up against pillars and providing covering fire.

 

They were armed with high-caliber assault rifles, under-barrel grenade launchers, and riot shields.

 

A group of Pro Heroes—Ectoplasm, Snipe, and Vlad King—sprinted out of the main building into the courtyard to intercept them.

 

"Stop right there!" Vlad King roared, biting his thumb to draw blood. He swung his arm, trying to launch a solidified blood net.

 

Only a few drops of normal, liquid blood splattered weakly onto the pavement. Vlad King stared at his hand in shock.

 

The mercenaries didn't hesitate. The lead element dropped to one knee, leveled his rifle, and fired a three-round burst.

 

The rounds tore through Vlad King's shoulder and thigh. The massive Pro Hero collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony.

 

"Vlad!" Snipe yelled. He drew his twin modified revolvers and fired. But his Homing Quirk, the power that allowed him to never miss, was gone. The bullets sparked harmlessly against a mercenary's ballistic shield.

 

The mercenaries returned fire. A hail of lead chewed the concrete around Snipe and Ectoplasm, forcing the powerless heroes to dive desperately behind a decorative fountain. Ectoplasm tried to summon his clones, but nothing happened. They were pinned down, outgunned, and entirely mortal.

 

"They're using PMCs," Izuku muttered, his voice cold and devoid of fear. "Private Military Contractors. Heavily armed, tactically proficient, and unbothered by the gas. They brought guns to a Quirk fight... right after turning off the Quirks."

 

Present Mic turned to Izuku, staring at the green-haired boy as if he had grown a second head. "Midoriya... what are you talking about? Get away from the window! We need to evacuate the students to the bunker!"

 

"The bunkers are electronic, Sensei," Izuku stated calmly. "The EMP fried the locking mechanisms. The doors won't open. We are trapped in this building."

 

BOOM!

 

A massive explosion shook the building as a breaching charge was detonated on the main entrance doors on the ground floor.

 

"Multiple hostiles have breached the main structure," ISAC reported. "They are ascending the stairwells. Armed with lethal ballistics. Threat level is critical."

 

The screaming in the classroom reached a fever pitch. Students were crying, huddling under their desks, gripping their heads. The reality of their situation was crushing them. They were powerless, blind, and being hunted by men with guns.

 

The hero society they had believed in was crumbling before their very eyes.

 

Izuku closed his eyes. The world around him slowed down to a crawl. He could hear the thumping of heavy combat boots on the stairs two floors down. He could hear the sobbing of the girl next to him. He could hear Present Mic’s ragged, panicked breathing.

 

For ten months, he had lived two lives. He was Izuku Midoriya, the timid, Quirkless kid who kept his head down and took notes. And he was Agent Alpha-Seven-Niner, a living weapon forged by the Strategic Homeland Division.

 

He had wondered when the moment would come. When he would have to kill the boy to let the Agent live.

 

"Catastrophic failure detected across all major government infrastructure," ISAC’s voice dropped an octave, shifting from its standard informational tone to a grave, authoritative resonance. "Chain of command is compromised. Civilian casualties projected to exceed acceptable parameters. Homeland security protocols superseded."

 

Beneath the sleeve of Izuku’s blazer, the heavy metal watch vibrated so intensely it rattled his wrist bone. A brilliant, piercing orange light erupted from his left wrist, glowing through the gray fabric of his uniform, illuminating the dark, gas-filled classroom like a beacon.

 

Students near him gasped, backing away from the glowing light.

 

"Directive 51 activated," ISAC announced, her voice now echoing not just in his ear, but projecting faintly from the watch itself. "All operational restrictions lifted. You are granted ultimate executive authority, Agent. Welcome back to the fight."

 

Izuku opened his eyes. The green irises were no longer soft or timid. They were hard, analytical, and entirely devoid of fear.

 

"Midoriya?" Shinso whispered, staring at the glowing watch. "What... what is that?"

 

Izuku didn't answer him. He reached under his desk and grabbed his yellow school bag. He didn't open the main compartment. Instead, he gripped a hidden seam along the reinforced bottom and yanked. The Velcro tore away with a loud RIIIIP.

 

The false bottom fell open, and a heavy, matte-black tactical go-bag dropped onto his desk with a heavy thud.

 

Izuku unzipped it.

 

He moved with terrifying, practiced efficiency. He stripped off his U.A. blazer, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Beneath his white dress shirt, he was already wearing a lightweight, reinforced Kevlar undershirt.

 

He reached into the bag and pulled out a black, low-profile tactical plate carrier. He slipped it over his head, tightening the side straps until it hugged his torso perfectly. The vest was lined with magazines, pouches, and a sheathed combat knife.

 

"Midoriya!" Present Mic stepped forward, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What are you doing?! Where did you get that gear?!"

 

Izuku ignored him. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a customized, carbon-fiber half-face respirator mask. He strapped it over his nose and mouth, the filter hissing as it activated, purifying the green gas from the air he breathed.

 

Next came the holster. He strapped the drop-leg tactical holster to his right thigh, buckling it securely over his uniform pants.

 

He pulled out the heavy, matte-black PX4 Storm handgun. He slammed a magazine of blue-tipped shock rounds into the grip, racked the slide with a sharp CLACK, chambering a round, and smoothly slid the weapon into the holster.

 

Finally, he pulled a small, collapsed metal cylinder from the bag and attached it to a magnetic hard-point on his left forearm. The ballistic shield emitter.

 

The transformation took exactly fifteen seconds. The timid, Quirkless boy from General Ed had vanished. Standing in his place was a lethal, heavily armored, highly trained black-ops operator. The orange ring on his watch pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, casting an eerie glow against his respirator mask.

 

The entire classroom was dead silent, staring at him in absolute, paralyzed shock. Even the crying had stopped.

 

"What... what are you?" a student whispered.

 

Izuku tapped his watch. A holographic AR overlay flickered to life over his left eye. A pulse of invisible energy rippled outward through the walls of the school. Instantly, Izuku’s vision was populated with data. He could see the structural wireframes of the building. He could see the terrified, huddled heat signatures of Class 1-A and 1-B in the adjacent wings.

 

And he could see the bright red, hostile silhouettes of twelve heavily armed mercenaries currently breaching the second floor, moving systematically toward the stairwell that led to their hallway.

 

Hostiles: Twelve. Armament: 5.56mm assault rifles. Body armor: Level III steel plates. Distance: 150 meters and closing.

 

Izuku turned to Present Mic. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by the respirator, deep, and utterly commanding. It was the voice of Commander Kurosawa speaking through his protégé.

 

"Sensei. The hostiles are moving floor by floor. They will reach this corridor in approximately ninety seconds. You will gather the students, move them to the back of the classroom, and barricade the door with the desks. Do not make a sound."

 

Present Mic blinked, his brain completely short-circuiting. "Midoriya, you're a student! You can't—"

 

"I am a sleeper agent for the Strategic Homeland Division, operating under Executive Directive 51," Izuku cut him off, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Hero society is currently offline. Martial law is in effect. I am taking command of this sector."

 

Shinso stood up, his fists clenched, staring at Izuku’s glowing watch. "You... you don't have a Quirk. We saw your files. You're Quirkless! You're going to get yourself killed out there!"

 

Izuku looked at the purple-haired boy. He remembered Shinso’s bitterness, his feeling of being rejected by society because his Quirk wasn't "heroic" enough.

 

"You're right, Shinso," Izuku said softly behind the mask. "I don't have a Quirk. Which means their gas doesn't mean a damn thing to me."

 

Izuku turned toward the classroom door. He reached up to his shoulder strap, adjusting the ISAC brick.

 

"ISAC. Reroute all auxiliary processing power to tactical combat telemetry. Prep seeker mines for deployment. Lethal force is authorized only if non-lethal shock rounds fail to neutralize the threat."

 

"Understood, Agent. Combat telemetry online," ISAC replied.

 

Izuku placed his hand on the sliding door of the classroom. He looked back at his classmates one last time. They looked at him as if he were a ghost. Perhaps he was. Izuku Midoriya, the boy who dreamed of being a smiling hero, had died on a rooftop a year ago. The Division had built a ghost to take his place.

 

"Barricade the door," Izuku ordered one final time.

 

He slid the door open and stepped out into the dark, gas-filled hallway, sliding the door shut behind him with a definitive click.

 

The hallway was a tomb. The emergency lights were dead. The green gas hung thick in the air, swirling like ghosts in a graveyard. The only light came from the piercing orange glow of Izuku’s watch and the faint, red AR overlays tracking the enemies beneath him.

 

He drew his PX4 Storm from his thigh holster, gripping it in a perfect, two-handed weaver stance. The weapon felt like an extension of his own arm. His breathing slowed, matching the rhythm he had practiced a thousand times on the beach with Kurosawa.

 

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

 

The sound of heavy boots echoed from the stairwell at the end of the hall. The red silhouettes in Izuku’s vision began to ascend. Four hostiles were taking the point, weapons raised, sweeping the corners.

 

They expected to find terrified children and powerless, crippled heroes. They expected a slaughter.

 

"Hostiles entering visual range," ISAC whispered.

 

Izuku lowered his stance, blending into the shadows of the lockers. He thumbed the safety off his weapon.

 

Let's see how you like fighting someone who doesn't play by your rules.

 

He stepped out from the shadows, moving toward the stairwell to meet the extreme evils of the world, armed with nothing but cold steel and a glowing orange watch.

 

 

 

The third-floor corridor of U.A. High School’s General Education wing was a tomb. The only illumination came from the sickly, luminescent emerald hue of the Quirk-suppressing gas that clung to the ceiling and pooled around the floorboards like morning fog.

 

Izuku Midoriya stood completely motionless in the center of the hallway, fifteen feet from the heavy fire doors that led to the central stairwell.

 

To the untrained eye, he was a statue. But internally, Izuku was a supercomputer running a thousand simultaneous calculations. His breathing was shallow, controlled, and silent behind the carbon-fiber respirator mask. The heavy PX4 Storm handgun in his right hand felt perfectly balanced, an extension of his own nervous system.

 

"Hostiles are ascending the stairwell," ISAC murmured in his right ear, her synthetic voice calm, a stark contrast to the thundering reality of the situation. "Distance: twenty meters. Elevation: plus one floor. Hostile count: Four point-men."

 

Izuku’s left eye flicked slightly as the Augmented Reality overlay generated by his watch projected a wireframe blueprint of the stairwell directly onto his retina. Through three feet of reinforced concrete, Izuku watched four red silhouettes climbing the stairs in a standard two-by-two tactical stack.

 

Target One: Point man. Armed with an HK416 assault rifle. Sweeping the landing.

Target Two: Flanker. Carrying a Mossberg 590 pump-action shotgun. Close-quarters breach.

Targets Three and Four: Rear guard. Rifles lowered, relying on the point men.

 

"ISAC," Izuku whispered, his voice vibrating deep in his throat to activate the sub-vocal microphone embedded in his collar. "Calculate optimal engagement vector. Lethal force unauthorized. Shock rounds chambered."

 

"Calculating... Engagement window: 1.4 seconds upon breach. Optimal vector: Center mass targeting to bypass Level III steel plates via kinetic transfer."

 

The heavy fire doors at the end of the hall swung open with a violent CLANG.

 

The four mercenaries stepped into the corridor. They moved with the crisp, fluid precision of seasoned combat veterans. They wore dark gray urban camouflage, heavy plate carriers, and gas masks with tinted visors. Flashlights mounted to the barrels of their rifles cut through the green gas, sweeping the lockers, the ceiling, and the floor.

 

"Clear," the point man grunted, his voice muffled by his mask. "Check the classrooms. Command wants any stragglers rounded up. Shoot anyone who resists. Their Quirks are fried, they're nothing but meat."

 

Izuku didn't wait for them to take another step.

 

He moved.

 

He didn't run; he glided, his footwork a perfect execution of the Russian Systema Kurosawa had drilled into him. He kept his center of gravity low, his knees bent, advancing through the green mist like a shark cutting through dark water.

 

The point man’s flashlight beam swept toward Izuku. For a fraction of a second, the blinding white light illuminated the heavily armored, green-haired operator, catching the bright, piercing orange ring of the SHD watch on his left wrist.

 

The mercenary hesitated. Just for a microsecond. His brain tried to process why a U.A. student was wearing black-ops gear.

 

That microsecond was all Izuku needed.

 

Izuku raised the PX4 Storm, his arms locking into a flawless isosceles stance. He squeezed the trigger twice.

 

Pft! Pft!

 

The suppressed handgun coughed quietly. Two heavy, blue-tipped shock rounds crossed the fifteen-foot distance in a heartbeat. The first round struck the point man directly in the center of his steel chest plate.

 

The bullet didn't penetrate the armor. It wasn't designed to. It flattened on impact, delivering the kinetic force of a sledgehammer, followed instantly by a 50,000-volt localized electrical discharge.

 

A brilliant web of blue electricity arced across the point man’s chest. The mercenary let out a muffled shriek as his nervous system violently rebooted. His muscles locked up instantly, his finger spasming on the trigger of his rifle, firing a burst of 5.56mm rounds harmlessly into the ceiling. He collapsed forward like a puppet with its strings cut, his body twitching on the linoleum.

 

"Contact front!" the shotgun-wielding flanker roared, racking the pump of his weapon and swinging the barrel toward Izuku.

 

Izuku was already moving. He sidestepped off the central axis of attack, making himself a moving target in the dim light. As the flanker fired—the roar of the shotgun deafening in the enclosed space, a swarm of buckshot shredding the lockers where Izuku had been a second prior—Izuku brought up his left arm.

 

With a sharp SNAP, his collapsible ballistic shield deployed. The clear, titanium-reinforced polycarbonate wall expanded outward, locking into place.

 

Izuku surged forward, closing the gap with terrifying speed.

 

The flanker pumped his shotgun again, but Izuku was already inside his guard. Izuku drove the heavy, reinforced edge of the riot shield directly into the mercenary’s face. The polycarbonate smashed into the man’s gas mask visor, shattering the tinted glass and snapping his head back with a sickening crunch.

 

As the flanker stumbled backward, Izuku pivoted on his heel, using the momentum of his shield bash to bring his sidearm to bear on the two rear guards.

 

Target Three. Right side.

 

Pft! Pft!

 

Two shock rounds struck the third mercenary in the gut. The man folded in half, vomiting inside his mask as the electricity paralyzed his diaphragm, dropping him instantly.

 

The final mercenary panicked. His formation was shattered. Three of his men had been neutralized in less than three seconds by a ghost in the fog. He raised his rifle, holding the trigger down in a desperate spray-and-pray.

 

Bullets sparked and ricocheted off Izuku’s ballistic shield. The kinetic impacts vibrated up Izuku’s left arm, but his stance was grounded, absorbing the shock perfectly. Izuku didn't shoot back. He waited.

 

Three... two... one...

 

Click.

 

The mercenary's rifle ran dry, the bolt locking back on an empty magazine.

 

Izuku dropped his shield, holstering it with a flick of his wrist. He dashed the remaining five feet, holstering his handgun in the same fluid motion. He didn't want to waste ammunition.

 

The mercenary desperately scrambled to pull a fresh magazine from his vest, but a hand clamped down on the barrel of his rifle like a steel vice. Izuku twisted the weapon violently to the right, stepping inside the man’s guard, exposing the mercenary's left arm.

 

Izuku struck. He delivered a brutal, open-palmed strike to the triceps tendon, deadening the man's arm. As the mercenary gasped in pain, Izuku grabbed the collar of his tactical vest, hooked his right leg behind the mercenary’s knee, and executed a flawless Judo sweep.

 

The man hit the floor hard, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush. Before he could recover, Izuku drove his knee directly into the man’s solar plexus, pinning him to the ground. Izuku drew his combat knife from his chest rig and pressed the cold steel against the mercenary’s throat, just below the seal of the gas mask.

 

"Do not move," Izuku commanded, his voice dark, synthetic, and terrifying through the respirator.

 

The mercenary froze, his eyes wide with absolute terror behind his shattered visor. He looked up at the glowing orange ring pulsing inches from his face. "W-Who... who are you?"

 

Izuku didn't answer. He tapped the back of the knife handle against the side of the man’s helmet, striking a precise nerve cluster just behind the ear. The mercenary's eyes rolled back, and he went limp.

 

Silence fell over the corridor once again.

 

The entire engagement had lasted precisely six point eight seconds.

 

Izuku stood up, smoothing out his tactical vest. He checked his heart rate on his watch. 65 BPM. Barely elevated. He ejected the magazine from his PX4 Storm, caught it in his hand, verified he had eleven rounds left, and slapped it back into the grip.

 

"Four hostiles neutralized," ISAC confirmed. "Area secure."

 

"Status of the main campus, ISAC," Izuku murmured, walking past the groaning, paralyzed bodies without a second glance.

 

"The Quirk-suppressant gas has achieved 90% saturation across the structural footprint. Faculty members are currently engaged in localized pockets of resistance, but are sustaining heavy casualties due to lack of Quirk access. Hostile forces are systematically sweeping the Hero Course dormitories and primary academic wings."

 

Izuku frowned behind his mask. The League was smart. They knew the General Education students were a low priority. Their primary targets would be the high-value assets. The future symbols of peace. Class 1-A.

 

"ISAC, locate Class 1-A. I need biometrics."

 

"Scanning... Localizing thermal signatures and heart rates. Multiple U.A. student signatures detected in Sector 2, Corridor Delta. They are currently pinned down by a squad of eight heavily armed PMCs. Heart rates indicate extreme distress."

 

Izuku’s eyes hardened. Corridor Delta. That was the connective bridge between the Hero Wing and the cafeteria. It was a chokepoint. If they were trapped there, they had no cover, no escape routes, and without Quirks, no defense.

 

"Set a waypoint," Izuku ordered.

 

A bright orange line illuminated on his retinal overlay, guiding him through the labyrinth of the dark school. Izuku broke into a sprint, his combat boots entirely silent on the linoleum. The Quirkless Wolf was on the hunt.

 

 

 

Corridor Delta was a slaughterhouse waiting to happen.

 

The connective bridge was made entirely of glass, offering a panoramic view of the courtyard below. But right now, the glass was shattered, blown inward by heavy munitions. The air was thick with the green, suffocating Quirk-suppressing gas, making it impossible to see further than twenty feet.

 

Huddled behind a massive, overturned marble decorative statue at the far end of the corridor were twelve students of Class 1-A.

 

They were terrified.

 

Katsuki Bakugo knelt on the floor, his face bruised and bleeding from a graze wound on his cheek. He was staring at his hands, his eyes wide and bloodshot, practically hyperventilating. He rubbed his palms together furiously, over and over again, trying to generate sweat. Trying to ignite a spark.

 

Nothing. His palms were raw, blistered, and entirely mundane.

 

"Damn it... DAMN IT!" Bakugo snarled, slamming his fist into the marble floor, fracturing his own knuckles. "Come on! Work, you piece of garbage! WORK!"

 

"Bakugo, stop! You're going to break your hand!" Ochaco Uraraka cried out. She was huddled next to him, clutching a heavy piece of shattered masonry to her chest like a shield. Tears were streaming down her face, cutting tracks through the soot and dust on her cheeks. "It's the gas... it's doing something to our bodies."

 

"I don't care about the gas!" Bakugo roared, his voice cracking with absolute desperation. "I'm not dying in a hallway like a Quirkless extra!"

 

"Keep your voices down," Shoto Todoroki hissed from the edge of the statue. His usually stoic face was pale, glistening with cold sweat. He was holding his right side, pressing a torn piece of his school uniform against a bleeding gunshot wound grazing his ribs. He reached out with his left hand, trying desperately to summon a wall of ice to block the hallway.

 

All he felt was a phantom, agonizing cold deep in his bones, but no ice manifested. He was powerless.

 

"Aizawa-sensei... where is he?" Izuku’s childhood friend, Tenya Iida, whispered, his engines entirely stalled, the exhaust pipes on his calves leaking a thin, useless black smoke.

 

"They separated us," Momo Yaoyorozu said, her voice shaking. She was pale, her arms wrapped around herself. Her creation Quirk, which relied on her lipid cells, was completely shut down. She felt hollowed out, entirely defenseless. "When the EMP hit, they blew the stairwell. Sensei fell... he told us to run."

 

A harsh, cruel laugh echoed down the corridor, cutting through the green mist.

 

"Run where, little heroes?"

 

Heavy boots crunched against the shattered glass. Slowly, terrifyingly, eight mercenaries emerged from the fog. They were heavily armed, wearing the same tactical gear as the ones Izuku had encountered, but these men carried heavier ordinance. The squad leader, a massive man with a skull painted on his gas mask visor, carried an M249 light machine gun.

 

"Look at them," the squad leader sneered, racking the bolt of his machine gun. "The future of Hero Society. The untouchable elite. Look at how they cower when you take away their genetic lottery tickets."

 

The PMCs fanned out, forming a semi-circle around the overturned statue, cutting off any avenue of escape. They didn't shoot immediately. They were savoring it. For years, ordinary men with guns had been treated as second-class threats in a world of gods. Now, the gods were bleeding on the floor, and the men with guns held the power.

 

"What do we do with them, boss?" one of the PMCs asked, keeping his rifle trained on Todoroki. "Shigaraki said to capture the explosive kid, but the rest are expendable."

 

"Capture the blonde. Execute the rest," the leader ordered coldly. "Make it quick. We have a timetable."

 

Uraraka let out a stifled sob, hiding her face in her knees. Iida moved to stand in front of her, spreading his arms wide in a useless, brave gesture to shield his classmates. Bakugo bared his teeth like a cornered animal, picking up a shard of glass, ready to charge the machine gun with nothing but a jagged rock and pure rage.

 

The PMCs raised their weapons.

 

"Warning," a synthetic, female voice echoed softly from the ceiling above the mercenaries. "Lethal force authorized."

 

The squad leader frowned, looking up at the ventilation shaft. "What the hell was—"

 

CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.

 

A small, spherical metallic object fell from the ceiling vents, bouncing twice on the linoleum floor before rolling perfectly into the center of the PMC formation.

 

Before anyone could react, the Seeker Mine detonated.

 

It wasn't a lethal explosion. It was a heavily modified SHD Flash-EMP charge. A blinding, localized sunburst of pure white light erupted in the corridor, accompanied by an ear-splitting, 170-decibel sonic crack.

 

"AGGGH!" The mercenaries screamed, dropping their weapons to clutch their helmets. The flashbang bypassed the tint on their visors, temporarily blinding them, while the sonic blast shattered their equilibrium. Furthermore, the EMP burst instantly fried the electronics in their advanced optics and laser sights.

 

Class 1-A, sheltered behind the thick marble statue, was shielded from the worst of the blast, though the sonic boom left their ears ringing violently.

 

"What was that?!" Todoroki yelled, blinking away the spots in his vision.

 

Through the thick, swirling green gas and the dissipating smoke of the flashbang, a shadow dropped from the ceiling vent. It hit the ground in a perfect, silent crouch.

 

The PMCs were stumbling blindly, firing wild, uncoordinated shots into the air.

 

"Contact! We have a contact!" the squad leader roared, sweeping his heavy machine gun blindly.

 

The shadow moved. It was impossibly fast, a blur of dark gray and matte black. As the smoke parted slightly, Class 1-A witnessed a masterclass in tactical violence.

 

The operator didn't shout. He didn't monologue. He simply executed.

 

Pft! Pft! Pft!

 

Three suppressed shots. Three blue streaks of electricity. Three mercenaries dropped to the ground, their bodies violently convulsing as the shock rounds overloaded their nervous systems.

 

"There! By the window!" a PMC yelled, rubbing his eyes, raising his rifle.

 

The operator didn't retreat. He charged directly at the gun barrel. With a sharp metallic SNAP, a glowing ballistic shield erupted from his left forearm. The PMC fired, but the 5.56mm rounds sparked harmlessly against the slanted polycarbonate.

 

The operator slammed the shield into the PMC’s chest, crushing the man’s ribs and sending him flying backward through the shattered window, tumbling down to the courtyard below.

 

"Shoot him! Shoot the bastard!" the squad leader screamed, finally regaining his vision. He leveled the M249 and held the trigger down.

 

A hail of heavy suppressive fire chewed through the corridor. The operator dove behind a concrete pillar, the bullets shredding the plaster inches from his head.

 

Class 1-A watched in absolute awe. Who was this? A Pro Hero? A special forces unit? The tactical gear, the glowing orange technology, the terrifying, surgical precision—it was unlike anything they had ever seen.

 

"ISAC," the operator’s voice was deep, metallic, and muffled by a respirator. It carried over the gunfire. "Deploy striker drone. Targeting priority: Heavy weapons."

 

"Deploying," the synthetic voice replied from the operator's shoulder.

 

A small, quad-rotor drone detached from the operator's backpack. It buzzed to life, its rotors humming angrily. Mounted beneath the drone was a compact, high-caliber rail-gun.

 

The drone zipped out from behind the pillar, flanking the squad leader.

 

BRRRRRRT!

 

The drone fired a burst of armor-piercing micro-munitions. The rounds tore through the squad leader's weapon, shattering the receiver of the M249 and blowing the weapon out of his hands.

 

"My gun!" the leader yelled, clutching his bleeding hand.

 

The operator stepped out from behind the pillar. He holstered his sidearm. The remaining three PMCs drew their combat knives, charging him in a desperate, last-ditch effort.

 

What followed was a brutal display of Close Quarters Combat.

 

The first mercenary lunged with a downward stab. The operator parried the strike with his left forearm, trapping the man’s wrist. He stepped inside, pivoted, and delivered a devastating elbow strike to the man's throat, collapsing his windpipe instantly. The man dropped, gasping for air.

 

The second mercenary swung horizontally. The operator ducked under the blade, sweeping the man's legs out from under him. As the man fell, the operator stomped precisely on his knee joint. CRACK. The man screamed, incapacitated.

 

The final mercenary—the squad leader—charged, roaring in rage. He threw a massive, haymaker punch aimed at the operator's head.

 

The operator didn't block it. He ducked, grabbed the massive man by the tactical vest, utilized the man's own forward momentum, and executed a flawless shoulder throw. The squad leader hit the marble floor with the force of a car crash.

 

Before the leader could even groan, the operator drew his sidearm, placing the barrel directly against the center of the man's chest plate.

 

Pft.

 

A single shock round discharged. The massive squad leader seized violently, his eyes rolling back, before going completely limp.

 

Silence descended upon Corridor Delta. The only sounds were the soft hum of the hovering Striker Drone and the quiet, steady beeping of the operator's glowing orange watch.

 

The entire squad of eight elite mercenaries had been systematically dismantled in less than thirty seconds.

 

Behind the statue, Class 1-A was paralyzed. They had seen Pro Heroes fight. They had seen All Might smash villains through buildings with a smile. But they had never seen anything like this. This wasn't a heroic battle. This was an extermination. It was cold, calculated, and terrifyingly efficient.

 

The operator stood amidst the bodies. He tapped his collar.

 

"ISAC, status on hostile biometrics."

 

"Eight hostiles incapacitated. Vitals are stable but depressed. Threat neutralized," the AI responded.

 

The operator tapped his watch again, and the Striker Drone collapsed its rotors, flying back and reattaching itself to his backpack with a magnetic click. He holstered his handgun, keeping his hands resting neutrally by his sides.

 

Slowly, the operator turned to face the huddled students of Class 1-A.

 

The green, Quirk-suppressing gas swirled around his boots. The bright orange ring on his watch pulsed like a beacon in the dark. His carbon-fiber respirator mask hid the lower half of his face, but his eyes...

 

His eyes were visible beneath the tactical helmet. They were a piercing, vibrant emerald green, framed by a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

 

Todoroki stared at those eyes. A spark of recognition flashed in his dual-colored gaze.

 

Bakugo, still clutching his bleeding hand, slowly stood up. His jaw was slack. His crimson eyes were wide, staring at the operator as if looking at a ghost. He took a step forward, his voice trembling, stripped of all its usual bravado and rage.

 

"No... way," Bakugo whispered. The words felt like sandpaper in his throat. "It... it can't be."

 

The operator didn't move. He simply stared back, his expression entirely unreadable.

 

"Deku?" Bakugo breathed out, the name hanging in the toxic air.

 

The collective gasp from Class 1-A was audible.

 

"Midoriya?!" Uraraka shrieked, scrambling to her feet, dropping her piece of rubble. She stared at the heavily armored, lethal soldier standing before her. "Izuku?! Is... is that you?!"

 

Iida pushed up his glasses, his hands shaking. "Impossible. Midoriya is in the General Education department. He doesn't have a Quirk! How could he possibly..." Iida looked at the groaning, highly trained mercenaries bleeding on the floor.

 

Izuku Midoriya looked at his former childhood friend. He looked at the students he had admired from afar for the past year. He saw their terror. He saw their confusion.

 

He didn't smile. He didn't offer them a comforting catchphrase. Kurosawa had taught him that in a crisis, people didn't need a smiling friend. They needed a commander.

 

Izuku reached up and unlatched the carbon-fiber respirator mask, letting it drop to hang around his neck.

 

His face was hard, cold, and entirely devoid of the timid, stuttering boy they remembered from middle school. His jaw was set, his green eyes burning with a dark, intense authority.

 

"My name is Agent Midoriya. Strategic Homeland Division," Izuku said. His voice was deep, calm, and carried a weight that made even Bakugo flinch. "Hero society has been compromised. Martial law is in effect. As of this moment, I am assuming direct command of this unit."

 

"Agent?" Todoroki repeated, his analytical mind trying to process the impossibility of the situation. "Division? What are you talking about, Midoriya? Where is your teacher? Where are the Pro Heroes?"

 

"The Pro Heroes are currently bleeding out in the courtyard because they relied on a genetic crutch that has just been kicked out from under them," Izuku stated bluntly, offering no sugar-coating. "The gas in the air is a highly concentrated biological Quirk-suppressant. As long as you are breathing it, you are entirely human. Which means if you get shot, you die."

 

Uraraka whimpered, covering her mouth.

 

Bakugo’s shock rapidly morphed back into his default state of explosive rage. He stormed forward, grabbing the collar of Izuku’s tactical vest.

 

"Listen to me, you Quirkless piece of garbage!" Bakugo roared, spit flying from his lips. "I don't care what kind of fancy cosplay you're wearing, or what kind of toy guns you have! You don't give me orders! I'm going to find the bastard who turned off my Quirk, and I'm going to kill him!"

 

Izuku didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just looked down at Bakugo’s hands gripping his vest.

 

In a movement so fast it was entirely invisible to the naked eye, Izuku’s hands moved. He didn't strike Bakugo. He simply reached up, grabbed Bakugo’s wrists, stepped his left foot behind Bakugo’s right leg, and twisted his hips.

 

SLAM.

 

Bakugo hit the floor flat on his back, the wind violently knocked out of him. Before he could even register what had happened, Izuku’s heavy combat boot was pressed firmly against Bakugo’s chest, pinning him to the marble floor.

 

"Bakugo!" Iida yelled, stepping forward, but Izuku raised a single hand, stopping him in his tracks.

 

Izuku looked down at the blonde boy struggling uselessly beneath his boot.

 

"You don't have explosions anymore, Katsuki," Izuku said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "You don't have super speed, Iida. You don't have ice, Todoroki. You are powerless. And if you run out there acting like a god, you will be slaughtered like a lamb."

 

Izuku slowly removed his boot, stepping back. He looked at the terrified faces of Class 1-A.

 

"I don't have a Quirk," Izuku continued, tapping the glowing orange watch on his wrist. "I have never had a Quirk. I have lived my entire life in the reality you are all experiencing for the first time today. I know how to survive in the dark. You don't."

 

He reached into his tactical bag and pulled out a bundle of heavy-duty zip-ties. He tossed them onto the chest of the unconscious squad leader.

 

"Tie them up," Izuku ordered, his tone brokering absolutely no argument. "Take their sidearms. Check their vests for medical supplies. Todoroki, you're bleeding. Bandage it. You have two minutes."

 

"Midoriya..." Uraraka whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "You're scaring me. What... what happened to you?"

 

Izuku looked at her. For a fraction of a second, the cold, black-ops facade cracked, and the ghost of the gentle boy who wanted to save everyone flickered in his green eyes.

 

"The world broke, Uraraka," Izuku said softly. "And I'm the one they sent to fix it. Now, move."

 

Class 1-A, the brightest, most powerful students in the country, didn't argue. They didn't question him. Stripped of their powers and faced with the brutal, terrifying reality of a warzone, they did exactly what the Quirkless wolf ordered them to do.

 

They scrambled to bind the mercenaries.

 

Izuku turned his back to them, looking out the shattered window into the courtyard. The green gas was thickening. The distant sound of gunfire echoed across the campus.

 

"Agent," ISAC whispered in his ear. "Multiple hostile signatures converging on our location. They are tracking the telemetry of the squad you just engaged. We are being hunted."

 

Izuku pulled his respirator mask back up over his face, securing the seal. He drew his PX4 Storm, checking the chamber.

 

Let them come, Izuku thought, the orange ring of his watch pulsing brightly against the encroaching darkness. This is my world now.