BANG.
Itami shot upright in bed.
Chest heaving. Room dark. Walls silent.
What the hell was that?
The sound still echoed in his ears—a metallic, distorted slam like someone had kicked in steel. He blinked. No movement. No voices. Just that heavy, silent stillness.
Then—another sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His eyes flicked to the door. A shadow broke the light underneath it.
Slowly, he got out of bed, bare feet brushing the floor. He padded forward, heart thudding harder than it should've. The door looked… wrong. Too still. Too tall.
He opened it.
And the hallway of his home was gone.
Snow whipped across a dead hill, pale and soundless. The sky above was gray, stretched thin like torn fabric. A ruined city burned far below—black smoke rising in columns, smothering the clouds. Flames danced through shattered buildings, orange through the fog.
Itami stood in the doorway, stunned. Cold air bit at his skin. He stepped back—expecting floor.
All he felt was snow.
He looked down. Bare feet sinking into frost.
His home, his room, everything behind him… gone. Just the howl of wind and the stink of ash.
He turned.
Five graves.
Simple. Stone markers. No names. Just five piles of rock jutting out of the hill. Snow clung to the sides. Something was scrawled into one of them—like it clawed out.
Itami took a step back.
Then the whispers came.
At first, a breath.
Then a mutter.
Then dozens of voices—layered, overlapping, crashing into each other inside his skull like waves.
"It always ends in fire."
"They'll die because of you."
"Draw your final breath…"
"She told you how it ends."
"You can't save them."
Itami dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his temples.
"Stop…"
His voice cracked.
"STOP!"
The world fell silent.
Except for one sound.
Crunch.
Snow shifting beneath slow, deliberate footsteps.
Itami's eyes snapped up.
The Doppler.
Same face. But its clothes was shredded, blood-soaked—torn as if it had clawed its way out of a war. Deep slashes across the arms, crimson trailing down to its fingertips, leaving stains in the snow.
It said nothing.
Black markings bloomed from its right eye—spidering across its skin like veins carved from ink and electricity. His right eye glowing purple.
It reached out a hand.
Palm open. Waiting.
Itami couldn't breathe.
His own hand moved. Slowly. Against his will.
He reached for it with his left hand—
GASP.
He jolted awake in bed.
His room was normal again—early morning light spilling through the window. Quiet. Still.
His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. Sweat clung to his skin.
And his left arm—
Reaching out into nothing. But it burned. Not with heat, but something colder. Deeper.
Veins pitch-black, webbing down to his wrist like cracked ink under skin. A faint purple glow shimmered along the edges. In his palm: black fire. Curling, silent. A flickering orb of death.
Itami stared at it.
Eyes wide. Trembling.
There was no warmth—only that unnatural, icy throb crawling through his muscles.
Then—it vanished. Snuffed out like breath in winter.
The marks began to fade, withdrawing into his skin. He sat up, still shaking, and turned toward the small mirror above his dresser.
His right eye glowed. Dim purple.
It pulsed once… then the markings slithered back into it, disappearing like smoke. The glow faded.
His reflection looked back at him—still him. But not the same.
What the hell.
"Hey! Itami! You up?!"
The voice cut through the stillness, muffled through the window but unmistakable.
Sauske.
"Your sleeping in? Your gonna be late for training, man! …You're gonna be late! Kael's already in a crap mood!"
Itami blinked.
The mirror still showed only him. Normal eye. No fire. No markings.
No evidence.
He swallowed the tight knot in his throat, then called back—steady, even.
"Yeah. I'm up!"
He stood slowly, flexing his fingers. Nothing burned. Nothing glowed. But the echo of that fire still pulsed behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.
It was Just a dream.
He told himself as he got up from his bed and quickly getting ready.
The morning passed like fog. The morning training tired him out before the day started. He barely registered the days lessons. His mind was still half-buried in that snow, that smoke, that voice.
Now, end of day. The classroom buzzed with talk of finals.
Denki flailed in panic about not studying. Ashido teased him. Todoroki sat quietly. Yaoyorozu offered help. Everyone fell into their rhythm, as some got up from their seats and talked with others.
And Itami sat there, watching.
Alone again—just part of the background.
Then—
"DEKU!!" Bakugo's voice tore through the noise. "I'm not looking for some hollow win like at the festival!"
The class froze, all eyes shifting to Bakugo.
"I want a real fight. And I'm gonna crush you in the rankings. You and…" He turned, voice full of venom. "You too, Itami. Don't chicken out this time."
SLAM.
The door echoed as he left. Footsteps faded down the hallway.
Itami didn't move. He just looked at the door. Calm on the surface—but underneath, the second heartbeat throbbed again.
Shoji whispered to Itami with in of his limbs "How do you always make enemies without saying a word?" he asked quietly.
Itami blinked. "…I don't know."
Shoji nodded once, not judging—just observing. "First Todoroki, now Bakugo. Interesting duo that's for sure."
Itami gave a side-eye as a response but ending up leaving towards the back entrance of his classroom walking down the halls. Till Aizawa stopped him.
"Itami. A word?"
He stopped. Aizawa stood ahead, leaning against the corner wall that led into another hallway.
Itami sighed. "Sorry. I've got to go. My ride's waiting outside."
Aizawa raised an eyebrow just as Itami's phone buzzed. He glanced down.
Akuma: Driver got into an accident. Sending another one. ETA: 40 mins.
Tch. Out of all times this could happen.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked back at Aizawa. "…Fine."
"Follow me."
They walked in silence, passing a few empty classrooms, until they reached a quiet faculty room—two couches, low light, a coffee table between them.
At first, Itami thought it was just the two of them. But then he saw her.
Midnight sat in the corner, legs crossed, arms folded, her usual eye mask still on. She offered a faint nod.
Itami dropped into the seat opposite Midnight, posture straight but closed off. He didn't slump, didn't sprawl. Just sat — like someone waiting out a storm. His eyes scanned the room but landed on nothing.
Aizawa leaned against the wall behind Midnight, arms crossed. Silent, observant.
Midnight broke the quiet first. "This isn't a disciplinary talk, Itami."
"I figured," he said flatly.
"Then you'll understand why we're asking a few questions about your… background."
He gave a slight tilt of the head. "You want to know about the clan."
Aizawa's voice came low, calm. "What exactly is the Wyrm-Crest family, in your own words?"
Itami's shoulders shifted slightly, just enough to count. "It's not one family. It's a structure. Multiple bloodlines, all tied under the Wyrm-Crest name. Legacy stuff."
"Hierarchy?" Midnight asked.
"Something like that."
"And your role in it?"
Itami didn't answer right away. He picked at the hem of his sleeve with one hand.
"Expected to succeed," he said finally. "That's enough for most people."
The silence lingered a beat too long. Then Aizawa added, "What's the business side of it? DracoTech. What do they actually do?"
Itami's gaze didn't flicker. "Tech. Research. Defense. They build things. Sponsor things. Lots of connections with Hero agency's."
"That's vague," Midnight said softly.
"That's the point."
Another pause.
Midnight shifted forward slightly to say something else, but her hand bumped the edge of the table — barely — just enough to loosen the strap of her eye mask.
It slid off with a quiet flutter and landed on her lap.
She reached for it instinctively, annoyed — but Itami was already staring.
He froze.
For a moment, her face wasn't Midnight's. It was someone else's.
His mothers.
Not identical. But something in the cheekbones, the curve of the brow, the way her eyes softened in that unguarded second — it cut through his composure like glass.
Itami blinked hard. His fingers clenched briefly, then relaxed.
Midnight caught the shift. "What?"
He swallowed. "Nothing."
"You sure?"
Another beat. He stared down at the table. As a memory of his mother flashed in his head.
A memory of his mother scolding him for being late to dinner.
He stared down at the table. A memory rose before he could stop it.
His mother, apron dusted with flour, arms crossed as she stood in the doorway of their old kitchen.
"You're late," she said, not unkindly — but firm. "If you miss dinner, you miss family."
Itami had mumbled something back, some excuse.
Her sigh was louder than her scolding. "Someday you'll understand what it means to have a seat at the table."
The memory faded like steam.
Back in the room, his hands were still on the table, fingertips pressing into the grain.
Midnight watched him quietly now. No mask. No lecture. Just presence.
Aizawa hadn't spoken in a while. Watching. Letting the silence settle like dust.
Itami exhaled.
"Are you okay?" Midnight asked, her tone gentler now.
He let the silence hang, eyes fixed on the table. "What I said earlier is true. My clan has seven families. I'm the successor of one—my family was the head."
He glanced up at her. "And I'm sorry… You just—look like my mother. Before everything."
Aizawa's voice cut through, quiet but sharp. "What happened?"
"When I was younger, our clan lived near the outskirts of Tokyo. Secluded. Secure. Until we were hit. A villain—we never saw them coming. We won… but not without loss."
His voice tightened. "I was the only one who walked out."
The room went still.
He went on, quieter. "With my family gone, the clan turned inward. Power struggles. Politics. It got… ugly."
Midnight didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Aizawa leaned back slowly. Whatever his thoughts were, they stayed hidden behind tired eyes.
Aizawa's eyes narrowed slightly. "If it was that severe… why wasn't it reported? Something like that would've made the news."
Itami's voice stayed level, but there was a flicker behind his words. "It was covered up. That's how my clan handles things. Losses, conflicts… anything that might make them look weak stays buried. Private."
He didn't sound angry—just tired.
Silence pressed in again, heavier now. Aizawa gave the barest nod, processing.
Itami stood slowly, the edge of his voice sharpened. "I don't want to talk anymore. Can I go?"
Before Aizawa could answer, Midnight leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her mask still sat forgotten beside her. "Listen, Itami… I don't care what your clan keeps secret."
Her voice was steady—warmer now, softer.
"If something's wrong… if something hurts—you don't have to carry it alone. I know that sounds easy to say, but it's true. You don't have to ask permission to be helped."
Itami didn't speak.
His gaze dropped. Memories started to flood in, memories that he tried burning. Aika. Lucien. The tragic death of his family.
His hand clenched so tightly his knuckles paled, fingers digging into his palm—but he didn't argue. Didn't lash out. Just held the weight in silence.
Then, slowly, he gave a small nod.
Midnight sat back, watching him go with something unreadable in her expression.
Aizawa finally said, "I'll walk you out."
Itami just muttered, "Thanks but I can walk myself out." and turned toward the door—leaving the room, and a small part of his guard, behind.