The sun stretched long shadows across the narrow street. I walked in silence, a small bag of oranges swinging at my side.
I hadn't taken this road in years, but my feet remembered it well. Every step unearthed a memory. Every crack in the pavement felt like an old friend.
At the end stood a humble house—worn by time, but standing strong.
I knocked gently.
Three rhythmic taps.
A boy, no older than eight, opened the door, blinking up at me.
"Is Harusso here?" I asked with a small smile.
The boy tilted his head. "You've come to see my grandfather?"
"Yes," I said, crouching to meet his eyes. "Tell him... Tomato is coming to see him. He'll understand."
He nodded and ran off. A moment later, I heard the clatter of a tray, cups hitting the floor.
Then:
"No... it can't be..."
The voice was old, but still carried strength.
The boy returned, wide-eyed. "He said to let you in."
I stepped inside. The warmth of the house embraced me.
Several faces turned—children, grandchildren, staring at the stranger in their home.
But my eyes found only one.
Harusso.
Blanket-wrapped in a cushioned chair, white hair thinned by time, skin wrinkled—but his eyes... his eyes were unchanged. Still bright. Still sharp.
He tried to stand, hands trembling, but I reached him first.
We embraced.
"Keiko..." he whispered. "You haven't aged a day."
"I told you I wouldn't," I murmured.
The children whispered behind hands. One girl tugged at her mother's sleeve, eyes wide. 'Is that him?' she mouthed.
A few tears shimmered in young eyes. I bowed respectfully to the others. To them, I was a story. A myth.
Later, I wheeled Harusso past the old training pond—where wooden swords once clacked and our laughter echoed under sakura trees long since fallen.
"I thought I dreamed you up," he said. "Thought maybe my memory was playing tricks."
"I promised I'd see you again," I replied. "And I don't break promises."
He looked up, still sharp behind the wear of years. "You still fight?"
"Sometimes."
"You still alone?"
I hesitated. "Not entirely."
He chuckled. "Still cryptic after all these years."
We sat in quiet for a while, letting memory fill the space between us.
"You've lived long enough to see the world change," he said, placing a hand over mine. "But you... never changed inside. That's what I always admired."
I didn't answer.
Some truths don't need words.
As the sun dipped low, we returned. I stayed a while—shared stories, made the children laugh. Before I left, Harusso embraced me again.
"Good bye tomato."
"Good bye old friend" I whispered.
As I walked down the quiet street, stars blooming overhead, I glanced back once.
Even after centuries, it's these moments—these bonds—that remind me I'm still human.
The Next Day
Atop a city rooftop, Keiko—Akaito—sat in silent meditation.
Keiko sat cross-legged atop the city, eyes closed, wind brushing his hair like an old friend. Below, the world roared—cars, sirens, distant shouts. Above it all, he was stillness.
Then he felt it.
A presence. Sharp. Fast. Intentional.
Heavy boots struck the rooftop behind him.
He opened his eyes.
A tall woman stood there—silver-haired, built like a predator, confidence pouring off her like heat. Subtle wasn't her style.
"You meditate out here? What are you, some rooftop monk?"she said, folding her arms. "Expecting enlightenment, or just showing off?"
Keiko looked up, serene. "And you enter like thunder."
She grinned. "Name's Mirko. I assume you've heard it."
"I have."
She dropped into a squat in front of him, unfazed by the gravel. Her red eyes studied him—not with suspicion, but interest. Wariness. Curiosity.
"I saw what you did to that slime villain," she said. "Fast. Brutal. Precise."
"It was necessary."
"You're not registered."
"I know."
"Commission doesn't like phantoms."
"I'm used to that."
She circled him slowly. "You don't move like a rookie. Who are you?"
"I've... been around."
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "How long?"
Keiko offered the faintest of smiles. "Long enough to see the rise and fall of many heroes."
She held his gaze. "You don't talk much. I like that. But you're holding back."
"I'm not here to cause problems. Only to help—in my own way."
Mirko straightened, brushing grit from her thigh. "Help, huh? Without playing by the rules?"
He didn't answer.
She turned. "Well, I don't play by all the rules either. So if you're not a threat... I won't treat you like one."
She paused, looking over her shoulder with a smirk.
"But if you are hiding something... just know—I'm faster than I look."
Keiko nodded. "Duly noted."
Mirko tilted her head, a half-smirk tugging at her lips. "You're not bad to look at either. Dangerous and broody—hero girls eat that up."
With a leap, she vanished into the skyline.
Keiko exhaled and resumed his meditation, letting the wind settle around him.
"An interesting woman—not like the others.
And he knew this wouldn't be their last encounter."
U.A. Faculty Room – That Evening
The staff room at U.A. was unusually quiet.
Principal Nezu sat at the head of the table, paws folded neatly over a stack of papers. Aizawa stood near the whiteboard, a few scratches still visible on his neck and knuckles. A small projector hummed beside him.
"I called you all here to discuss someone I encountered recently," Aizawa began, eyes slightly narrowed. "He's not on either side. But he's not in the system."from a traffic cam. A tall man, black coat flowing in the wind, red scarf and mask partially obscuring his face.
"Who's that?" Power Loader asked, leaning in.
"People called him Akaito," Aizawa replied. "I ran into him three nights ago. He had just taken down a quirked criminal—solo. No support. No backup. Fast. Clean. Surgical."
Nezu set his tea down.
"There's an old story," he began. "A rumor passed through generations of heroes and vigilantes. A man called Akaito. Japan's first hero—before quirks were even common knowledge."
He tapped the table.
"Some say he fought warlords. Others claim he clashed with early yakuza families. There are even classified documents in the national archives... describing a man with unmatched martial prowess, appearing in eras where he shouldn't have existed."
Aizawa crossed his arms.
"We need hard data. Not bedtime rumors." Power loader said
"Well, the legend threw me to the ground and walked away like it was nothing."
"I've fought criminals. I've fought monsters," Aizawa said. "But this man..."
He looked at them, eyes sharp.
"He moved like myth. Every strike had purpose. Every step, control. I activated my Quirk—he still outmaneuvered me like I was a child."
Midnight blinked. "You're saying he beat you?"
"He didn't beat me," Aizawa said flatly. "He ended the fight before it began."
Silence settled over the room.
"Did he attack you?" Present Mic asked, unusually calm.
"No. I attacked him. He responded with only enough force to subdue me. Then he vanished."
"Did he say anything?" Midnight asked, arms crossed.
"No. But everything about him radiated experience. Not just strength—discipline. He didn't posture or intimidate. He didn't need to."
Midnight tilted her head. "So... mysterious, masked, and strong, huh?" She smirked. "He's kind of cute."
Present Mic snorted. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm just saying," she shrugged. "We've dealt with worse-looking vigilantes."
Aizawa didn't argue.
Nezu nodded slowly.
"I want every available camera scan cross-checked. Facial recognition. Gait analysis. Everything. Quietly."
He looked around.
"If this man has a history, I want to know where he came from."
"Should we be concerned?" Cementoss asked.
"That depends on his next move," Nezu said. "Someone this skilled, operating outside the system, is a wild card."
"Or a weapon," Midnight added, twirling a strand of hair. "Depending on who gets to him first."
Aizawa powered off the projector.
"He's not evil. That much I'm sure of. But he's dangerous."
He looked at them all.
"If he decides we're a threat..."
Silence.
Then Nezu smiled—a little too calmly.
"Then we'd better give him no reason to see us as enemies."
"Vigilantes like that?" Snipe adjusted his hat. "I've seen them go rogue real fast."