The smell hit Yuta the moment the doors slid open—sharp disinfectant, wax, and that faint metallic dryness hospitals couldn't ever quite hide. He let the scent settle. It still made his stomach tighten, though he'd been walking these floors every day for a week.
He crossed the lobby toward the elevator, shoulders slouched, backpack hanging a little too heavy for a single textbook. Someone coughed. A baby cried. The fluorescent lights hummed like they had somewhere else to be.
The elevator doors opened. He stepped in and watched the floor numbers climb. A week ago, he'd been worrying about midterms and whether his Quirk would ever amount to anything. Then his mother was attacked. Then his old memories flooded back. Then the so-called system dropped into his life like a junk-mail subscription he couldn't unsubscribe from.
The doors opened again.
Third floor.
He slipped out, nodding at the nurses who already recognized him.
"Afternoon, Yuta-kun," Nurse Akira called. "Your mother's been restless today."
"Dangerous news," Yuta said. "Did she start another revolution?"
"Close. She tried to organize a wheelchair race."
"Did she win?"
Akira gave him a flat, betrayed look. "By a lot."
"Sounds right."
He continued to room 312 and tapped his knuckles on the doorframe.
"Come in," his mother's voice called.
Yuta entered and felt that small kick in his chest he tried not to examine too closely.
Aiko Akutami sat propped up in bed, her laptop perched on the rolling table. Her hair was in a half-committed bun, dark strands escaping every which way. Her pajamas were bright yellow and covered in cartoon lemons—too cheerful for a hospital room, which was probably why she wore them.
Her legs were still wrapped and braced. He looked at them for half a second too long before he forced his eyes up.
"Working on the novel?" he asked.
"Almost finished," she said, same as she had said for the past three years. "You're early. Shouldn't you be in class?"
"I was. Then I wasn't." He pulled the chair closer. "Someone has to supervise you. These nurses can't handle you."
"Oh please. Mrs. Takahashi challenged me. I simply accepted."
"And destroyed her."
Aiko grinned. Yuta let himself grin back.
They talked. School gossip. Hospital gossip. Small things. Harmless things. He acted like everything was fine, and she let him.
But every now and then—between the laughs, between her updates about her mystery plot—he felt his mind drag back to the alley. To the man who put her here. To the name he kept trying not to say in front of her.
Stain.
Her smile faded a little as she watched him drift.
"You're thinking too hard again," she murmured.
Yuta blinked out of it. "Just… stuff."
"Talk to me?"
He hesitated. Then, before he could stop himself, "Do you ever wish you could get back at someone who hurt you?"
That wiped the lightness out of her face immediately. Not fear—more like concern she was too polite to voice.
"That's a heavy question," she said carefully.
"I'm a heavy guy. Dense. Like a star."
She didn't smile at the joke, not fully. She folded her hands instead.
"I think revenge eats the person who holds it," she said. "Even if they think they're right."
"Even if the other person deserves it?"
"Especially then."
Yuta exhaled, long and slow. "Just wondering."
She watched him closely. Too closely. "Yuta… you're not planning to—"
"No. Nothing." He waved it off. "Just a weird thought. Blame lunchtime philosophy."
She let it go, but reluctantly. "Well. My answer stands."
They talked again, lighter topics. When visiting hours wound down, Yuta kissed her forehead, dodged her attempt to lecture him about attendance, and stepped into the hallway. His smile fell the instant the door clicked behind him.
The elevator ride was quiet. Too quiet.
He walked home on autopilot, cutting through side streets he didn't remember choosing. His apartment building loomed—plain concrete, peeling paint, decent neighbors.
Inside, the silence felt heavier than the air in the hospital.
His mother's glasses. Her mug. Her blanket. That domestic debris of two people living together now reduced to one person moving around them like they were ghosts.
He grabbed an energy drink, cracked it open, and sat at the kitchen table. He didn't drink right away. He stared at the can until the condensation ran down his fingers.
She wasn't dead. He reminded himself of that every day.
But she was hurt. Because some self-righteous fanatic decided she didn't measure up to his personal brand of heroism.
Yuta took a drink. The artificial sweetness stuck to his tongue.
He thought about Stain. About the canon timeline. About Hosu, still weeks away. About Ingenium's fate. About how all of it was barreling toward him like a train he could see but couldn't slow down.
His grip tightened.
The can collapsed with a crack.
"Great," he muttered, flicking droplets of sticky liquid off his hand. He tossed the can in the sink and stared at the mess on the table for a few seconds before moving to clean it.
Revenge wasn't heroic. Heroes didn't stalk villains through back alleys. Heroes didn't plan ambushes.
But Yuta wasn't a hero.
He wiped the counter until it was mostly dry, then leaned against the sink and looked out the dark window. His reflection looked back—tired, angry, a little hollow around the eyes.
He didn't know yet what he would do when Hosu came. Only that he couldn't pretend he had no part to play anymore.
---
[Hospital – Room 312]
Aiko closed her laptop. She hadn't typed more than a dozen words since Yuta left.
His question lingered in her mind like a bruise she hadn't realized she'd gotten.
Revenge. A fifteen-year-old shouldn't be chewing on ideas like that. She wished he'd spend his time with friends, or worrying about school, or doing… anything other than carrying her weight on his shoulders.
A knock. She glanced up.
"Come in."
Someone stepped inside—broad shoulders, white-and-blue armor, exhaust pipes along the arms. The helmet remained on, but she recognized the posture even before the voice.
"Ingenium?" she said, startled. "I—I didn't expect—"
"Ms. Akutami," he said, apologetic but steady. "Sorry for coming this late."
He sat down in the same chair Yuta had occupied that afternoon. It made her chest tighten.
"I wanted to speak with you about Stain," he said quietly.
She went still.
"I read the police report," he continued. "But I need more than that. Anything you remember. Even things you didn't think were important."
Aiko swallowed. She saw something in his posture—bone-deep tension held together by discipline. The same kind of thing she'd seen in so many heroes who'd lost someone. The same thing she feared she might one day see in her son.
"He's hunting Stain too," she thought. "Just like Yuta."
She felt suddenly tired.
"All right," she murmured. "Ask."
"Start from the beginning," he said. "Whatever you can remember."
Aiko exhaled slowly, bracing herself.
"It was raining," she said. "I was finishing my patrol when I heard someone call for help…"