The moment the doctor uttered that single, clinical word—"Quirkless"—the world fractured. I remember the fluorescent lights of the clinic buzzing overhead, casting harsh shadows on my small, fidgeting body. That word was not a diagnosis; it was a physical death sentence to the vibrant hero dream I had held so tightly since I could first string together a coherent thought. My world, built on the vivid promise of a Quirk and a cape, collapsed into a cold, permanent shadow.
The weeks that followed were spent in a dull, constant loop of desperate hope and crushing reality. I would sit for hours in the glow of my computer screen, watching the grainy, endless footage of All Might's debut. I clutched my worn figurine, tracing the powerful lines of his smile, trying to draw strength from a promise I knew could never be for me. I wanted to believe that smile was meant for everyone, but the cold, analytical part of my mind screamed the truth: it was meant for people with power.
It was in one of those quiet, dim moments, with the video paused, that I turned to my mother. My lower lip trembled, and the last flicker of desperate hope strained my voice. "Mom… Can I be a hero, too? Like him?" Her reaction was worse than the doctor's certainty. The sight of her tears, the sudden, overwhelming guilt that I had caused her such profound sorrow, crushed me more thoroughly than any physical blow could have.
Her subsequent apology—**"I'm sorry, Izuku. I'm so, so sorry"—**became the defining sound of my early childhood, cementing my new, painful focus. I understood I couldn't be the Symbol of Peace. I couldn't save anyone with this body. The impossible goal had to be abandoned for a new, quieter purpose.
This led me to the one person who was a guaranteed success: Kacchan. My analytical mind, starved of the physical fight, turned inward, obsessively dissecting his Quirk and movements. I decided I would watch the one who can, record his greatness, and in watching, perhaps I could still be useful. If I couldn't be the hero, I would be the historian and strategist for the greatest one I knew.