Night had settled with a suffocating silence, like an oppressive blanket muffling the city's restless heartbeat. Aizawa's boots struck cracked pavement, each step dragging a weight of memories too heavy to bear.
The air tasted stale, laced with the sour ghost of burnt cafeteria grease and forgotten cleaners, remnants of neglect etching into every peeling wall and cracked tile. His scarf trailed behind him like a shadow whispering bitter secrets, swaying softly in the windless gloom as cold seeped deep into his bones.
His boots met the cracked pavement of Heights Alliance with reluctant purpose. Each step pressed against unseen weights—the ghosts of memories he carried. His capture scarf trailed behind him, like a living shadow, its tattered edges humming with unspoken memories, swaying softly in the windless dark as if the night itself was siphoning warmth from the moon's faded glow. The cold seeped into his bones.
He moved through the silence, each measured step reinforced by exhaustion. Endless nights blurred into one another—a relentless tug-of-war between hope and despair. His mind, heavy with burdens, reflected on how his unpredictable, raw-blooded students had transformed the dorms into mutinous battlegrounds of snacks and restless energy, all hidden beneath the quiet of sleep.
Patrol wasn't ritual; it was survival etched into his muscles. The night grew heavier—drenched in a mournful hum of wind and ghosts. His tired eyes traced peeling wallpaper and inhaled the sour stench of stale cleaners and burnt cafeteria grease—the ghosts of neglect and desperation.
Imagining briefly if Class 1-A had a quirk to multiply chaos—an absurd thought—he shook it away. The walls seemed sticky with memories. Summoning Cementoss crossed his mind but was dismissed, wary of bureaucratic snares.
Security check: complete. Windows sealed. Booby traps dismantled. The mischievous trap of disco balls in the girls' bathroom was the students' defiant signature.
All Might's logs offered no comfort: Midoriya's rooftop melancholy, Bakugo's explosive mittens, Todoroki's silent noodle stacks. Outside, chaos reigned—a fractured reflection of hero society's unraveling.
Tonight, Aizawa's reward was meager—three fragmented hours, each promising a stiff neck and lost sleep. He lingered in the cold corridor, reluctant to retreat into his cramped dorm. Slumping onto the tile floor, back pressed against the wall, silence pressed like a shroud. The day's events looped in his mind like a trapped rat—surrounded by lasers and corroded motivational posters.
"Ghosts," he muttered.
"Kurogiri. Shirakumo."
Names blurred, thorns wrapped in smoke and regret. He heard the distortion—his voice caught halfway between man and monster. The best friend buried beneath the Nomu shell—an unhealed wound.
His fists clenched. Truth whispered: if he stopped, grief would swallow him whole.
Deep breaths, eyes closed—replaying fragments: hospital, restraints, a cloud of black mist hesitating at his name. Maybe there was something there. Maybe just wishful thinking.
"Dammit." The word echoed, slammed into the linoleum, spiderweb cracks left behind.
A mental tally compiled: Chiyo's healing—impossible. Shirakumo—science experiment, not person. The students—he couldn't protect forever. The world would consume or corrupt them. Himself—he barely survived the night without snapping.
He rose, dusted off, rounded the corner to the faculty suite, spotting Hizashi Yamada—bright yellow hair tumbling like a runaway ferret.
"Yo, Sho!" Hizashi grinned, wide enough to violate building codes. "Want late-night curry? I need something that won't burn off my taste buds for twelve hours."
Aizawa grunted, "Did you finish the monitoring logs?"
"Second-favorite thing after shouting," Hizashi quipped. "Also, you look like a cement mixer ran you over. You need carbs—and sleep."
The hall's end shuffled as Nemuri Kayama—Midnight—appeared, wrapped in a scandalous bathrobe, scent intoxicating and faintly illegal.
"Boys," her voice velvet softened by tequila, "if you're gossiping, count me in. Besides, I'm bored."
Aizawa shot a glare at Hizashi. "You told her."
Hizashi's grin went lopsided. "Nemuri has chemical warfare tricks—I'm weak."
Nemuri flopped onto the bench, legs crossed. "You're idiots if you thought I wouldn't notice. Shirakumo was my friend too. And no one notices three veterans acting like their dog got hit by a truck."
She softened. "Don't lock me out. Who else can you confide in?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. But this stays between us and Detective Tsukauchi only. Nezu or others catch wind—"
"They won't," Nemuri flicked through her phone's sea of bright exclamation points. "I swear on my costume's zipper supply."
Despite everything, comfort bloomed in numbers. Hizashi and Nemuri—opposing weather fronts—colliding, yet somehow making the air breathable.
"Curry or barbecue?" Hizashi teased. "Gyu-Kaku's midnight grill awaits. I want to see you set things on fire without your quirk."
"Barbecue," Aizawa replied dully. "Grilling meat's the only honest profession left."
Nemuri's look balanced pity and respect. "That's the spirit, teach. Teriyaki will drown our sorrows."
They moved silently through the night's corridors.
Outside, biting cold stung lungs—a reminder: the day wasn't done.
Aizawa felt like a ghost... or a hollowed husk, left while the real creature scurried beyond reach.
Quiet stretched long. The city hummed—traffic, sirens, neon billboards promising more than delivered.
Nemuri broke the silence with quiet warmth. "Oboro would have loved this. Three washed-up heroes chasing meat sticks at midnight. Like the old days, with more paperwork and fewer fires."
Hizashi's voice lowered in quiet reverence. "He was the best of us."
Aizawa's noncommittal noise was too tired for words. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt hunger.
Still, he followed—for loneliness offered nothing but counting failures.
Suddenly, Nemuri's phone shrilled—a ringtone suspiciously like Hizashi's old band.
She squinted, frowning. "Unknown number, but it's using my private line?"
Aizawa's hand darted to his utility scarf. Hizashi tensed but smiled lightly.
"Wrong number? Telemarketer?" Hizashi joked. "Don't fall for their tricks, Nemuri."
Nemuri rolled her eyes, thumb hovering. "Relax. How bad could it be?"
She tapped accept.
The air twisted violently as a tear in reality ripped open, fracturing the world with a jagged cry. Shimmering threads of prismatic energy tore through the air, the veil between realities snapping like shattered glass. Pavement shattered beneath their feet, and ozone-filled energy roared outward, consuming all. Aizawa's instincts screamed, and he lunged in front of his friends, scarf swirling free.
"Move!" he shouted, his voice layered with urgent fear, but there was no moving.
But the pull was inevitable. The cold, ozone-tinged scent of electrical rupture filled their lungs as fractal tears spun violently, pulling everything toward a dizzying core of light and sound. Hizashi's scream was lost in the wind, but his words cut clear,
"SHOOOO! This is NOT my idea of fun!"
A fractured heartbeat passed.
Aizawa thought bitterly: Of course it ends this way.
They were flung—atomized, spun through screaming light.
Aizawa remained silent.
The door slammed shut behind them with cosmic finality.
Elsewhere, unseen portals tore open the sky—targeting heroes like Mirko, Gran Torino, Recovery Girl, Mt. Lady—dragging them, mid-action, mid-battle, into the abyss.
School Dormitory
Long before the portal's arrival, the dormitory was chaos.
Class 1-A and 1-B had convened for what some optimistically called a 'joint study session'
The room was a wildfire of energy and chaos long before the portal tore through, bursting with laughter, music, and restless youthful yells. Instruments clashed in dissonant harmony as snacks flew like missiles, tables buckled under piles of game pieces and half-empty bowls, and the air was thick with the sharp smell of sweat, spicy food, and electric anticipation.
Mina seized the music, Jirou shredded on her guitar, and Iida darted between groups, ferrying bowls of stew like a frantic waiter. Kirishima and Tetsutetsu barked across the room, locked in a fierce contest of who could be "more manly."
"Oi, you total moron!" Tetsutetsu's fist slammed into Kirishima's face with a clang. Kirishima grinned wide, unshaken.
"I don't wanna hear that weak whining from you!" Tetsutetsu roared.
Across the cluttered table, Kendo and Yaoyorozu debated the merits of trust falls versus team-building games—Kendo clearly winning.
Kirishima rubbed his cheek, grinning ear to ear. "Man, you totally showed me up today. That's the definition of manly!" He thumped his chest theatrically.
Tetsutetsu snorted, shoved a plate of Takoyaki at Kirishima, then leaned back with satisfaction.
"Yeah, steel can only get so hard, but you? Each time you lose, you get stronger!"
He extended an arm, and Kirishima clasped it eagerly, fingers locking like intermeshed gears.
"You and I," Tetsutetsu declared, "we've got strengths of our own!"
"True! Plus, your hair looks way dumber when you sweat."
"HEY!"
In the kitchen, Iida nearly collided with Midoriya and All Might. Midoriya's notebook was wedged under his arm, pages bursting with sticky notes.
"Midoriya, beef stew tonight! Better grab some before Sato and Bakugo empty the pot," Iida announced.
"Oh, nice!" Midoriya's eyes brightened. "Is Class 1-B here too?"
"More than 1-B," Iida chimed, eyes adjusting his glasses with his trademark seriousness. "Shinso is chatting with Kaminari. The Big Three are here too. It's basically a festival."
"Who's watching Eri?" Midoriya asked, glancing at the empty hallway.
"Principal Nezu volunteered," Iida answered. "He's heavily invested in her progress."
A collective shudder passed; the thought of Nezu and Eri experimenting sounded both promising and unnerving. The group swiftly shifted focus.
At the kitchen island, Mirio spun tales of his training exploits. Nejire floated nearby, her shimmering hair catching every burst of excitement, while Tamaki hid behind a ficus, trying to be invisible.
"—and just as the villain lobbed a mud bomb at me, I phased right through it—whoosh!" Mirio snapped his fingers, splattering stew. "That's Permeation for you!"
The surrounding girls—the 1-B contingent including Kendo and Setsuna—erupted in applause.
Nearby, Shinso and Kaminari whispered, Kaminari wildly animated while Shinso offered his subtle, nearly hidden smile.
The living room swelled in happy cacophony. Sero decorated ceilings with tape while Mina's blasting music forced reluctant dancing. Jiro tried (and failed) to turn the volume down, sparking a hall dance-off. Shoji bore three girls effortlessly while Ojiro precariously balanced a bowl of stew on his tail.
Then—the doorbell rang.
Ding! Dong!
The noise peaked. No one expected visitors now. Iida wiped hands and approached the door.
He flung it open—and was yanked into a vortex.
"Hello—AAAAHHH!"
"No—wait—what—"
Nejire clasped Tamaki's wrist, diving through with a laugh.
The portal widened violently. Books tumbled. Dishes shattered. The very air screamed.
"WHY IS IT ALWAYS PORTALS?!" Kaminari shrieked, sliding wildly.
Sero lunged to help—then was pulled in, glowsticks flashing in a wild rave. Mina's shriek was swallowed by the vacuum's howl.
The portal shimmered with candy-colored energy, masked by violent suction that swept Iida off his feet.
"Ida!" Midoriya shouted, dropping his notebook, lunging futilely as the vortex swallowed rugs, mail, and two hapless 1-B students.
"Tetsutetsu, help!" Kirishima screamed, but Tetsutetsu clung desperately to the banister.
"It's always portals?" Mirio laughed, cape flaring, lifted from his feet.
Kaminari and Shinso exchanged defeated looks as they were pulled in—Kaminari yelling, Shinso scowling.
Todoroki clung to the doorframe, ice blooming beneath his touch. His eyes met Endeavor's—silent storms clashing.
Then Todoroki released his grip.
Bakugo fought—explosions igniting under fists, boots gouging trenches—but the wind snatched him away.
"I'M NOT LOSING TO A DAMN WIND CURRENT!" he roared—before the portal tore him free.
One by one, the heroes vanished into light. Even All Might, gripping the counter so hard wood furrowed, was lifted, shouting, "Young Midoriyaaaa—"
Then silence.
Only the fridge hummed.
"Aaahhh!" were all the screams from the students as they landed on the floor.
The students' eyes opened showing that they were in a movie theater.
"What happened?" Izuku's voice cracked open the heavy stillness.
"Hey, are you okay?" a nearby voice asked.
Shock froze Izuku's jaw as Number 2 Pro Hero Hawks appeared.
"Holy crap—you're Hawks!" Izuku whispered.
Hawks seemed flustered to be recognized by a fan.
Hawks looked flustered at the recognition, then gestured around the room. Heroes and villains alike gathered—some familiar, some strange—each processing their new surroundings.
"Whoa, I'm flattered. Though I can't say I'm the only person here."
The room was crowded: Heroes and villains :
UA teachers—Aizawa, Nemuri, and Hizashi— along with Mirko, Gran Torino, Recovery Girl, Mt. Lady, and Melissa Shield. Sprawled on plush chairs, their bodies sagging under invisible weight, their faces marks of exhaustion. They looked as if they'd been hit by a bus.
Alongside the League of Villains who stood there as well—Tomura, Toga, Dabi, Mr. Compress, Twice, Spinner. Plus those supposedly imprisoned: Kurogiri, Stain and a fully healed All For One.
Izuku and the others were shocked to see so many villains in the room.
Heroes and villains alike gathered—some familiar, some strange—each processing their new surroundings.
A heavy silence settled over the group, the tension thickening as heroes and villains found themselves trapped together in a strange movie theater.
Tartrus
Silence was suffocation.
Silence was death rehearsed.
He was the undisputed king of nothing.
The cell was a sterile tomb of titanium and unyielding ceramics, every surface gleaming cold beneath the harsh glare of unforgiving fluorescent bulbs. Shackled wrists and ankles bound a figure whose every movement was scrutinized by the unblinking eyes of silent, mechanical sentinels.
He suspected they spent more on his captivity than on defending the city. A fitting tribute, he mused with clipped irony.
Absurd beyond belief. He couldn't even scratch an itch without permission. Overkill, surely—what harm could he cause in this state? Every request was denied unless the itch rose to a "medical emergency."
Petty, all of it. At those rare mercies, a squadron of automatons—cold, methodical robot nurses—entered the room. Dignity was a theoretical construct here.
All For One exhaled a theatrical sigh, big enough to flicker the security camera's red light.
"I used to be a god," he intoned, voice silk-coated steel—worn yet still commanding.
Only the echo responded, bouncing off reinforced walls, likely dissected and archived by some overworked AI for jittery civil servants' review.
He closed his remaining eye, granting himself a moment of luxury: daydreaming.
Outside, the world spun in riotous revolution. He conjured images without news: Endeavor clawing at a fragile "reformed dad" facade, an audience of hornet-hive ire.
All Might, feebler day by day, devoured by the failure of not just his Symbol but the power vacuum filled with farce and memes.
And the ninth successor to One For All—unknown name—flitting through new quirks like a gambler spinning Hero Roulette.
No need for television. His memory and malice filled his mind's screen.
With no other stimulus, he switched channels—his mental refuge, a private theater where he starred alone. Tonight's lineup:
All Might's Humiliating Death: every incarnation—from noble martyr to tragic lactose overdose.
The Wheel of Torture: a game show he hosted, where foes competed to be dunked slowly in molten cheese.
Tomura Shigaraki: Behind the Music—a dark ballad chronicling his protégé's rise with guest ghosts and haunting symphonies.
Sitcom reruns: his guilty pleasure was The Dick Van Dyke Show, simple and soothing.
He scrolled through the absurdity, a king trapped in time. Such exquisite boredom—a diamond-point ache scraping his soul. Each minute a flaying from the temporal cheese grater.
He settled on The Wheel of Torture. The scene materialized—dazzling lights, a spinning wheel, a crowd made of his own masked faces. In the limelight stood a humbled Endeavor awkwardly reciting tongue twisters as the wheel spun.
He could remain here indefinitely.
Perhaps he would—if not for a sudden crackle from the intercom.
"Subject: 00001. State your request."
He weighed the disruption: a demand for a new eye mask? A complaint about air quality?
He opted for silence—a theater of resistance.
The intercom persisted: "Subject: 00001. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, tap your left foot twice."
He flexed his toes, tapped twice—a habitual gambit. This was no first rodeo; surprises had come before.
A pregnant pause. Nothing. The guards likely doubted him, or someone penned a report on his Morse code escape attempt.
He sighed and returned to his private theater, pulling another fantasy: Emperor of Japan, UA students bowing—including the jittery ninth. Tomura, beside him, in a suit of hands clapping politely.
An irrepressible chuckle escaped.
It was 3:13 a.m. on the cell clock—the perfect hour for an existential crisis.
Not sentimental, but a drama connoisseur, he crafted a half-hour soliloquy for his biopic: destiny, tragedy of power, infinite quirks undone by the smallest mole in fate's soup. Phrasing still in progress.
Imagination sustained.
Suddenly, violent violet flashes—matched only by villainous attacks or flaring fluorescents. Walls rippled; restraints vibrated.
An impulse surged: Tomura was here to break him out.
He laughed, too theatrical even for Imagination Land.
A rift burst—the light incinerated shadows. Chains shattered. Silence screamed.
He surrendered, letting the current carry him.
His eyes opened, then closed again. A scent drifted—not sterile disinfectant, but buttery, artificial popcorn.
He opened it again.
No cell. A movie theater.
Empty except for himself. Plush seats. And—confirmed—his body free of restraints. Dressed impeccably: tuxedo and cufflinks. His face—correct age, unmasked, untubed, unscarred.
He flexed his fingers, viewing his reflection in a cufflink: smooth marble skin, slicked-back hair, scars vanished. A style he hadn't replicated since Tokugawa.
Biological prime.
Legs long. Vision sharp—able to read popcorn package warnings from a distance.
He rose with regal grace. Suit tailored. Italian leather shoes soft beneath him. Tie restrained. His chest pulsed with a real heartbeat, unburdened by machines.
God's work, or a well-funded enemy stand?
Seeking solitude, he turned.
But confrontation awaited.
The front row held replicas of himself—the One For All lineage.
Nana Shimura with fiery eyes. The scarred, scowling sixth user. The defiant child is seventh—the jittery ninth.
Yet none commanded as much attention as Yoichi, original and brother, seated beside him with a mournful smile—gentle enough to forgive everything but boredom.
"Hello, brother," Yoichi intoned. Their reunion was a requiem.
Forcing a smile, All For One replied, "Unexpected."
Yoichi pointed to the screen: a city panorama, distant explosions, a narrator waxing philosophical on justice's eternal struggle.
"Isn't it, though? I didn't expect to see you so soon."
All For One weighed options: bravado, humility, quip.
He chose honesty.
"I was imprisoned five minutes ago. Now here, surrounded by ghosts, forced to watch a melodrama invested in my humiliation. If this is an afterlife, it lacks its promised amenities."
The popcorn—perfect but stale—confirmed the suspicion.
On screen: brutal combat from another world—Kengan Ashura.
His smile faltered.
"What is this? Does anyone know?"
"No."
The sixth user leaned forward, voice gravelly: "Cut the crap. Why here?"
Faces showed contempt: Nana's disgust, Sixth's professionalism, Child's existential dread, Ninth's exhaustion.
Leaning back, cool irritation masked, he said what everyone was thinking:
"Fuck."