The first few weeks of life were pure hell.
Nobody talked about this part of reincarnation. In all the light novels and anime Takeshi—Haruto—had consumed in his previous life, they glossed over the infant stage. Maybe mentioned it in a quick montage. Skipped ahead to when the protagonist could actually do things.
Haruto didn't get that luxury.
He couldn't walk. Couldn't talk. Couldn't even roll over without considerable effort. His body was weak and uncoordinated, all his adult consciousness trapped inside a meat prison that refused to cooperate.
And the crying. God, the crying.
His body would just... do it. Without permission. He'd be lying there, minding his own business, and suddenly his face would scrunch up and tears would pour out and awful wailing sounds would emerge from his throat. All because he was hungry or tired or needed to be changed.
It was humiliating.
"Shh, shh, it's okay sweetie," his mother would coo, lifting him from his crib at two in the morning. "Mama's here. You're okay."
Haruto wanted to apologize. Wanted to tell her he was fine, his stupid infant body was just overreacting. But all that came out was more crying.
His mother never complained. Not once. She'd just hold him close, rocking gently, humming that same wordless tune until his body finally calmed down.
His father was just as bad—in a good way. Kenji Senju would rush home from work, still in his suit, just to hold Haruto for a few minutes before dinner. He'd talk to him like Haruto could understand every word, telling him about his day, about the buildings he was designing, about mundane office politics that should have been boring but somehow weren't.
"Your mama says you smiled today," his father said one evening, cradling Haruto in his large hands. "I bet you were smiling at her, weren't you? She's the most beautiful woman in the world. You're a lucky boy."
Haruto hadn't smiled. It had been gas. But he didn't have the motor control to correct the misconception.
They loved him. That was the worst part. These two complete strangers loved him with a ferocity that was almost frightening. They'd completely rearranged their lives around him, and they acted like it was a privilege instead of a burden.
It made the guilt worse.
Because Haruto was lying to them. Every day, every moment, he was lying. They thought they had a normal baby who would grow up to be whatever children grew up to be in this world.
They had no idea they were raising someone who'd already died once. Someone who remembered another life, another world. Someone who was planning things that would probably horrify them.
*I'm sorry,* he thought, looking up at his mother's face as she fed him. *I'm sorry I'm not actually the son you think you have.*
But he couldn't stop. Couldn't change course now. The wheels were already in motion, even if he was too small to do anything about it yet.
So he played the part. Let them dress him in ridiculous baby clothes. Let them take endless pictures. Let them celebrate every tiny milestone like it was a miracle.
And at night, when he was alone in his crib staring at the ceiling, he'd think about what was coming.
All For One was out there somewhere. So was Shigaraki, probably just a kid himself right now. The League of Villains would form eventually. Overhaul was running the Shie Hassaikai. Stain would begin his crusade.
And Izuku Midoriya was living next door, completely unaware that he'd one day inherit the power of the world's greatest hero.
Haruto had time. Years before any of it really kicked off. But time had a way of slipping through your fingers when you weren't careful.
He needed to be ready.
---
Three months in, and Haruto had mastered the art of not screaming in frustration.
His body was slightly more responsive now. He could grab things if they were close enough. Could turn his head to track movement. Could even make some intentional sounds instead of just random baby noises.
Progress. Slow, agonizing progress.
"Look at you," his mother cooed, dangling a toy just out of reach. "You want the toy? You can get it, sweetie. Reach!"
Haruto glared at the stuffed All Might plushie. Of course it was All Might. Everything in this world was All Might. The man was like a cult of personality distilled into a single hero.
A hero who would eventually pass on his power to Izuku. Who would retire after nearly dying. Who would leave a vacuum that would plunge hero society into chaos.
Haruto reached for the toy, more to make his mother happy than anything else. His chubby infant fingers closed around it, and his mother practically squealed with delight.
"Good job! Oh, Kenji, did you see? He grabbed it!"
His father appeared in the doorway, still holding a laundry basket. "That's my boy! Going to be strong like All Might, aren't you?"
*No,* Haruto thought darkly. *I'm going to be strong like someone better. Someone who actually finishes the job.*
But he waved the All Might toy around dutifully, and his parents ate it up.
That afternoon, his mother had a visitor.
Haruto was lying on a play mat—another humiliation, being left on the floor like a houseplant—when the doorbell rang. His mother bustled over to answer it, and a familiar voice filtered through.
"I hope I'm not intruding! I made some cookies and thought you might like some. Feeding a baby is exhausting work."
"Inko! You're never intruding. Come in, come in!"
Haruto's eyes snapped toward the door.
Inko Midoriya stepped inside, holding a plate wrapped in plastic. She looked younger than he remembered from the anime—less worn down by life. Her smile was genuine as she spotted Haruto on his mat.
"Oh my goodness, he's gotten so big!" she gushed, setting down the cookies and kneeling beside him. "Hi there, Haruto-kun! Do you remember me? I visited when you were just born."
Haruto stared up at her, his infant brain trying to reconcile this real, breathing person with the animated character he remembered. This was Izuku's mother. The woman who would support her son through hell and back. Who would cry herself sick with worry but never once tell Izuku to stop chasing his impossible dream.
She reached down and gently booped his nose.
Haruto reflexively grabbed her finger.
"Oh!" Inko laughed. "He's got quite a grip! How old is he now? Three months?"
"Just about," his mother confirmed, settling onto the couch nearby. "He hit all his milestones early. The doctor says he's developing well."
*If only you knew,* Haruto thought.
"Izuku's been the same way," Inko said, her voice warm with pride. "He's so observant. Sometimes I catch him just staring at things, like he's trying to figure out how they work. I think he's going to be smart when he grows up."
"I'm sure both boys will be," Haruto's mother agreed. "Maybe they'll even be friends! They're practically neighbors."
Haruto's grip on Inko's finger tightened involuntarily.
Friends with Izuku Midoriya. The protagonist. The boy who would save the world.
The boy Haruto needed to protect, whether Izuku liked it or not.
"That would be lovely," Inko was saying. "Izuku could use more friends. I worry sometimes that he's too serious for his age."
The two mothers fell into easy conversation, talking about their sons and their hopes and their fears. Haruto listened, committing every detail to memory.
Because information was power. And in this world, Haruto would need every scrap of power he could gather.
Even if it came from eavesdropping on his mother's playdate conversations while lying on a mat shaped like a cartoon animal.
Some sacrifices were necessary.