The maternity ward rested in a gentle hush, broken only by the soft beeping of monitors and the distant murmur of footsteps in the hall. Inko Midoriya sat upright against her pillows, cradling her newborn son with both arms, careful and instinctive, as though any sudden movement might disturb something delicate and irreplaceable.
A nurse finished reviewing the chart at the foot of the bed and offered a warm smile. "Everything looks good. You'll both be able to go home tomorrow."
Inko exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. "Thank you."
Her eyes drifted back to the child in her arms. Izuku slept peacefully, his tiny fingers curled against her sleeve, his breathing slow and even. The world felt quieter when she looked at him, as if nothing beyond that small space truly mattered.
"Will your husband be coming by?" the nurse asked casually as she began to tidy the room.
Inko hesitated, just briefly, before shaking her head. "He's busy. It's alright."
She adjusted her hold, her thumb brushing lightly across Izuku's cheek.
"I just want him to grow up safe," she said, almost to herself. "That's enough."
The nurse gave a small nod and slipped out, leaving the room wrapped in stillness once more.
—
Somewhere deep within that quiet, something stirred.
Two presences lingered at the edge of a small, glowing consciousness, like observers standing at the threshold of a fragile world.
"Well?" one voice asked, steady and composed. "What do you think?"
The other took a moment before answering. "It's… calm."
The younger presence focused on the small soul at the center. It flickered faintly, not weak, but unfinished, like a flame still learning how to burn.
"I won't take this from him," the younger one said quietly. "If merging means he disappears, I'm not doing it."
A soft exhale echoed through the space.
"That isn't what will happen," the older voice replied. "But your interference has already changed things. This is the only way to correct it."
"Then we do it properly," the younger one said. "Together."
Silence settled between them.
"…You'll lose your memories," the older voice said at last. "Everything from your previous life."
"I understand."
"No regrets?"
The answer came without hesitation. "There's nothing left for me there."
Something shifted, subtle but decisive.
"Then don't resist."
The younger presence began to compress, its shape folding inward, shrinking until it matched the size of the small soul beside it. For a brief moment, they hovered together, two separate lights suspended in the same space.
"Thank you," the younger one murmured.
Then the distance vanished.
The two lights touched—and became one.
—
Three years later.
"Stop it!"
Izuku stepped forward, planting himself between the crying boy and the others. His arms spread instinctively, though his knees trembled beneath him.
Across from him, Katsuki Bakugo flexed his hands. Small bursts of sparks snapped from his palms, sharp and restless.
"You again?" Katsuki said, irritation already in his voice. "Move."
"No."
It came out softer than Izuku intended, but he held his ground.
Behind Katsuki, one boy hovered slightly off the ground, wings buzzing faintly, while another idly stretched long, thin fingers. They watched with detached curiosity, as if this were just another scene they'd seen before.
"He didn't do anything," Izuku said, forcing the words out. "Just leave him alone."
Katsuki's gaze sharpened. "You don't even have a Quirk. What are you supposed to do?"
Izuku swallowed. His hands shook, but he tightened them into fists.
"I'm not moving."
For a moment, the air stilled.
Then Katsuki clicked his tongue. "Fine. Your problem."
—
By the time Izuku reached home, his shirt was torn, and his arms were lined with shallow cuts and bruises.
He sat quietly on the couch while Inko cleaned his wounds. Her hands were gentle, but there was a stiffness in the way she moved, like she was holding something back.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"A little."
She dabbed at a bruise, then hesitated. "Izuku… why do you keep—"
He looked up at her.
"Can I still be a hero?"
The question was simple, but it lingered in the air between them.
Inko's expression softened, even as her eyes grew wet. "Of course you can."
She reached behind her and pulled out a small box, its surface bright with the smiling face of All Might.
"I got these for you."
Izuku blinked, then broke into a grin. "All Might candy?!"
"Just one or two," she added quickly. "And make sure you brush your teeth."
"I will!"
—
He didn't.
The next day ended with a reluctant visit to the dentist, much to his regret.
—
Izuku's room was a small shrine to his hero.
Figures lined the shelves. Posters filled the walls. Videos of All Might played so often that every word, every movement, had become familiar.
Each evening, Izuku sat cross-legged in front of the screen, an All Might figure clutched in his hands.
Even on days when his body ached, when walking home felt heavier than it should, he still watched.
Because All Might always smiled.
Even when everything was on the line.
Even when others couldn't.
"I am here."
Izuku whispered along with the screen, his voice barely audible.
If someone like that could smile in the face of danger… then he could, too.
—
At four years old, Izuku understood enough.
Enough to understand the doctor's words.
"There's no sign of a Quirk."
The sentence was calm. Final.
Inko's hand rose to her face, her shoulders tightening.
Izuku said nothing.
—
The walk home passed in silence.
Only when he sat in front of his computer again, the familiar glow lighting his face, did he speak.
"Mom…"
Inko lingered in the doorway.
He kept his eyes on the screen for a moment longer.
"A hero who can save people… and still smile…"
He turned back, his eyes wet but steady.
"That's amazing, right?"
A small pause.
"…Can I still become someone like that?"
The question broke something in her.
Inko crossed the room in an instant and pulled him into her arms.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry, Izuku…"
He didn't know what she was apologizing for.
—
The playground the next day looked no different.
Children laughed. Sand scattered beneath small plastic shovels.
"Hey, Izuku," someone called. "Still no Quirk?"
He didn't respond. Just kept digging.
Katsuki noticed.
Of course he did.
"Tch."
He walked over, his usual group falling in behind him.
"Look at you," Katsuki said. "Still acting like you've got a chance?"
Izuku looked up slowly.
Something flickered in his eyes—quiet, but unyielding.
"…Yeah."
Katsuki frowned, clearly dissatisfied.
"Then stop wasting everyone's time."
He stepped closer.
"Let's see how long you keep saying that."
—
Izuku didn't cry on the way home.
—
That night, he sat at his desk with a notebook open in front of him.
The pages were filled with careful notes, sketches, and observations about heroes—everything he'd managed to learn, piece by piece.
He turned to a blank page and lifted his pencil.
For a moment, he hesitated.
Then he wrote:
I'm going to become a hero. A hero like All Might.
He stared at the words, as if committing them to something deeper than paper. Then he added another line beneath it.
Today Kacchan hit me again.
The pencil paused.
Then, slowly, it moved once more.
I still want to be his friend.