The morning air was cold. Kuro stood atop a half-collapsed skyscraper, his black coat fluttering in the wind. Below him, the remnants of another battle for justice lay scattered—broken buildings, smoke rising, and the faint sound of sirens in the distance.
"Heroes cleaning up after heroes," Kuro muttered, his voice empty of amusement. "The same story every time."
Deku approached from behind, his boots crunching over shattered glass. "You stopped them before they could destroy the entire district," he said softly. "That means something."
Kuro didn't look back. "Does it? Or did I just stop one cycle so another could begin?" His tone carried the weight of exhaustion—not physical, but moral, spiritual. "Every time a hero falls, another one rises. Every time a villain dies, someone new takes their place."
Aizawa appeared beside them, his scarf fluttering slightly. "You're not wrong," he said. "But that doesn't mean we stop trying."
Kuro turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes reflecting the city lights. "You still believe this system can be fixed, don't you?"
"I believe people can change," Aizawa replied simply.
Kuro chuckled dryly. "People don't change. They adapt until the next tragedy reminds them who they really are."
A silence followed, filled only by the hum of distant police drones. Hiroshi finally broke it, stepping forward. "You sound like someone who's already given up."
Kuro's gaze hardened. "I haven't given up," he said quietly. "I've accepted the truth. This world doesn't want peace—it wants balance. Heroes and villains, two sides of the same coin. My power, All Fiction, lets me erase things, rewrite them, but even that can't erase human nature."
He raised his hand, staring at it. The faint blue glow of his quirk flickered across his fingers. "I can erase pain, death, even reality itself. But not greed, not hypocrisy. That's the weight I carry."
Deku stepped closer, his voice trembling but firm. "Then why keep fighting? If it hurts this much, why keep trying?"
Kuro's expression softened for the first time. He looked at Deku—the boy who still carried hope like a torch in the darkness. "Because someone has to," he said. "If I stop, then all of this… everything I've destroyed, everyone I've erased, it would mean nothing."
Aizawa sighed, folding his arms. "You talk like someone burdened by responsibility, not conviction."
Kuro smiled faintly. "Maybe they're the same thing."
Hours later, the group sat in an abandoned subway station, their temporary hideout. The echoes of dripping water filled the silence as they rested, the faint glow of a makeshift lantern casting long shadows on the cracked walls.
Deku was the first to speak. "You ever regret it?" he asked quietly. "Erasing them?"
Kuro looked up from where he sat, leaning against the wall. "Every day," he admitted. "But regret doesn't mean I was wrong."
Aizawa looked at him carefully. "You justify every decision, but you never forgive yourself for them. That's dangerous."
Kuro's gaze darkened. "Forgiveness is a luxury for those who still believe they deserve it."
For a long time, no one spoke.
Then Hiroshi broke the silence. "When I first met you," he began, "I thought you were a monster. A man who erased people like they were ink on paper. But now I see you're just someone carrying the weight of a world that refuses to change."
Kuro's expression softened. "You see too much, Hiroshi."
"Maybe," Hiroshi replied with a faint smile. "But if you truly want to change this world, you'll have to do more than erase it. You'll have to rebuild it."
Kuro closed his eyes, leaning back. "And who decides what that world looks like? Me? You? The heroes who failed? The villains who burned it down?"
Deku clenched his fists. "Everyone deserves a say. That's the point."
Kuro opened one eye, studying him. "You sound like I used to."
"What changed?"
Kuro smiled bitterly. "Reality."
The lantern flickered out as the night deepened. They sat in darkness for a while, each lost in their thoughts. Above them, the city continued its endless dance of chaos—sirens, explosions, and shouts of justice mingling with the quiet suffering of the unseen.
Finally, Aizawa spoke again, his tone calm but firm. "Kuro, I've seen countless students burdened by the weight of their quirks. You remind me of them. You carry something too powerful, too absolute. But power isn't the enemy— isolation is."
Kuro opened his eyes again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Isolation is the price."
"Then maybe it's time someone paid it with you," Aizawa said.
Kuro looked at him, taken aback. There was no judgment in Aizawa's eyes, only understanding.
For the first time in years, Kuro didn't have an answer.
The next morning, Kuro stood outside, watching the sunrise over the ruined skyline. The light was faint, bleeding through smoke and dust, but it was there—stubborn, unyielding.
Deku joined him, his breath visible in the cold air. "You know," he said quietly, "every hero I've met carries some kind of weight. But yours… It's different."
Kuro didn't respond.
Deku continued. "You carry the weight of everyone you've erased. Everyone you couldn't save. That's not weakness, Kuro. That's responsibility."
Kuro turned to him, his expression unreadable. "And what do you carry, Deku?"
Deku smiled faintly. "Hope."
Kuro let out a soft laugh, one that wasn't entirely bitter this time. "Then maybe that's what this world needs—your hope and my truth."
"Maybe," Deku replied. "But neither can survive alone."
Kuro looked out at the city again. The first rays of sunlight touched his face, and for a moment, the burden on his shoulders felt lighter—not gone, but shared.
Maybe that was enough.