Gray dawn bled in around the cracked edges of grimy blinds, painting thin bars of light across the bare brick walls. The apartment was perched high above Tatsuryu Ward, a hunched, concrete box overlooking industrial canals choked in morning mist. Rain pattered steadily on the warped window, seeping through a splintered frame and collecting in shallow pools along the uneven floor. The place stank of old iron, spilled gun oil, and blood that never fully scrubbed out.
Maps and case files, covered in spidery notes and pieces of string, collage the walls above a battered steel desk. Scattered on the tiled kitchen counter—half-cleaned knives, loose ammo, a broken mug holding two toothbrushes, and a stack of bandage wrappers. There was no TV. No couch. Just a worn futon pressed against the opposite wall, tangled in dark sheets still bearing the faint shape of his restless body.
Jisaku Todoroki threw back the thin blanket. His muscles ached, every inch of him mapped by old scars and new bruises from the slaughter at the Night Lantern. He moved stiffly, absently tracing the scar slicing from his eyebrow down through his left eye. Long, black hair tangled over his face. He sat on the edge of the futon for a few heartbeats, jaw tight—just breathing, staring at nothing as the city churned below: neon signs flickering, sirens wailing in the distance, a flock of crows beating past the shattered window-frame.
He rose, bare feet cold against the gritty tile, and padded to the kitchen—each step measured, a ghost moving through his own mausoleum. The fridge door creaked open, filling the room with a dull, blue light; inside, a sad collection: leftover takeout, a hunk of hard cheese, three beers, and a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka.
He reached for a bottle, popped the cap off on the counter with one sharp motion, and tipped it back. The beer was ice-cold, blessing and punishment both. He drank half in a single, practiced swallow, the taste washing away the last shreds of sleep and remorse. He leaned back against the fridge, head bowed, eyes closed for a moment as he listened to the rain and the distant grind of industry.
No dreams worth remembering. Only the weight of another dawn, another city that never washed clean. Just Jisaku, alone in the gray, haunted by the memory of what he'd done and what he still had left to do.
He finished the bottle, set it down hard on the counter, and started his day—another piece of steel in the endless machinery of San'gai City's shadows.
Jisaku stepped from the fogged bathroom, muscles stiff from half-slept nightmares and the wounds last night left behind. The mirror—cracked and yellowed—caught his reflection: black hair damp and heavy, scar jagged over his left eyebrow, stubble darkening a face hollowed by city shadows. As he moved through the spartan apartment—the damp brick, rain trickling in, the battered futon, the scent of gun oil and mildew—there was only the rhythm of routine. Teeth brushed, hair tied back, traces of old blood washed down the cracked basin.
He dressed in silence: fitted black T-shirt, dark blue hoodie zipped up, black joggers, sturdy boots laced tight. Holsters and blades set aside—today, he wouldn't need them. At least not for where he was going.
The city was a maze shrouded in perpetual drizzle. He made his way down fire escapes that ran like veins along the battered complex, past flickering izakaya signs and down the crowded alleys of Tatsuryu Ward. Neon reflected across pooled rainwater in the street, mixing pink, orange, and sickly blue with the gray hush of dawn. Crows scavenged at the gutters; nobody met his eyes.
After several blocks, he reached a squat three-story building washed in peeling green paint and faded murals—children flying on paper cranes and painted cherry blossom trees, both long since dulled by the city's damp. An old sign above the rust-bitten gate read:
"Little Lantern Orphan Home."
Inside, the halls were narrow and uneven, the walls covered in chipped pictures of sunrises and adventures drawn by nervous hands. Despite its struggles, the orphanage felt warmer than anywhere else in San'gai: the air buzzed with soft laughter, the aroma of miso, old tatami, and distant, fraying hope.
Three orphans—small, familiar shadows—rushed him as soon as he entered the main room, their faces shining.
- Mika (8), of slight build, short tousled black hair and eyes bright with mischief, clung to his arm in a faded red sweater and worn denim pants.
- Yuki (7), small and shy, with long silky black hair in two uneven braids, smiled uncertainly from behind her book, shod in a threadbare light blue dress, scuffed shoes dangling over the bench.
- Sora (6), round-faced and beaming, bouncing in a patched yellow shirt and faded brown shorts, tugged at Jisaku's sleeve, demanding a story.
He dropped to a knee, letting Sora clamber into his lap and ruffle his cropped hair. Mika pressed a crumpled origami frog into his hand, giggling for approval. Yuki watched quietly, eyes searching his with a look only survivors carried—like she half-believed he could protect her from the world outside. For a few silent minutes, Jisaku let these small hands tether him to something like humanity. He ruffled hair, listened to impossible plans for the day, offered a rare crooked smile.
Across the playroom, volunteers gossiped near the cracked window. Their words threaded through the children's gentle noise—
"Hidden Leaf's strength is fading. The new generation doesn't seem as strong as the old guard."
The sentence cut through Jisaku's calm. He paused mid-laugh, a shadow flitting across his eyes. For a heartbeat, the weight of exile pressed down—memories of a place he'd once called home, a line of Hokages, now reduced to rumor and worry. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, letting the children's chatter pull him back.
Outside, San'gai's rain painted the glass with tears, and in that battered, hopeful place, Jisaku let himself be something other than Red Hood—if only for a little while.
Jisaku lingered with the children in the Little Lantern Orphan Home, his laughter—rare and rough—echoing softly against the worn walls. He ruffled Sora's hair, promising them all with a sideways grin, "Next time I come by, I'll bring you something better than those cheap crackers you keep hiding from the staff. Actual snacks—deal?" The kids erupted in cheers, Yuki's shy smile brightening as she clung to her book, Mika bouncing on his toes with anticipation.
He stood, gently untangling himself from their eager grips. Pulling the dark blue hoodie over his head, shadowing his scarred face, Jisaku gave a last wave, then stepped out into the wet, late-morning streets of San'gai. Rain pressed him close to the concrete as neon flickered overhead and distant traffic snarled through puddles.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—sharp and insistent. He paused beneath a dripping awning, crows scattering overhead, and thumbed the screen. One new text, number unknown. The message was short; his jaw clenched as he read it.
> Found her. Tatsuryu Pier 17. Bring cash if you want her breathing. Two hours. Alone.
A gust of wind sent rain spattering against his face as he stared at the words. The warmth from the orphanage fell away, replaced by a current of old dread and hard purpose behind his eyes. Whoever sent this knew him—knew what buttons to press and how quickly that calm could turn ice-cold.
His pace quickened, boots splashing through the flooded curb as he melted into the city's endless gray. The Little Lantern's fading music and soft voices grew distant behind him, swallowed by San'gai's hunger.