The U.A. faculty conference room was unusually silent.
Twilight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows in golden shafts, casting long shadows over the polished table. The air was still—too still—and heavy with something unspoken.
Aizawa stood near the back, arms folded, one foot tapping faintly beneath the table. His red-rimmed eyes were fixed on All Might, who had yet to say a word since entering. Toshinori looked paler than usual, sunken into himself like a statue halfway to crumbling.
The moment dragged.
Then—
"What?" Aizawa's voice was a blade drawn in a quiet room.
All eyes turned to All Might, who bowed his head, breathing slow and deliberate.
"I'm not lying. Katsuki Bakugo... he came to me last night. He told me everything."
A long pause.
"Everything he did to Midoriya. From the start."
The silence was deafening.
Nezu sat perfectly still, his paws clasped before him on the table. Only his eyes moved—calculating, probing. Finally, he exhaled with a soft click of his tongue.
"I had hypothesized this possibility," Nezu said, calm as ever, "given the rising reports of quirkism across Japan. I fear some academic institutions are nurturing it behind closed doors—promoting it, even."
Midnight arched a brow, leaning forward in her chair. "But Midoriya? With the Quirk he had? Are we really saying he was a victim of quirkism?"
A grim beat passed as Nezu and All Might shared a silent look.
"I gave him his Quirk," All Might said, voice quiet but thunderous in weight. "When I met him, Izuku was quirkless. Powerless. And still, he rushed in to save someone. He never stopped. I passed One For All to him because he already was a hero. The world never gave him the chance."
A collective stillness washed over the room. Even Present Mic, who rarely ran out of words, had nothing to say.
Nezu's paw moved again. He tapped his tablet, sliding it across the screen.
"Aldera Junior High's records labeled Midoriya as emotionally unstable. Prone to fights. A poor team player." Another tap. "Bakugo, meanwhile, was recorded as respectful. A natural leader. An outstanding example of discipline."
"I read similar files for Tsuyu Asui," he added. "Reports claimed she had multiple incidents of theft and physical altercations with junior students. Yet at U.A., she's proven nothing but calm and integrity."
"Hold up." Present Mic leaned forward. "You saying multiple students came out of schools like that?"
"It's entirely possible," Thirteen said softly, hands folded. "If institutions engineered to subtly push quirkist ideology exist—especially in rural or underfunded areas—it wouldn't take much for the wrong values to take root. And if it's systemic..."
Her voice faded into implication.
"Some of our alumni may have carried that conditioning without us ever realizing," she added.
Hound Dog growled under his breath, his claws tapping lightly on the armrest.
"Mental conditioning, especially from childhood, is a cage you don't know you're in. If Bakugo's finally confessing—to All Might—it's likely his conscience never agreed with what he was taught. But it was buried. Under praise. Power. Ego. And God knows what else."
Nezu tilted his head slightly in thought.
"If the culture in certain schools not only permitted, but rewarded such behavior," he murmured, "then we may have a larger issue on our hands."
Snipe nodded. "You mean this ain't just one bad school."
"No," Nezu said, eyes cold. "It could be a network. An ideology. And if it stretches across the country—or worse, the world—then something much larger is in motion."
Silence fell again, thick and suffocating.
Nezu tapped once more, and the hologram shifted—dense text, sterile formatting, the seal of the Tokyo police and the Commission stamped across the top.
"Tsukauchi delivered this yesterday," he said.
The room leaned in without realizing it.
"It wasn't suicide," Nezu continued, voice flat. "Midoriya was murdered."
For a moment, no one breathed.
All Might's hand tightened around the back of his chair hard enough for the wood to creak.
Vlad King rose slowly, face ashen. "How… certain?"
Nezu didn't flinch. "The ligature marks do not match a self-inflicted hanging. Angle, depth, and bruising are inconsistent. There was also a trace sedative in his bloodstream—low enough to miss if you weren't looking for it."
The words hit harder than the verdict itself.
Midnight's voice came out sharp. "Then someone got close enough to drug him."
Aizawa's stare turned empty in that dangerous way it did before violence. "In our school."
Nezu's eyes chilled. "And if we announce that publicly before we know who did it, we turn U.A. into a feeding ground for opportunists. Media panic, political leverage, copycats… and the real killer disappears into the noise."
He folded his paws neatly.
"The report remains sealed in my personal archive. Only this room. Not because we fear the truth—because we intend to catch whoever thought they could bury it."
He turned to Hound Dog.
"Begin therapy with Bakugo immediately. Keep it off the record. Report progress weekly."
Then to Aizawa.
"You and All Might will accompany me for a press conference. We will apologize publicly. For our failure to protect Midoriya. For the breach in our systems. We will mourn with strength."
A beat.
"And then, we move."
Aizawa's voice returned, quiet and grim.
"You want me to investigate."
Nezu nodded. "Use your underground ties. Dig deep. Find Midoriya's killer. Quietly. And whatever you discover—bring it to me. Only me."
They sat with it a while longer.
The weight of what had been lost.
And the storm that was only just approaching.
The next day, Class 1-A gathered in the dorm common room. No one laughed. No one joked.
When Aizawa walked in, the silence became absolute.
"I need your attention," he said flatly. "And your trust."
Silence.
Aizawa took it as a yes.
"Izuku Midoriya did not die by suicide. He was murdered."
Gasps broke the quiet. Momo's hand flew to her mouth. Sero whispered a curse. Uraraka's eyes welled instantly.
"You cannot tell anyone," Aizawa said firmly. "Not your parents. Not your work-study supervisors. Not your friends. Not even the teachers at other departments."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"We've kept the truth hidden to avoid mass panic. But now, we need eyes everywhere. During your work-studies, your patrols, your public appearances—stay alert. Watch for strange behavior, hidden agendas, signs that someone knew Deku better than they should've."
Bakugo remained silent, his gaze never leaving the floor. Not even to wipe away the tear slipping down his cheek.
"We need eyes," Aizawa said, and his gaze hardened. "But hear me carefully—observe. Do not confront. Do not play hero. If something feels wrong, you disengage and you report to me through the channel I'm giving you. You stay alive first. That's an order."
He paused.
"Bakugou, meet me after classes are done for the day in my office."
Somewhere distant from the storm of media pressure and conspiracy, peace found a place to breathe.
In the mountains, nestled between fir trees and whispers of wind, the Wild, Wild Pussycat's lodge buzzed with life. It was Mandalay's idea to get Kota and Eri out of the city for a while. It was to help them cope, find some peace after Izuku's death, even if it was temporary
Eri giggled softly as Kota handed her a steaming mug of cocoa—extra marshmallows, just like she liked. She sat beside him, legs tucked up, her Eraserhead plushie clutched against her chest like a shield from the world.
"You made it too sweet," Kota grumbled, though he didn't sound upset.
"I like sweet," she replied, poking her tongue out.
Outside, the mountain fog crept between the trees, gentle and slow. Inside, the room smelled of chocolate, wood smoke, and safety.
Pixie-Bob tiptoed in with a tray of cookies shaped like hero emblems.
"Snack time, my little rangers!" she beamed.
Tiger ruffled Kota's hair before flopping onto the other couch, already halfway asleep. Mandalay and Ragdoll whispered quietly in the kitchen, trying not to disturb the peaceful air.
Eri looked up through the skylight overhead. The clouds had finally broken, just enough to reveal a handful of stars twinkling shyly in the night sky.
"That one," she whispered, pointing, "is Deku's star."
Kota tilted his head. "Huh?"
"He used to say... when people go away, they become stars so we don't forget them," she murmured. "I think... his is the one that blinks the brightest."
Kota looked up at the sky, then at Eri. He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he reached out and took her hand.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think you're right."
The fire crackled softly. The plushie's button eyes stared forward. And in that room tucked between mountains and memory, two children who had seen far too much held each other in silence—watching stars and remembering a boy who had saved them both.
Eri yawned, her head settling onto Kota's shoulder as her eyes fluttered shut. Kota didn't move an inch. After a while, his own eyelids grew heavy too, and he drifted off—still holding her hand.
Outside, the fog curled through the fir trees like a quiet guardian.
Inside, the fire kept breathing.