Izukus point of view:
Six months.
Six months since I opened my eyes in a new body.
Six months since I heard my mother crying in the dark, blaming herself for something she couldn't control.
Six months since I made a promise—to rise, to rebuild, to become the kind of hero the world truly needed.
And now?
My bedroom was no longer a child's space.
It was a lab.
Not in the dramatic, messy sci-fi way most people imagined. No, I kept things clean. Precise. Methodical. My mother never noticed because I never gave her a reason to. When she came in, it was during the day—when everything was in its place, every wire tucked away, every screen dark.
The closet was rigged to hold my real equipment. Beneath the bed, a false panel led to lockboxes that stored notebooks, drives, tools, and early prototypes. A folding panel on the wall could be covered by All Might posters in under three seconds. Everything had a backup plan. I couldn't afford slipups.
Usually.
But not tonight.
Not this night.
Because I made a mistake.
I didn't hear the front door.
I was too deep in the work.
I had three laptops open across my desk, each displaying different data streams—schematics, prototype diagnostics, and simulation logs. One showed a 3D render of the Widow Stingers: sleek, wrist-mounted bracers designed to fire non-lethal, electrically charged darts. Another showed code mapping neural input sensitivity. The third tracked my financials, updated in real-time.
Across my bed were sketches and folded schematics—things I usually kept locked away. I'd spread them out tonight because I finally had time to organize and refine the most promising designs.
I had finally cracked the control interface.
Instead of clunky buttons or external triggers, I was integrating micro-servos sensitive to subtle muscle movement. A flex of a specific finger—just one—would activate the firing sequence. Smooth. Discreet. Efficient.
I adjusted a calibration dial on the inner bracer as it rested across my forearm, plugged into one of the laptops via a braided cord.
I flexed my index finger experimentally.
Whrr-click.
The dummy dart chamber ejected cleanly, just the way I wanted.
I allowed myself a brief smile.
It was working.
I reached for the notebook beside me, ready to jot down the calibration offset, when a soft voice broke the silence like a gunshot.
"Izuku...?"
My blood froze.
My head turned robotically toward the sound, the movement unnatural and slow. I didn't need to look. I already knew.
Inko stood in the doorway.
Still in her clinic uniform, her purse hanging limply from her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, her face unreadable.
She had come home early.
And I hadn't heard her.
My notebooks. My tech. My schematics. The bracer on my arm. The dart still locked into its chamber. The laptops humming quietly behind me.
Too late to hide.
I swallowed hard.
"M-Mama?" I tried to smile, casual, as if nothing was wrong. "You're... home early?"
She stepped forward slowly, eyes darting across the room like she was walking into a crime scene. Her gaze lingered on the wiring tucked under the desk, the open screens, the diagrams labeled with things like "voltage limiter" and "shock dispersion coil."
"Izuku... what is all this?"
I closed my notebook instinctively, even though it was already too late.
"Just... tinkering," I said with a shrug that felt painfully fake.
Her eyes fell on the wrist-mounted bracer. "Tinkering?"
My fingers twitched over the release latch, hesitating.
Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a letter.
"I stopped by the post box on the way home. This came addressed to you."
I took the envelope.
A delivery confirmation.
Solar panels. Paid in full. Ordered under the name Stark Industries.
I let out a quiet exhale.
The jig was up.
I set the envelope down and stood, unplugging the bracer. I sat beside her on the bed, unstrapping the gear from my wrist as I spoke.
"I started a company," I said quietly.
She blinked at me.
"Six months ago. I used some of my saved allowance and found a legal loophole to register it under a proxy account. It's called Stark Industries."
Her mouth opened, then closed again. She sat down heavily in the desk chair, her hands gripping the armrests like the room was spinning.
"I started investing in small companies. Nothing risky at first. Just trends I knew would grow. Pharmaceuticals. Green energy. I bought those panels to help with the power bill."
"You're four," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Izuku, you're... four. This isn't normal. This isn't possible."
I looked down.
"I didn't want you to worry. You already work so hard. You come home late, exhausted. I just wanted to help. I didn't mean to scare you."
She stared at me, her hands trembling.
"Do you have a quirk after all?" she asked suddenly, like the thought had just struck her. "Is this... is this some kind of intelligence quirk?"
I shook my head.
"No. No quirks. Just... memory retention, learning as I go and time."
It wasn't a lie.
Not exactly.
I reached for the bracer again.
"I made these to protect people. In emergencies. They fire stun darts—non-lethal. Still rough around the edges, but I'm working on it."
I slipped one onto my wrist, locked it in place, and flexed my middle finger.
Snap.
A dart launched into the corkboard across the room, embedding cleanly with a soft crackle of discharged energy.
Inko flinched.
"They're safe," I said quickly. "The charge is low. Enough to stun. Nothing permanent."
I unclasped the bracer and set it down gently.
Then I turned back to her and knelt by her side.
"I just want to help," I whispered. "I see everything you do for me. The way you try to smile even when you're hurting. The way you keep moving even when it's hard. You're the strongest person I've ever met."
Her lower lip trembled.
"I didn't want to worry you," I continued. "But I couldn't just sit still. I had to do something. So I studied. I trained. I invested. I built. Not because I wanted to hide things from you... but because I wanted to earn the right to protect you. To protect others. One day."
Tears began to fall down her cheeks, slow and quiet.
"You're... you're just a little boy," she said, voice cracking. "You shouldn't have to do all this."
"I know." I reached for her hand, holding it gently. "But I want to. Because I can."
We stayed like that for a long moment—just breathing.
Then, as if remembering something, I reached under the desk and pulled out a thin folder.
"I've also been taking online classes. Some beginner college-level courses as a high school student. I submit everything under a different name and One of the instructors reached out recently—asked if she could speak to my guardian."
Inko looked at the folder like it might bite her.
"She thinks I'm a prodigy. Pretty sure she's going to have a heart attack when she finds out I'm four."
I laughed softly. It wasn't forced. It was light.
And finally, finally, Inko let out a quiet, watery chuckle.
She pulled me into her arms and held me tight.
Tighter than ever before.
"You're amazing," she whispered against my hair. "But you're still my baby. Promise me you won't forget that. Promise me you'll let yourself be a kid sometimes."
"I promise."
I meant it.
Even if my days were filled with calculations, blueprints, and training, I would always come back to her.
I would always remember who I was doing this for.
Eventually, she left the room, still dazed, muttering something about needing tea.
I watched the door close behind her.
Then I turned back to the mess I'd made—the open laptops, the scattered notebooks, the still-faint crackle in the air from the discharged dart.
A rare mess.
A stupid mistake.
I sighed, rubbing my forehead.
"Great job, Midoriya," I muttered to myself. "Next time... improve your area awareness."