Standing before apartment 402, I stared at the door with the focus of a safecracker contemplating his next job. After fishing the key from my pocket, I weighed it in my palm, examining its worn brass surface and simple design. Such an ordinary key for what felt like an extraordinary infiltration.
"Infiltration. Is that what I'm calling this?" I muttered to myself. "It's supposedly my home."
Yet it wasn't. Not really. This apartment belonged to Izuku Midoriya, hero-worshipper and apparent beach neighbor. I was just the squatter wearing his skin.
I slid the key into the lock, the mechanism turning with surprising smoothness. The door swung open, and I found myself bombarded by an assault of unfamiliar sensations.
First came sound—the low murmur of a television news report drifting from somewhere inside the apartment, punctuated by the soft clink of cookware.
Then smell hit me—a rich, savory aroma that wrapped around me like an invisible fog. Something fried, something comforting. Something entirely foreign to my experience.
Finally, warmth—not just physical temperature, but the unmistakable atmosphere of a space that was lived in, cared for.
"Hello?" I called out, keeping my tone neutral.
"Izuku! You're home!" A woman's voice answered, warm and clearly relieved. "I was starting to worry!"
A short, heavyset woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a pale blue apron. She had dark green hair tied back in a practical ponytail and wide, expressive green eyes that matched what I'd seen in my reflection. Those eyes now crinkled with obvious concern.
"Sorry I'm late," I said, adopting what I hoped was an appropriate tone.
"What happened to your uniform?" she asked, approaching me with quick, short steps. Before I could react, her hands were brushing at my shoulders, examining the dirt and tears in the fabric. "And these scrapes! Izuku, were you in an accident?"
Her fingers grazed my cheek where the sludge villain had gripped me. The casual touch sent an electric jolt through my system. Physical contact that wasn't meant to harm was... novel.
"It was nothing," I said, stepping back slightly. "Just a minor incident with a villain."
Her face paled instantly. "A villain? Oh my goodness, Izuku! Are you hurt? Should we go to the hospital?"
"I'm fine," I assured her. "A hero showed up. All Might, actually."
Her eyes widened. "All Might? The All Might? Oh, Izuku! That must have been so exciting for you!"
I forced a smile. "Yeah. Really something."
She studied my face, her head tilting slightly.
"Well, you're just in time for dinner. I made katsudon."
"Katsudon?"
Her brow furrowed for a fraction of a second before smoothing out.
"Your favorite," she explained, turning back toward the kitchen. "Go wash up, sweetie. I'll have it ready in just a minute."
I watched her retreat, then headed toward what I hoped was the bathroom. The apartment was small but neat, walls adorned with family photos. In each one, this woman—Izuku's mother—beamed beside a younger version of my current body. No sign of a father in any of them.
After washing up, I followed the smell of food to a small dining table. The woman set down two steaming bowls, the fried pork cutlets and egg glistening atop perfectly cooked rice.
"Smells good," I offered, taking a seat.
She smiled, sitting across from me. "Well, I thought you might need some comfort food after such an eventful day."
I took a bite, and the flavor exploded across my tongue. Rich, savory, and inexplicably comforting. I couldn't remember ever tasting something prepared with such care. My meals had always been functional, not emotional.
I ate methodically, aware of her watching me from across the table. The silence stretched until she finally broke it.
"How was school today, sweetie?"
An interrogation disguised as maternal interest. Clever.
"School was fine," I replied with a shrug. "Just went on a little walk on the road of life after the accident."
Her chopsticks paused midway to her mouth. Those green eyes fixed on me with unexpected intensity.
"The road of life?" she repeated, setting her utensils down.
"Just something I read," I backpedaled, focusing on my food.
Her face softened. "Izuku... is everything really okay at school?"
The question carried weight I couldn't fully decode. Why wouldn't things be okay at school? What was she fishing for?
"Yeah," I answered, letting some confidence seep into my voice. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"It's just..." she began, then shook her head. "You seem different today."
I needed to divert this conversation before she pulled at threads I couldn't follow.
"I walked by the beach on my way home," I said, changing the subject.
Her reaction was immediate and unexpected. Alarm filled her eyes.
"The beach? Izuku, you know that place is dangerous! All that sharp metal and who knows what kind of people hang around there. Why would you go there?"
Her concern seemed disproportionate to the risk. It was just trash, not a battlefield.
"It's fine," I said dismissively. "I'm pretty strong."
The statement seemed perfectly reasonable to me. In a world of superpowers, basic physical competence seemed like the bare minimum. Even if this body wasn't particularly impressive, surely it had some capability.
The entity that brought me here wouldn't strand me in a completely useless vessel.
But the woman's reaction told a different story. Her face crumpled like tissue paper in rain. The smile she gave me was watery, threaded with a deep, sorrowful pain that seemed to age her a decade in seconds.
"Oh, Izuku..." she whispered, reaching across the table to touch my hand. Her fingers trembled against my skin. "I know what you've researched about late bloomers, and I want to believe it too, I really do... but... maybe you need to accept reality?"
Late bloomers? Reality?
Wait, is this a sex talk?
"What reality?"
She pulled back, her eyes swimming with tears she was clearly fighting to contain.
"Nevermind, sweetie," she said, wiping at her eyes. "Don't worry about it. Why don't you go get started on your homework after you finish eating?"
I nodded, focusing on my meal while my mind raced. Something fundamental was missing here, some critical piece of information about Izuku Midoriya that would explain her reaction.
After dinner, I helped clear the table, then excused myself to "my" room. The space was exactly what I'd expect from the notebooks: a shrine to heroism. All Might memorabilia covered nearly every surface. Posters, figurines, limited edition merchandise. Even the bedspread featured the grinning hero's face.
"This kid was obsessed," I muttered, closing the door behind me.
I booted up the computer on the desk, thankful it didn't have a password. My first search: "Izuku Midoriya."
Nothing notable came up. Just a few social media profiles with minimal activity. No mentions in news articles or public records. He was a nobody.
I tried another search: "Quirks late bloomers."
The results were illuminating. Medical journals, forum discussions, even tabloid articles, all discussing the same phenomenon: people whose Quirks manifested long after the typical age of four or five. It was rare but documented. Some Quirks appeared during puberty, triggered by hormonal changes. Others emerged during moments of extreme stress or trauma.
I leaned back in the chair, processing this information. If Izuku's mother was talking about "late bloomers," that suggested Izuku didn't have a Quirk yet. But surely that couldn't be right. In a society where 80% of the population had some supernatural ability, what were the odds that I'd end up in a body without one?
I searched again: "Quirkless population statistics."
Twenty percent. One in five people born without any supernatural ability whatsoever.
"No way," I breathed, scrolling through articles about the social implications of being Quirkless. Discrimination. Bullying. Drastically reduced career opportunities.
A knock at the door interrupted my research.
"Izuku?" His mother's voice was soft. "Can I come in?"
"Sure," I answered, quickly closing the browser tabs.
She entered, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. "I thought you might like some tea while you study."
"Thanks," I said, accepting the offered mug. The warmth seeped into my palms.
She lingered, her eyes drifting around the room before settling back on me. "You know, regardless of what happened today... I'm proud of you, Izuku."
"For what?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"For everything," she said simply. "Get some rest, okay? You've had an exciting day."
After she left, I returned to the computer, digging deeper into my research. The picture that emerged was both fascinating and disturbing.
The original Izuku Midoriya had been Quirkless in a world that valued Quirks above all else. A defect. A nobody with delusions of heroism, living in the shadow of a garbage dump that real heroes couldn't be bothered to clean up.
And now I was wearing his skin.
I looked around at the All Might memorabilia with new understanding. This wasn't just fan worship—it was desperate idolization, clinging to the only person who gave him hope in a society that had written him off.
"The ultimate cosmic joke," I whispered, turning back to the computer.
If I was going to succeed in this world, I needed advantages. And if a Quirk wasn't one of them, I'd have to find others.