The news channel exploded to life.
Mina had only turned the TV on to drown out the sirens still echoing somewhere in the district—white noise, she'd told herself. Something normal. Something that wasn't her imagination replaying worst-case scenarios.
But the moment the broadcast cut in, her blood ran cold.
A red banner screamed across the bottom of the screen:
BREAKING NEWS — PAWN SHOP BLAST / VILLAIN ROBBERY / CHILDREN INVOLVED
Mina's hand tightened around the dish towel she'd been folding. The fabric twisted between her fingers without her noticing.
On-screen, the camera shook as it zoomed toward a blackened storefront. Glass glittered on the pavement like ice. Smoke—real smoke, not the clean kind from drills—poured out of a blown-open entrance. People stood in the distance with their hands over their mouths, phones raised.
Then the reporter's voice sharpened, excited in that way Mina had always hated—like tragedy was a sport.
"Breaking news! Just minutes ago, a villain attack rocked a shopping street in—" the reporter glanced down, listening to her earpiece, "—the Harukawa district. Witnesses report a group of three villains detonated an explosion at a pawn shop and stole a large amount of cash and valuables."
Mina didn't blink.
Her eyes tracked the footage like she was scanning a disaster scene.
Smoke pattern. Crowd distance. Debris spread. Escape routes.
Her body remembered being a hero even if she'd retired.
The reporter continued. "Sources say the leader used a smoke-type quirk, obscuring visibility and allowing movement through the smoke. A second villain displayed pressure control or shockwave output—witnesses described the pavement jumping when he struck. The third villain's quirk is still unconfirmed, but multiple witnesses reported some kind of detection ability."
Mina's towel slipped from her fingers and hit the floor.
Detection.
Her mind instantly supplied the worst possibilities: tracking, marking, reading heartbeats, sensing air shifts—
Her gaze snapped toward the hallway.
"Ryuuki…?" she called, already hating how calm she tried to sound.
No answer. The bathroom faucet ran in the distance.
He's home. He's safe. He's—
The reporter's tone changed.
"However—what happened next is what shocked witnesses the most."
Mina's heart dropped in slow motion.
The camera cut to a shaky phone video.
Smoke. Screaming. Heat shimmer.
And then—
Mina saw the horn.
A flash of gold, bright enough to wash the image in warm light for a split second.
A boy stood on the sidewalk with one arm outstretched, body trembling with strain.
Curly white hair. Red-orange eyes.
Her son.
Mina's lungs forgot how to work.
"—Yes," the reporter said, voice almost giddy, "elementary students were seen fighting back against the villains!"
Mina took a step toward the TV without realizing she'd moved.
The video jumped.
Ryuuki's horn flared again.
The air around a car thickened—subtle on camera, but Mina saw it anyway, the way you can see wind in grass. The car slowed too cleanly. Too controlled.
Then the clip caught him again—this time in the smoke—standing beside a spiky-haired boy whose palms popped with small explosions like fireworks.
Bakugo.
Mina's jaw clenched.
"Witnesses say the children were primarily led by two students," the reporter continued. "A boy with a glowing horn and a quirk resembling famous rescue hero Harborline—protecting classmates and civilians while pushing back against the villains."
Mina's stomach twisted at the name.
Harborline.
Her.
Even retired, even hidden, her shadow still had a shape.
"And beside him—another boy with spiky blond hair and an explosion-type quirk, identified by classmates as Katsuki Bakugo. Together, witnesses say the two held off the villains long enough for heroes to arrive."
The reporter turned slightly, listening again. "We've also just received confirmation that one witness described the horned boy stopping a potentially lethal vehicle collision moments before the confrontation—calling him, quote, 'a true hero.'"
Mina's vision narrowed.
They're praising him.
They're broadcasting him.
On-screen, the footage cut to a clearer angle—someone had been closer than they should've been. The frame caught Ryuuki's face in profile, soot and sweat on his skin, horn blazing, eyes locked forward with a terrifying kind of focus for a child.
Then it caught him crumpling.
Knees hitting pavement.
A hand clutching his head.
Mina's throat tightened so hard it hurt.
"We have multiple angles of the fight," the reporter said, faster now, "and we're about to show you footage—viewer discretion advised—"
"Don't," Mina whispered.
The TV didn't listen.
The clip played.
Ryuuki's field snapped up like an instinctive wall—an automatic save—deflecting a hit meant for Bakugo. Mina saw the moment with sick clarity: the air thickened, the punch diverted, Bakugo's cheek clipped instead of crushed.
Mythic Core, she thought instantly.
Active.
Unsupervised.
In public.
The next few seconds were worse.
The villains moved like adults who had done violence for a living. They didn't need huge quirks. They used timing. Angles. Smoke as cover. Shockwaves to break rhythm and balance.
Bakugo lunged and got folded.
Ryuuki tried to compensate and got hit anyway.
The camera caught Ryuuki stumbling, horn flickering like a failing bulb.
Mina's hand flew to her mouth before she could stop it.
Then—another cut.
A pro hero landing between them in a gust that tore the smoke apart.
"—And that's when a responding hero arrived on scene," the reporter said. "The villains fled before they could be apprehended, but police have confirmed they are investigating and reviewing all footage—"
Fled.
Not caught.
So they're still out there.
And they saw him.
The screen paused on a still frame—Ryuuki's face turned toward the camera, red eyes bright under soot, horn glowing.
A mystery kid hero headline already forming.
Mina stared at that frozen image and felt something old and protective rise in her chest—something sharper than fear.
Not panic.
A decision.
Her fingers reached for the remote with deliberate control and snapped the TV off.
The sudden silence was loud.
For a moment, the only sound in the house was the faucet running and Mina's own breathing—slow, forced, measured, like she was keeping her body from tipping into an old war.
Rescue scenes.
Body bags.
Reporters asking dumb questions.
She stood there, staring at the black screen.
Then she moved.
Fast.
She crossed the living room and yanked open the drawer beneath the counter—her drawer. The one nobody touched. The one that still smelled faintly of ink and old paper.
Her notebook was inside.
The pages were worn, corners bent, the cover scuffed like it had survived its own disasters.
Mina flipped it open with practiced speed, pen already in hand.
Date: today
Incident: pawn shop blast / robbery / child engagement
Witness exposure: high (multiple angles, broadcast)
Known quirks observed: Smoke (leader), Shockwave/pressure, Sensor (headgear)
Outcome: villains escaped; children injured; hero arrival late
Her pen paused for half a heartbeat.
Then she wrote the line that mattered most.
Ryuuki: Mythic Core auto-save triggered to protect ally. Horn flare recorded on video. Face identifiable.
Mina stared at those words until they stopped looking like letters and started looking like a threat.
The faucet shut off.
Footsteps padded down the hall.
"Mom?" Ryuuki's voice—small, tired, normal—floated into the living room.
Mina shut the notebook and slid it back into the drawer so smoothly it was like she'd never touched it.
Then she turned.
Ryuuki stood in the doorway, damp hair sticking up in curls, pajama shirt wrinkled, horn peeking out like a harmless little beacon.
A child.
Not a headline.
Not a clip.
Not a "mystery quirk."
Just her son.
"Hey," Mina said, and she hated how steady her voice sounded compared to the storm in her chest.
Ryuuki blinked at her, confused. "Why's it so quiet?"
Mina crossed the room in three steps and knelt in front of him, hands finding his shoulders like she needed proof he was real.
"You're not leaving the house alone anymore," she said softly.
Ryuuki frowned. "What? Why—"
Mina held his gaze, and for a second her retired-hero mask slipped enough for him to see the fear underneath.
"Because the world just met you," she whispered. "And some people don't look at kids the way they should."
Ryuuki's expression shifted—confusion turning into something more serious as he understood this wasn't about rules.
It was about danger.
Mina's thumb brushed a damp curl away from his horn.
Then she forced a small smile—just enough to keep him from drowning in her fear.
"Go eat," she said. "I'll make something."
Ryuuki hesitated, then nodded and padded toward the kitchen.
Mina stayed kneeling a moment longer, staring at the dark TV screen like it might turn back on by itself.
Outside, sirens wailed farther away now.
But in Mina's head, the broadcast was still playing.
The freeze-frame.
The glow.
The way the villain had looked at him through the smoke.
Mina stood.
She walked back to the drawer, opened it again, and pulled out the notebook one more time.
On a fresh line, she wrote one sentence—hard enough that the pen almost tore the paper.
Next phase begins.
Bakugo's POV
"Dammit, Mom—I said I'm fine!"
The front door hadn't even finished shutting before Mitsuki Bakugo was on him.
Her eyes were sharp, furious, and wet in a way she would've denied if anyone asked. In one hand she had a first-aid kit. In the other, she had Katsuki's wrist—already turning it like she was inspecting damage.
"Katsuki," she hissed, voice low and dangerous, "hold still before I give you another bruise right on your ass, you little shit."
Bakugo jerked his arm back like he'd been burned.
"I SAID I'M—"
"—and who do you think you're talking to like that?" Mitsuki snapped, cutting him off like scissors. "I'm your damn mother. You don't get to 'I'm fine' me after I just watched the news call my son a headline."
Bakugo's stomach tightened.
He hated that word.
Headline.
Because it meant strangers had seen him get thrown around. It meant people had watched him fail. It meant—worse—people had watched him need help.
Mitsuki shoved him down onto the living room rug like she was pinning a wild animal. Bakugo tried to twist away, snarling through his teeth, but she planted a knee near his shoulder and started peeling back his sleeve.
"OW—!"
"Good," Mitsuki said, dabbing antiseptic without mercy. "Maybe it'll remind you you're not made of steel."
Bakugo glared at the ceiling, jaw trembling.
He could still hear the crowd screaming. Still feel the shockwave hit his ribs like a hammer. Still smell smoke so thick it felt like drowning.
And he could still see it—
Ryuuki's horn, flaring.
Saving him.
That part burned the worst.
Masaru's voice floated in from the doorway, cheerful in the wrong way, like someone trying to paint over a crack.
"Haha… hey, guys, no need to argue or fight…!"
Mitsuki didn't look up.
"Shut the hell up, Masaru," she barked. "And help me pin down this little devil before he tries to run off and pretend he's immortal."
Masaru flinched, then hurried over.
"K-Katsuki, buddy," he said, offering a nervous smile. "Let your mom patch you up. You were… uh… very brave today."
Bakugo's eyes snapped to him.
"Don't," Bakugo spit.
Masaru blinked. "Don't…?"
"Don't say that like it makes it okay," Bakugo snarled, voice cracking with something he refused to name. "Brave doesn't mean anything if you lose."
Mitsuki paused—just long enough for the words to land—then pressed gauze down onto his knuckles, firm.
"You're shaking," she said quietly.
"I'm not," Bakugo lied too fast.
Mitsuki's eyes narrowed. "Katsuki."
Bakugo shut his mouth.
He hated being handled. Hated being pinned like he was weak.
But worse—
He hated that his mother's hands were careful now.
Not just angry.
Careful.
Like she was scared.
That made his chest squeeze in a way he couldn't explode away.
Mitsuki taped the gauze, then grabbed his chin and forced his face toward the light.
"Bruise on the cheek," she muttered. "Scrapes on the palms. Knees torn up. Shoulder swelling—"
"I'm fine," Bakugo repeated, smaller.
"No," Mitsuki said, voice sharp again, trying to shove fear back under anger where she kept it. "You're alive. That's what you are."
Bakugo flinched.
Alive.
Like that had been in question.
It had.
Masaru tried again, softer. "Katsuki… you're home. That's what matters."
Bakugo's throat tightened. He shoved Mitsuki's hands away and sat up too fast.
"I'm going to my room."
"Fine," Mitsuki snapped, but her voice softened on the last word against her will. "But if I hear you popping off explosions in there, I'm coming up and breaking your door."
Bakugo stomped upstairs like anger could erase the way his hands shook.
He slammed his door hard enough to rattle the posters on his wall.
Then he stood there.
In the quiet.
And all that fire in his chest had nowhere to go.
Bakugo stared at his reflection.
He expected to see a hero.
He saw a kid with a bruise on his cheek and bandages on his hands.
A kid who'd been thrown.
A kid who'd been saved.
Something hot crawled up behind his eyes. Bakugo blinked hard like he could burn it away.
He hated crying.
He hated almost crying more.
"DAMMIT!"
POP!
A small explosion snapped from his palm. The sound was sharp in the quiet room—too loud, too childish.
Bakugo stared at the scorch mark on the floor.
His chest heaved, not from effort, but from humiliation so heavy it felt like drowning.
"I was useless," he whispered, voice rough.
Then louder, like saying it louder could change the truth:
"I was USELESS!"
He slammed his fist into his mattress, then into the wall.
POP!
Stronger. Still not enough.
He wanted the kind that made adults step back.
Not the kind that made him get folded like paper.
"If Ryuuki wasn't there…" His voice broke on the name.
He hated that it broke on the name.
"If he wasn't there those villains—" Bakugo swallowed hard. "They would've… they would've…"
He pictured Izuku frozen behind Tsubasa's wings.
Pictured himself on the ground, watching, unable to stand.
Bakugo's hands shook again—rage and fear tangled so tight they became the same thing.
"I'm not letting that happen again."
He threw his window open. Cold air rushed in.
Outside, the backyard was darkening. Fence shadows stretched long. The sky bruised purple.
Bakugo climbed out.
Not because he wanted to run.
Because he needed somewhere he could say it out loud without anyone hearing.
He dropped into the grass and paced, breathing too fast, heart still stuck in that street.
He lifted his palms.
Tiny sparks flickered, weak and jittery.
He forced them to stop.
Forced them to start again.
Control. Control. Control.
He remembered charging like an idiot.
Remembered the shockwave slamming into him like a wall.
He'd been all power—no plan.
Bakugo squeezed his eyes shut.
"I don't want saving," he whispered.
Then he opened them, staring into the dark like it was staring back.
"I don't want anyone to ever have to save me again."
He raised his hands higher.
POP. POP.
Small blasts. Clean. Tight. Directed.
Each explosion stung his scraped palms.
Good.
Let it hurt.
Let it brand him.
Because he needed to remember what it felt like to lose.
What it felt like to be small.
Bakugo wiped at his face with the back of his wrist, furious that his eyes kept trying to betray him.
"I'm gonna be Number One," he growled, voice shaking. "And Number One doesn't get thrown around."
He breathed in. Out.
Again.
He forced his hands steady.
POP.
Cleaner.
Again.
POP.
Better.
His palms burned.
His arms shook.
He didn't stop.
Not until the grass beneath him was dotted with tiny scorch marks like stars.
Not until the anger stopped feeling like it would rip him apart and started feeling like a weapon he could hold.
Somewhere inside him, something hard settled into place.
A vow.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
Real.
I'll never be on the ground again.
Elsewhere — Villains' POV
The pawn shop smoke was miles behind them, but the smell of heat clung to their clothes like guilt.
They moved through back streets and service alleys with the quiet confidence of people who knew exactly where cameras didn't reach.
A door opened into a dim, cluttered storage room above a closed laundromat.
The smoke leader stepped in first, rolling his shoulders like the whole robbery had been nothing but a warm-up.
The shockwave man followed, bags clinking as he tossed them onto a table.
The sensor—still furious—slammed his fist down.
"That little freak—" he snarled. "He took my headgear!"
The shockwave man shrugged. "We still got paid."
"It's not about the money," the sensor snapped. "That gear cost me months. Those kids made me look stupid."
The smoke leader didn't answer right away.
He was watching a phone.
A clip.
Grainy. Shaky.
But clear enough.
Two kids in smoke and chaos—one throwing pops like fireworks, one with a glowing horn bending air like a barrier.
The smoke leader rewound the moment where Bakugo got lifted and slammed.
Rewound the moment where the horn kid's field flared automatically and saved him.
He watched it again.
And again.
Then he chuckled—low, thoughtful.
"Kids," he murmured. "And they still had the nerve to stand."
The shockwave man leaned over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. "Horn kid's got control. Not perfect. But instinctive. That save wasn't conscious."
The sensor's anger cooled into something sharper.
"…Automatic defense," he muttered. "Like his body does it for him."
The smoke leader paused the clip on Bakugo's face—rage and terror mixed, teeth bared like a cornered animal.
Then he paused it on Ryuuki—eyes focused, horn blazing, bleeding and still trying to stand.
"Remember them," the smoke leader said softly.
The other two fell quiet.
The smoke leader lifted his gaze, and even behind his cracked mask, something in his eyes looked… decided.
"We played," he said. "And we learned."
He tapped the phone screen once.
"These two are going to grow up thinking today made them heroes."
The sensor's lip curled. "So what? We're gonna go pick a fight with children now?"
The smoke leader's smoke curled lazily around his shoulders like a living thought.
"No," he said. "We're going to do what experienced people do."
He stepped back from the table, voice calm.
"We're going to get better."
The shockwave man's eyebrows lifted. "You serious?"
The smoke leader nodded once.
"I don't like surprises," he said. "And that horn kid? That wasn't supposed to exist on a random street."
The sensor stared at the phone again, watching his own humiliation loop.
His fists clenched.
"…Fine," he said, voice tight. "I'm not losing gear to a child again."
The shockwave man rolled his neck. "Then we train. Real training. No more relying on cheap tricks."
The smoke leader turned toward the back of the room where a narrow hallway led to an empty space—concrete floor, cracked mirrors, old mats dumped years ago.
A makeshift gym.
A cage.
A place for ugly work.
He walked toward it like he'd been waiting for a reason.
"Starting tonight," the smoke leader said. "We fix our weaknesses."
He glanced over his shoulder one last time.
"And when those kids show up again—older, louder, thinking the world owes them something…"
His smoke thickened, curling tighter.
"…we make sure they remember us too."
The sensor swallowed, rage sharpening into purpose.
The shockwave man's hands flexed, testing pressure in the air.
And for the first time, it wasn't about the pawn shop.
It was about pride.
It was about being embarrassed by children.
The smoke leader shut the door.
The room went quiet.
Then—
A dull THUMM vibrated the floor as shockwave practiced a clean pulse.
The sensor knelt, pulling out spare parts, already sketching improvements—lighter, faster, harder to rip off.
And the smoke leader stood in the center, inhaled—
and filled the room with smoke.
Not wild.
Not messy.
Controlled.
Dense.
A wall.
A weapon.
The next morning, Aldera Elementary had never been louder.
Ryuuki felt it the moment he stepped through the gates—eyes snapping toward him, voices spiking, conversations breaking off mid-sentence like someone had dropped a plate.
"—that's him."
"Look, look—his horn—"
"My mom showed me the video—"
"No way they're just letting him walk in—"
Whispers followed him down the path, some sharp with awe, others buzzing with curiosity that didn't know where to land. A few kids stared openly. Others pretended not to while very obviously staring anyway.
Ryuuki kept his head forward and his hands in his pockets.
Kaji stayed home today—Mina had insisted—but Ryuuki could still feel the phantom weight where the little skink usually perched, like an anchor he'd misplaced.
At the shoe lockers, a group of older kids fell quiet as he passed. One of them whispered, "That's the kid who stopped a car," like it was a myth being retold.
Ryuuki didn't correct them.
He just changed his shoes and kept moving.
Inside the classroom, the buzz was worse.
Desks scraped as kids leaned out of their seats. Someone actually clapped before another kid elbowed them hard.
Bakugo arrived seconds later, bandages visible on his knuckles, bruise dark on his cheek.
The reaction doubled.
"Bakugo too!"
"That explosion kid—"
"They fought real villains!"
"Did you see him get back up?!"
Bakugo soaked it in like gasoline to a flame—chin high, shoulders squared, eyes blazing. He shot Ryuuki a sideways glance, smirk sharp and familiar.
"Tch," he muttered. "Took 'em long enough to notice."
Ryuuki saw it anyway—the tightness in Bakugo's jaw, the way his hands flexed like he was checking they still worked.
Izuku slipped in last, head down, backpack hugged close. The noise hit him like a wall.
He froze just inside the door.
No one rushed him.
No one cheered.
A few kids glanced his way, then looked right past him—eyes sliding back to Bakugo and Ryuuki like magnets snapping into place.
Izuku swallowed and moved toward his desk quietly.
Ryuuki noticed.
He always did.
Before he could stand, Ms. Ayaka entered, clapping her hands once—sharp, authoritative.
"Alright! Everyone sit down. Now."
The room settled, reluctantly.
Ms. Ayaka's gaze lingered—just a fraction too long—on Bakugo's bandages, on Ryuuki's horn, on the faint discoloration under Ryuuki's collar where a bruise hid.
"Yesterday was… eventful," she said carefully. "What you saw on the news was a real incident involving real danger. Let me be clear—what happened was not something children should ever put themselves into."
Bakugo scoffed under his breath.
Ms. Ayaka cut him with a look, then continued.
"Heroes are trained. Licensed. Protected by law. You are not."
Her eyes softened—then hardened again.
"But that does not mean I am blind to courage."
The room leaned forward as one.
"There will be no interviews," Ms. Ayaka said firmly. "No reenactments. No boasting. You will treat today like any other school day."
Bakugo opened his mouth.
Ms. Ayaka shut it with a look.
"And any student caught harassing, isolating, or provoking another over this incident will answer directly to me."
A few kids shifted uncomfortably.
Izuku's shoulders loosened—just a little.
The lesson started.
It didn't matter.
Notes passed. Eyes wandered. Whispers restarted the second her back turned.
By lunch, Bakugo had a crowd.
Kids packed around his table, firing questions like he was already a pro.
"What did it feel like?"
"Were you scared?"
"Can you really explode like that whenever you want?"
"Are you gonna be Number One for real?"
Bakugo leaned back and answered just enough to keep them hooked—smirking, boasting, letting them believe he'd been fearless the entire time.
Ryuuki had his own cluster, smaller and stranger—kids who looked at him like he was holy or haunted.
"Your quirk is really cool."
"You looked calm in the video."
"My mom said you reminded her of a rescue hero…"
Ryuuki nodded politely, said thanks, then excused himself.
He found Izuku sitting alone at the end of another table, scribbling furiously in his notebook.
"Hey," Ryuuki said, sliding into the seat across from him.
Izuku jumped, then smiled—relieved. "H-hey."
"You okay?" Ryuuki asked.
Izuku hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
Ryuuki glanced down.
Diagrams filled the page—airflow arrows, shockwave vectors, notes like: villains coordinated timing and automatic defense trigger observed.
Ryuuki blinked. "…You're analyzing it."
Izuku flushed. "I—I can stop—"
"No," Ryuuki said quickly. "It's fine. Actually… it's kind of amazing."
Izuku smiled, small but real.
From across the cafeteria, Bakugo looked over, scoffed, then looked away—but didn't say anything.
When the final bell rang, the hallway exploded again.
Parents waited outside. Teachers escorted. Phones were everywhere.
Mina was already there.
She didn't wave.
She didn't smile.
She simply met Ryuuki's eyes and nodded once.
Now.
Ryuuki packed up fast.
As he left, he felt it again—that weight. That awareness.
The world hadn't just seen two kids fight villains.
It had remembered them.
Ryuuki stepped into the sunlight beside his mother.
Middle school loomed ahead.
And the street—the one that learned their faces—wasn't going to forget.