Izuku Midoriya sat propped up in the sterile hospital bed, the faint beep of monitors the only sound in the quiet room. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the white sheets.
His gaze was fixed on his hands, trembling slightly as he turned them over, palms up, then down, searching for something that wasn't there. Scars from old training, faint calluses from One For All's grip, but nothing else. No mark, no bruise, no sign of the rebar that had punched clean through his chest just hours ago.
His fingers drifted to his sternum, pressing gently against the fabric of the hospital gown. He could still feel the ghost of it, the searing agony, the wet warmth of blood, the suffocating certainty of death. But beneath his touch, the skin was smooth, unbroken.
Recovery Girl had worked her miracle, as always, but even she'd looked puzzled when she examined him. "Your wound closed itself before I even kissed it, dear," she'd said, her voice softer than usual.
"I've never seen anything quite like it. Be careful, young man."
Different.
The word echoed in his mind like a warning. Izuku's breath hitched. He felt scared, small, like the quirkless boy he'd once been, staring at a world too big and cruel to navigate. What was he supposed to do now?
Tell someone? Pretend it never happened? The dreams, the voice, the cold presence, he didn't feel any different physically, but inside, something had shifted. A door had opened, and he wasn't sure he could close it.
The door to his room burst open suddenly, and All Might strode in, still in his muscular form, though his face carried the strain of the day.
"Young Midoriya!" His voice boomed, then softened immediately when he saw Izuku's expression. "My boy, are you all right?"
Izuku forced a small smile, sitting up straighter.
"I'm fine, All Might. Just... a little light-headed."
All Might chuckled weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, after taking a hit like that and getting back up to fight, I'd say light-headed is the least of your worries. You gave us all quite the scare."
Then his expression grew serious, the smile fading as he pulled a chair closer and sat. "But you did well out there. Incredibly well. You took down that monstrous villain on your own. The others said it was... decisive."
Izuku's hands clenched in the sheets. His voice came out small, shaking. "I... I killed it."
All Might's eyes softened with understanding. Killing, even in self-defence, was a heavy burden for any hero, especially a student. He leaned forward, ready to offer comfort.
"It's all right, my boy. You protected your classmates. You, "
"No," Izuku interrupted, his voice cracking. "He killed it."
All Might tilted his head, confusion flickering across his features. "He...?"
Izuku swallowed hard, staring at his lap. "Someone else did it. When the Nomu hit me... everything went black. I remember the pain, and then... a voice. He told me I was going to die. That the spike went through me. And then he... helped me. He took over. Things went dark again after that."
All Might's brow furrowed, his massive frame suddenly very still. "A voice? Young Midoriya... can you tell me everything? From the beginning?"
Izuku nodded slowly, his throat tight. The words tumbled out in a rush, as if saying them faster might make them less real. "It started about a week after I got One For All. I've been having these dreams, dark ones. There's this boy in them. He's about my age, with Bantu knots in his hair, and he just... stares. Like he's looking through me. He never said anything until today. He made me let him in. And then... he fought. His name is Yoshi Abara."
All Might's expression grew grave, his blue eyes sharp with concern. He placed a reassuring hand on Izuku's shoulder. "Yoshi Abara... I see." He nodded slowly, processing. "I will do some digging, my boy. We'll get to the bottom of this. One For All has its secrets, but this... this sounds different. You're not alone in this, I promise you that."
Then All Might's face hardened further, his voice dropping. "But there's something else I need to tell you. Something important."
Izuku looked up, sensing the shift. "What is it?"
All Might's gaze met his, steady but heavy with sorrow. "During the attack... one of your classmates didn't make it. Koji Koda. He was caught in the mountain zone. The villains... they overwhelmed him before help could arrive."
The world seemed to stop.
___
Yoshi Abara floated in the void, a formless haze clinging to his edges like forgotten mist. How did I get here?
The thought drifted through his mind, detached and unurgent, like a leaf caught in a lazy current. He probed deeper, but the answers slipped away, elusive shadows in an empty room. Who am I, even?
The name echoed faintly: Yoshi Abara. That much felt solid. But the rest? A weird dissonance thrummed through him, as if his essence had been scraped clean. He knew he'd been alive once, flesh and blood, breathing, existing in a world of noise and pain.
Yet the memories were gone, wiped like dust from a shelf. Only two things pierced the fog: a simmering hate, low and constant like a distant flame, and his quirk, Ripple Effect, unfolding in his awareness like an instinctual limb, ready to warp distances at a whim. Familiar. Comforting, in a cold way.
Everything else? Blank.
The void shifted abruptly, coalescing into a dim, ethereal space, a vast, shadowy chamber that pulsed with an otherworldly energy. Yoshi materialized fully, his form solidifying: brown skin, Bantu knots framing his face, eyes dark and unreadable.
He stood, or floated, it was hard to tell, before a group of figures, their silhouettes sharpening into people. Heroes, from the looks of their tattered capes, scarred armour, and resolute stances.
They regarded him with scrutinizing glares, eyes narrowing like judges in a courtroom. Suspicion hung thick in the air, a tangible weight that pressed against him.
Who was he? What did he want? Their unspoken questions radiated like heat from a forge.
Yoshi didn't fret. Fear was a stranger to him now, if it had ever been a companion. Instead, annoyance flickered in his chest, a mild irritation at being sized up like some stray animal. He crossed his arms, his posture loose but defiant, and broke the silence with a cheeky lilt.
"Got a staring problem?"
The tension snapped like a taut wire. The first to respond was a man with wild hair and a perpetual scowl. He stepped forward slightly, his voice a gruff bark laced with incredulity. "Is this kid serious right now?"
Before Yoshi could retort, a woman spoke up, tall, with flowing black hair and a distinctive beauty mark just below her chin, her eyes sharp yet measured. She exuded authority, a quiet command that silenced the murmurs among the group.
"Your name, boy. And how did you get here?"
Yoshi tilted his head, unfazed, his dark eyes meeting hers without a hint of deference. "Yoshi Abara. As for how I got here? Your guess is as good as mine."
A bald man with a thick moustache and a burly frame snorted, his arms crossed over a chest that spoke of raw power in life. His voice rumbled like gravel underfoot. "He's lying. Kid shows up out of nowhere, takes control like that? Smells like a threat to me."
Another figure, a lean man with a serious demeanour, shifted uneasily, glancing at the others. "What do we do? We can't just... "
The woman, Nana Shimura, as she'd soon reveal, held up a hand, silencing them. She sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of spectral existence. "I'm Nana Shimura. I was a hero... while alive."
Her words hung there, an olive branch wrapped in caution.
Yoshi absorbed it, his expression unchanging. He didn't care about the details, heroes, dead or alive, meant little in this hollowed-out world. But he noted her poise, the way the others deferred. Leader, he decided, filing it away like an irrelevant fact. He nodded once, curtly.
Nana's gaze didn't waver. "How were you able to take control of our host like that? It's not something we can just do."
Yoshi shrugged, the motion casual, almost bored. "Came naturally. Like breathing."
The bald one, Daigoro Banjo, though Yoshi didn't care bristled, his moustache twitching. "He's lying again. No way it's that simple."
But another vestige, a man with a calmer presence, shook his head. "I don't think he is. Look at him," Yoshi wondered what that was supposed to mean.
Then, from the back of the group, a deathly pale and skinny figure stepped into clearer view, frail, with white hair and eyes that held the echoes of endless struggle. His voice was soft, almost whispery, but it cut through the tension like a blade. "Do you intend harm to our host?"
Yoshi met his gaze dead-on, unblinking. For a moment, silence stretched taut, the air thickening with unspoken menace.
Then Yoshi smirked, a wicked curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. Bloodlust leaked from him like ink in water, raw, suffocating, a wave of killing intent that washed over the vestiges. Their eyes widened in unison, postures shifting defensively, the chamber seeming to darken under the pressure.
Hate, familiar and potent, surged through Yoshi, unbidden but intoxicating.
Just as quickly, he restrained it, pulling the aura back like reeling in a line. He raised his hands in mock surrender, the smirk fading.
"Joking. Relax."
But the intensity lingered, a promise in the air. "I'm living here too, you know. Not like you relics. I don't remember dying. And I was never a host of One For All."
The revelation hit like a shockwave. Gasps rippled through the group, Nana's eyes narrowing sharply. "You know about One For All? How?"
Yoshi's response was flat, indifferent. "Just do. Point is, as long as your precious host stays alive, so do I. Better to keep it that way, right?"
They exchanged uneasy glances, the pale one nodding slowly. "We'll be keeping an eye on you," he said, his voice steady despite the earlier bloodlust. "We don't trust you. Not yet."
Yoshi cracked his neck with a sharp pop, the sound echoing unnaturally in the space. Annoyance flared again, but he masked it with a lazy grin. "Try hard, then."
And with that, he vanished, slipping away like smoke through fingers. The vestiges' shock rippled outward, their forms blurring as he retreated.
He reappeared in his own domain, a fractured mindscape born from the scraps of his subconscious. A run-down hospital sprawled before him, its walls cracked and peeling, fluorescent lights flickering with sickly yellow hues. Broken windows gaped like wounds, wind whispering through corridors lined with rusted gurneys and faded medical charts.
The air smelled of antiseptic and decay, a sterile rot that clawed at the edges of familiarity. Around the corner, half-hidden in the gloom, stood a dirty-looking shed, its wooden planks splintered, door hanging askew on rusted hinges, shadows pooling inside like spilled ink.
Yoshi's gaze lingered on the shed, a weird twist knotting in his gut, unease, or something sharper, like a half-remembered stab. It pulled at him, insistent, but he shoved it aside, apathy smothering the spark. Irrelevant. He turned away, climbing the crumbling stairs to the hospital rooftop. The sky above was a featureless grey, endless and oppressive. He sat on the edge, legs dangling over the abyss, staring into the void. The hate simmered low, his quirk humming in readiness. For now, that was enough.