Dirt was encrusted beneath his cracked skin, the mud and blood intermingling across his palms as he forced himself to stand. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he used the back of his hand to wipe the stream of blood that was slowly trickling from his lips. One second. Two. Three. There's four.

"I'll kill you, you know," he whispered gravely into the night sky, "It may not be today. It may not be anytime soon. But I will kill you."

His father gazed down at him with pity, his turquoise eyes narrowing with hatred as they stared down at his worthless son, "To kill me you'd have to surpass me. Do you really think yourself capable?"

The son bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, the tendrils of flame surrounding him licking his skin with an almost loving touch, "Even if it kills me, I'll be the one to end you. Make no mistake of that old man."

Shoto, just Shoto, woke up with a start. His hand lay on his chest as he attempted to seize its wild beating. He hated that dream; a dream belonging to the child he no longer was. He had seen to that years ago.

He got up swiftly, tidying his bed and room in record timing as he prepared his morning breakfast and coffee. His routine wasn't too long, after all his entire apartment was a single room, with barely enough space for him to breathe. But it was enough. If living in squalor was the price for his freedom then it was worth it.

He checked the mirror, as he did every morning before he deigned to leave his home. Jet black hair and mis-matched eyes stared back at him, the grotesque burn that stretched across half his face perpetually extenuating the scowl that lived upon his countenance. The rest of his burns, the ones that had once littered the both of his arms, were artfully covered by countless tattoos, spanning from his shoulders down to his wrists. His disguise wasn't much of one, he knew. The only thing that separated Shoto Todoroki, son of hero, and Shoto the tattoo artist, was his hair color and permanent ink. If his father truly wanted to find him, it would be all too easy. Yet he knew that his old man wouldn't dare to enter the slums of the city without a purpose, and if the last three years had been any indication, then finding his missing son wasn't purpose enough.

He threw a leather jacket over his plain black t-shirt, tucking his silver necklace beneath his collar as he tucked in his ripped jeans into his laced up leather combat boots. As soon as he finished, his oven chimed, signaling that it was time to eat.

He finished his breakfast at precisely 7, and pouring the rest of his coffee into a travel mug, he made his way out of his grime covered apartment and over across the hall to apartment 4B— home to the one man he could possibly call a friend.

He knocked on the door twice, leaning lazily on one leg until his neighbor marginally opened the door. "I've figured out your quirk," the man said sleepily, his hand scratching the stubble on his chin, "It's being perfectly prompt."

Shoto smirked, "Nope."

It has been a game that they have played for the last three years. Aizawa would try to guess the boys quirk, and the boy will promptly inform him that he had guessed wrong. "Dang," the older man muttered as he took the mug out of the boys hand, "I was sure that I had gotten it this time."

Shoto rolled his eyes, "Why don't you just believe me when I tell you that I'm quirkless?"

Aizawa glanced at the boy briefly before looking away and taking a sip out of his coffee, "I have my reasons."

Shoto knew his reasons. No 15 year old kid, no matter how tragic of a backstory, can survive living alone in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. Not without a quirk that can guarantee his safety to at least a small degree. That's not even taking into account that he'd been here for the last three years.

"Regardless," the artist muttered, "I really don't have one. But you can choose to waste your time if you rather believe otherwise."

Aizawa shook his head, "So, you heading off to work kid?"

Shoto shrugged, "Yeah, the shop has quite a few appointments today so it seems like I'll be pretty busy."

"Good, it'll keep you out of trouble."

"I'm never in any trouble, I don't attract it like you do."

"Touché kid."

"Isn't today the first day of classes? Shouldn't you be on your way rather than talking to your neighbor?" Shoto reminded him with the hint of a chuckle.

Aizawa grimaced, "I'm teaching class 1-A this year… I'm not looking forward to it."

"Any interesting kids?" Shoto knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that if he had never left then perhaps he would be in the exact class Aizawa was now teaching. Just another one his friends brats that he hated looking after, and yet consistently did so year after year. After all, his father had always planned to send him to UA, and this would be the year he was supposed to start.

Aizawa shrugged lazily, "A few powerful quirks, but mostly the same bore as usual. Nothing too exciting."

"You find nothing exciting old man," Shoto muttered, "You need a hobby of some sort. Something to keep you busy."

"Don't you think I already have too much on my plate?" Aizawa questioned with a quirked eyebrow.

"Not nearly enough," Shoto said with a smirk, "Maybe if you get some new friends you'll finally leave me alone."

"Not until I figure out your quirk kid."

Shoto snorted, "Good luck with that. Anyways, go to work. Try not to kill any of your students."

Aizawa rolled his eyes, "I'll try. No promises though."

Like he thought, Shoto did in fact have a packed day at work. The tattoo parlor was close to his home, a mere four blocks away and tucked into a side corner near what was locally dubbed, "Crime Alley". His patrons were almost exclusively criminals, and Shoto would care, but they never bothered him. They had no reason to bully the young man, he was, after all, the best tattoo artist in the city. No one was stupid enough to piss the kid off.

When he first opened the shop up three years ago, he had barely gotten any customers. No one was willing to risk their body art on a twelve year old with equipment the size of his body. But after completing a complicated piece of art on a daredevil who couldn't care how young the kid was, his business skyrocketed. No one gave much thought to his age after that, the city was littered with orphans trying to make a living, and no one knew that as much as the residents of Crime Alley. The kid was talented, and that was all that mattered.

Truth be told, Shoto was proud of his parlor. He had poured all of the money he had taken into the shop, and was able to buy this three room business that was perfect for his needs. He was the only one who worked in the shop— he didn't trust any potential employee he could find around this area. Aizawa used to come around the shop a few years ago, when the parlor was still brand new, but Shoto had long ago barred his entry. His presence was bad for business, after all, no one wanted a hero around.

He loved the little life he had carved out for himself here. He had a good job, a steady stream of clientele, a safe home, and a good friend to amuse him. He had a life, something he could not truly claim to have had before. He loved his routine, and while yes, there were sometimes disruptions, it was never bad enough to warrant any amount of panic. His quirk was strong enough to keep him safe, regardless of what happens. He may know more criminals then innocent civilians, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Criminals minded their own business.

Just as he finished cleaning the last of his tools, the door chimed with another customer, "I'm sorry, we're closed for the day. Try coming back tomorrow."

"I'm not here for your art kid," a hissing sound interrupted his cleaning, "Give me all your cash, and make it quick."

Shoto lazily turned to face the front door, where the countenance of a giant humanoid snake greeted him. The intruder wore a devious smirk and he slithered towards the young boy, chuckling happily at the thought of an easy target.

Shoto tucked his hands into his pockets as he quirked a brow, "You're new to this neighborhood, aren't you?"

The snake scowled, "What's it to you, brat? Go get me my money before I make it very difficult for you to breathe."

Anyone else in Shoto's shoes would have been terrified by now. Anyone else would have hurriedly given the man all of the money they could, quietly pleading that they not hurt them. Shoto was not just anyone, however.

"Because," Shoto spoke calmly, "Only a new resident would be stupid enough to attack me."

"What do—" the snake was interrupted as an icicle pierced his stomach, blood splattering across the walls as he slumped down onto the floor.

Shoto narrowed his eyes, "You made my walls dirty. Annoying."

The young man muttered angrily as he made a quick phone call, "Hey. There's another one… mhm. Make it quick, I don't have much time to wait."

An hour later, a freshly clean Shoto walked calmly up the stairs to his apartment, only to come face-to-face with his neighbor slumped against the stairs, half asleep. "Don't you have a bed in your apartment to sleep on?"

"This is more comfortable," Aizawa replied, his eyes still shut.

Shoto clicked his tongue as he stepped over the man to unlock his apartment, "Come on in."

Aizawa lazily stood up, following the younger man into his cramped apartment. Taking a seat at the dining table, Aizawa leaned onto his hand in a sigh, "My students are all morons."

Shoto rolled his eyes as he prepared dinner in the kitchen, "You say the same thing every year."

"I mean it this time," Aizawa muttered, "I have kids who don't even know how to use their quirk without causing great destruction to either themselves or others. Morons, the lot of them."

"They're kids, don't set your expectations too high for them."

Aizawa gave the younger man a look, "You're the same age as them."

Shoto stilled the chopping of vegetables, "Perhaps… but I'm not a kid."

Aizawa paused as he looked at the black-haired youth in front of him. He couldn't be older than 15, and despite spending almost everyday with him for the last three years, he knew pathetically little about him. They had a mutual understanding about one another, they only shared what they wished too. No questions asked. There was one thing he knew for certain, however…

"No. I guess you're not a kid."

Shoto continued with his cooking as Aizawa continued to lament about his misfortune, taking great care to not mention any specific quirk or name. He trusted his young friend, but not with hero work. He was well aware of Shoto's shadier connections, one needed them if they were going to survive in this part of town. He took proper cautions with the boy, despite their friendship.

Taking a seat across the pro-hero, Shoto deposited the freshly made pasta onto the table and proceeded to eat. Aizawa relished the food, "Have I ever mentioned how glad I am that you know how to cook?"

Shoto rolled his eyes, "How did you ever survive before I moved in?"

"By utilizing my great relationship with the takeout menu."

Shoto chuckled slightly before pausing, "Ken Hanaki."

Aizawa stilled, "Excuse me?"

"Ken Hanaki," Shoto repeated, "Quirk: Snake Body. Wanted for 18 counts of robbery. He's currently residing in the General Hospital, floor 12. Room 1294."

Aizawa nodded sharply, "Condition?"

"Severe. Non-critical."

"Any friends I need to worry about?"

"He works alone," Shoto admitted, "And villains don't typically visit one another at the hospital."

"I'll handle it after dinner," Aizawa responded, "Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not," Shoto answered candidly.

Aizawa sighed, "Anyone else would have brought you in for questioning by now."

Shoto shrugged, "That's why I didn't approach anyone else with what I know."

Aizawa shook his head, "Be careful out there. These criminals are getting bolder by the day."

"I'll be okay. Don't worry about me, I know what I'm doing."

Another early morning. Shoto yawned ever so slightly as he made his way down to the parlor, ready to start another's day of work. As he approached his place of business, a familiar scent invaded his senses. With widening eyes, Shoto broke off into a sprint. It couldn't be. It couldn't.

He stopped with a sudden halt in front of a pile of ash; a pile of ash that was once his prized parlor. Resting atop the pile was a single calling card, with nothing on it but a few words. Clenching his fists, he felt his nails tear into his skin hard enough to draw blood. This… this was an act of war. A call he would happily respond to.

Aizawa sighed under his breath as he watched his students face off against one another in a hero and villains simulation. They really were pathetic, he lamented quietly to himself. He had a busy morning, and his eyes were threatening to shut as he watched the class. He had spent the entire night dealing with the fiasco young Shoto had left him, arresting the comatose and injured Ken Hanaki as per Shoto's tip. The cops had quite a few questions regarding the source of Aizawa's information, but they had long since gotten used to his mysterious sources. It wasn't the first time, and they doubted it would be the last.

Like Shoto had said, the criminal was under care at the hospital facing severe, but not critical injuries. A hole in his stomach, the doctors said, from an unidentifiable weapon. Aizawa had a million questions for the boy who had directed him towards the criminal, first and foremost being who injured the criminal. But that line of questioning went beyond their unspoken agreement, and if Aizawa wanted to keep his little informant, then he didn't want to spook him. In the likely event that it was Shoto who dealt the blow, well, at least it wasn't a fatal one. All of Hanaki's organs were purposely missed, making the injury a painful one, but not a lethal one. Whoever dealt the blow knew what they were doing.

Aizawa almost hoped that it was Shoto who did it. At least he knew the kid wasn't a murderer. He didn't much like the idea of such a skilled fighter being out there in the streets untamed, he could at least keep an eye on the boy.

Shoto was mysterious to say the least. He was a handsome kid, he could admit, with only the scar to mar his features. He spoke eloquently, his speech boasting of a high education. It contrasted greatly with his general disposition and the tattoos that littered his body, and served as the cause for a series of questions that the man had in regards to the boys past. Whatever the truth be regarding his past, Aizawa knew that it all came back to the scar that stained his face.

Despite not knowing the boys quirk, he had no doubt it was a good one. It had to be. Shoto had been living alone, making a living and a keeping himself safe, in one of the most dangerous areas in the city. All since the age of 12. It was why Aizawa did not doubt that it was the boy who caused the snake-like criminal injury; if he had to guess the man tried stealing from the kid, and payed dearly for it. It wouldn't be the first time it happened, Shoto has often given Aizawa hints about the whereabouts of criminals over the years. Shoto treats the pro-hero like his own disposer, getting rid of criminals that annoy him. Aizawa would complain, but at the end of the day the boy was helping him, despite the danger that can come from snitching to a pro.

When the final group of students had finished, he moved his class back into the classroom for some theoretical work, his eye almost twitching as the class got even louder with their claims of excitement while they walked back to class. Silence descended upon the group immediately as they entered the room, however, and Aizawa was almost surprised when he lifted his eyes and found his seat occupied by the very boy who had taken over his thoughts.

The boy was languidly sprawled out in his seat, his leather boot clad feet crossed at the ankles and perched on top of his desk. He was leaning back with his eyes shut, the tendrils of black hair slightly obscuring his shut eyelids from view. His classic leather jacket was thrown onto the table, his tattoo clad arms flexed as he leaned his head onto his interlocked hands behind him.

"Woah," Mina exclaimed, "Who's the super hot guy?"

"Mr. Aizawa, as class representative I must inform you that we have a stranger trespassing in our classroom!" Iida exclaimed loudly.

"You were right, Aizawa," Shoto drawled as he quirked one eye open, "They really are loud."

Aizawa sighed as he strolled towards his mercurial neighbor, his hands tucked into his pockets, "What are you doing here, kid?"

"What, you're not going to ask how I bypassed the schools security?" Shoto questioned with a tilt to his head.

"Would you answer me honestly?"

"Probably not."

"That's why I didn't ask."

"Touché."

"Um, Mr.Aizawa? Who is this guy?" Midoriya questioned shyly.

Aizawa grimaced, "This is my neighbor. I'm not exactly sure why he's here."

Shoto frowned as he straightened up, "Sorry Shouta, but it couldn't wait until later."

"What happened?" Aizawa questioned, all trace of sleepiness gone from his tone.

Shoto glanced at the innocent students, "Something."

Aizawa caught his glance, "Class you're all dismissed for the day. Go home."

"What?!" The students exclaimed.

"Who the fuck does this guy think he is, walking in here and getting our class dismissed?!" Bakugo cried out.

"I said; class dismissed." Aizawa spat out, leaving no room for arguments as the students tentatively gathered their belongings and left the class.

Once the room was cleared, the teacher turned towards the boy and spoke, "Now tell me what's going on."

"There's been some chatter," Shoto responded, "Someone's gathering an army. So far it's one made up of a bunch of common thugs, but the sheer amount of them is concerning nonetheless."

"Purpose?"

"Unclear. Neither is the identity of their leader. They're good at keeping quiet… well, good for a bunch of no-name thugs."

"What do you know then?"

"They call themselves The League of Villains. Their crimes so far have been fairly minimal, but word around the street is they've got something big planned. Soon."

"What crimes can we link them to?" Aizawa questioned.

"So far? Arson," Shoto spat out tossing the man the calling card he had found, "They left me a little gift this morning."

Aizawa examined the plain white card, with only the black lettering gracing its content, "The League of Villains".

"They burned down your parlor." It wasn't a question.

"They did," Shoto confirmed.

"I assume then, that our little friend Ken Hanaki was a member?"

"Most likely," Shoto reluctantly agreed, "I'd handle them myself, but I'm afraid there's too many involved."

"That's illegal, Shoto," Aizawa reminded him.

"So was burning down my parlor," Shoto clenched his fist, "This was an act of war against me."

"Perhaps, but this isn't the way to get them back. You're only one person, and you yourself admitted that the sheer amount of them is staggering."

"What do you suggest then?"

"I suggest you allow us to do our work," Aizawa stated, "What else are pro-hero's for?"

"Advertisements and company endorsements," Shoto deadpanned.

Aizawa sighed at the answer. This argument was a common one, bringing quite a bit of distress to the pro-hero, "You know, not all hero's are in the game for the money."

"Perhaps," Shoto grimaced, turning his solemn gaze towards the window,"But most of them are. Whatever happened to the ideals that made up this business? Instead all we have is a world of commercialism and endorsements. One where our hero's are praised for their work and worshiped like deities. It's disgusting."

"You're starting to sound like Stain," Aizawa warned.

"Well," Shoto clicked his tongue, "It's not like the guy doesn't have the right idea. He's just going about it in a pretty convoluted way."

"You know him." It wasn't a question.

Shoto nodded, "Frequents this bar downtown sometimes, his philosophy makes sense. The mindless murder is a little uncalled for, but I relate to his anger. It's hard, when your societies hero's aren't truly there for the people, but for the money. As citizens, we're constantly told to put our faith in these pros. That they're here for us, and that they care. But what happens when they don't care? When there's no camera to be pointed at them, no glory? Will they still be our hero's, risking their lives for us? Or will the truth come out, and we are faced with a world full of powerful quirks and general lawlessness."

"You do realize that I'm a pro-hero, right?" Aizawa spoke.

Shoto glanced at his friend, before returning his gaze to the window, "You're different. You couldn't care less for the fame nor the money; that much I can tell just from your apartment. Can't say the same for your misguided peers, though."

A sigh broke through his thoughts, "I hope that one day you'll see that most hero's truly are in it for the sole purpose of being able to help the innocent."

Shoto snorted, "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Regardless of your views, you can't act against the League of Villains. Let me and my so-called 'misguided' peers handle this," Aizawa urged.

"Not a chance old man."

"If you get caught, I won't be able to protect you," Aizawa warned.

Shoto nodded sharply, "Then I won't get caught. You handle things from your side, I'll do so from mine. Those bastards are going down."