Cold.
Sterility.
The smell of antiseptic and old urine filled his nostrils. He winced, annoyed by the harshness of the fluorescent lighting and the acrid smell. Although he is enjoying the small rush of pleasure at being allowed to go somewhere unaccompanied as anything is better than his room at the compound he doesn't appreciate the white walls and tile floors he finds himself looking at. It brings back memories he wishes to forget.
When he was smaller, his father had a servant bring him to these places. He has never liked fulfilling his duties, never enjoyed causing other people pain the way some of the people in his father's employ do, but he still does as his father orders. Enjoyment, or his lack thereof, is simply another irrelevancy discarded by his father.
Izuku supposes he should mind. If he thinks back to the farthest reaches of memory he can find faint trappings of horror, but dredging up more unpleasant memories is something Izuku would much rather not do if at all possible. There is too much unpleasantness for him to experience in his day to day life to waste valuable free moments fixating upon every negative experience in his short seven years.
He hates being taken to these places as much as he loved the excursions themselves. The lack of variation was perhaps his only issue. Hospital, nursing home, clinic. Too many bad memories attached themselves to the familiar sights and smells, but orders from father were immutable and immediate results often brought immense rewards despite what he had to look forward to upon his prompt return to the facility.
Just walking through the entranceway is enough for his quirk to begin buzzing in the back of his mind. His father was the one to name it. Izuku dislikes the name, but he would never say that.
Normally, Izuku keeps his quirk locked behind an ocean of molten will power. He can still use it - barely, in this state, to passively look at and analyze people around him. Passively using his quirk is akin to staring at a sea of minuscule balls of light floating adrift in an empty sea of blackness. Each ball marks the placement of an individual although it isn't the person itself that his quirk sees.
It's their quirks.
The size of the light balls varies depending upon the strength inherent to the individual quirks. They occupy people's stomachs, riding around as tiny as a pinprick or occasionally as large as his fist. He can see them through walls, in absolute darkness. Izuku thinks that he would still be able to see them even if he were blind.
He follows his quirk through the building. Very few people bother him this time. Some places are worse. Hospital staff in particular are more apt than others to question why a small child is wandering around alone. He doesn't mind this much. Lying is easy. Managing people's perceptions is easy. Crying on command, if necessary, is easy. Most of the time acting is enough to convince staff members that he is indeed allowed to be in patients' rooms. Being as young as he is, it is only easier to gain access. Besides, why would anyone not related to the elderly or the dying visit them?
Izuku generally prioritizes whichever quirk he is told to by his father. If he is given a list it is all the better, but sometimes, like today, Izuku is told to limit himself to three and select the most powerful abilities. This lack of qualifications is an aggravation he endures frequently and with minimal complaints. Simply put, Izuku has as much culpability for the atrocities he commits as his victims do. There is no choice. Not for him. There never was.
He is under no illusions about what his presence in this building means. Sometimes the shock of doing this is enough to kill the elderly patients. Sometimes, it is enough to put the dying into comas or aggravate pre-existing conditions. He has been attacked by people so weak their assault caused more damage to themselves than to him. He has been spit upon. He has seen true terror flicker through people's eyes in the moments of their death as they ask him silently, 'What did you do?'
Izuku keeps his mouth shut when these questions come up. It costs more than he can be certain of, he is sure, but answering the wrong question be tantamount to volunteering to become a numerus, and Izuku will do anything - anything at all, every foul thing his father asks, every disgusting thing he demands- to avoid a fate like that.
He squares up his shoulders as he focuses once again on his resolve. Loitering outside a patient's room for as long as he has is enough to attract attention and he is lucky that no one has stopped to ask him where his mommy is.
Slipping into the room is simple. The man holding the quirk that attracted him has withered into himself, his skin looks like the flesh of a raisin and his hair is lank and oily, probably unwashed. The room smells of burst bed sores - filthy, rotting, blood and viscous ooze dot the white sheets. Izuku stares at the myriad of tubes and connectivity that attaches to the man.
Looking at people like this used to be hard when he was smaller.
He sits across from him on the sole cheap chair decorating the room. Izuku closes his eyes.
Breathes in.
Breathes out.
Activates his quirk.
İ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅİ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅİ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅİ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅ
Ĭ̶͇̼͓̲̣̝̻̞̝̖̯̫͖̪̮̥͈͖͍̖̜̫͖͙̱̣͇͐̃̔̑̓́̂̇̎̄͐̀̂̓̚̚͜ͅt̸̨̡̢̢̡͉̯̦̲̱͕͍̙͖̲̯̫͚̱̯̰̜̒̃́͆͂͊͗̀͋̆͋̀̄̇͊̑̎͐̿̽͆̈́̋̕͘͠ ̴̡̧̨̡̱̜͖̘̗̪̖̬̖̘̙̮̝͎̞͉̹̰̝̮̭͔̼͎̗̙͔̠̯̘͒́̀̓̂͒͛̃͌̎̎̈́̃̄̆̓̍̉̄̾͗̌̈́̊́̉͐̇̾̐͗̍͌̆͌̑̎͑͘͘̕̚̚̚͝ȋ̷̡̺̦̠̲̙̘̳̺͇̖̣͙̑̄̎̽͒̐̂̆͆̇̿̊̊́̌̔̆͐̋̇̄̀͊̒̉̒̽̋͋͐̈́͒̎͋͋͌͗͗̅̀̽́̕̕͘̚͝͝͝͠͝s̵̡̧̧̢͕͔͎̖̟̰̠͎̫͕̦̪͉̝͈̟̜̦͉̦͍̲̬͇̲̥͔̞̜̙͎̜̻̰͔͉̮̺̩̦̜̣͉͙͖̫̬͋̒̈́̎̋̿̽̐͒̄̆͛̅̋̔̑͛̉̆̾̅̚̚͜͝ ̶̡̢̧̡̛̼̝͖̰̣̱̟̟͕̙͖̩̳̼̼͕̳͓̰̣̥̞̜͇͖̪̤̻̙̹̺̮̔͒̐̉͂͐̏͐̇̏̀͊̉̉́̎͗͛͒̀̒͋̌́̆̾̈̍̿̅̐́͒̒̍̕̚̚̚̕̕͜͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅM̶̢̛̗̝̈́̓̆͂̉̔̀̇̾͗͐͂͗̀̊͆̂͋̈́̽̈́̋͋̓̅̈́̂͒̔̾̀͂͛̎̀̀͂̒͐͘̚͝͝I̸̧̡̗͕̹̘͉͓̫̠̲͕̼̩̝͌̿̉̎̋͂͒̈̽̏͛̆͒̇͛̓̅̈͛͌̊̍̉̚̚͝͠N̷̨̝̗̦͎̠̰̱̱͍̻̮͚͈̮̦̤͎̑̓̇̌͗̔̿̌͂̈́̐̈́̀͐̈́̂́̀̈́̔͒̇͊̌̓͊́̆̊͋̈́͛̄́̈̚̕̕͝͝͝͝ͅȨ̴̧̢̨̨̲̘͇̞͇͓͔̲̜̬͙̺͙̥͕̭͙̼͍̼͈̟̣͙͓̤̠̺̩̰̘̫͈͇̰̜̹̝̙̩͙̲̤̯͒̐̐̂̈́̊̅͌̌̄̾͑́̓̑̂͂̔̂́͂͑͋͂̉̅̚͜͜G̵̡̢̡̛͔̮͉͇͈̫̜̤͎͉͔̣̹̙̦̮̗̬̪̤͖̟͔̀́͂̎̔͑̆̔͗̌̑́̇͐̀̔͆̐̉̀̓̔̔̍́̎͑́̏̃̈́͒͂͑͗̕̕͘͘͘͜͝͝͝i̸̡̨̳̳̹̻̘͎̪̞̳̺̻̩͕͍̙͂͋V̸̨̛̝̹̅̄̀̑̍͐̆͗̅͂̀̒͒̈́̎̇͊̏̊̀̑͋̕è̸̡̖̬͓͉̦̘̘̰̥̭̺͍̒̀́͛͋̈́̾̇̋ͅͅ ̸̢̡̨̢̡̧̡̧̛̠̱̮̻̯̪̲̪̼̬͖̭̭͕̻̪̖͇̣͚̩̻̹͓̱̗̘̺͌̿͗̍̋̇̀͐̋̑̊̒̓̂͆͗͘̚͜͜Į̶̮̣̪̳̥̥͙͖̩̱̳͓͓̞͎͙̟̘͚̹̰̣̭̬̥̮̦͔̰̮͖̎̇̄͜ţ̶̢͖̝̮̩̘̺͓̯͇͎͔̝̘̬̪̗̦̮̰͖̱͖͉͇̲͙͔̭̮̖̇̄̾̋͊͐̓̊̒̆̐̆̀͑̆̐̆̉͒̅̀̾̂̿̅͒̒̐̓͆̉̄̄̂̀̈́̔̀̏̚͝͝͠͝ ̵̨̧̢̛̛̠̹̙̯̬͎͍̟̲̺̰̜̞̪͚͍̠̗͕̻͉̥̱̱̞̘̖̲̻̲̱̘̣̭̈́̎̀̌̀̍̇͐́̄͗̒́͋̏̂̆̐͜͜ͅͅŢ̸͓̹͖̤͓̞̣̼͕͙̩̅͋͌̍̀̄̃̈́̊̉̍̂́͜õ̸̢̠̮̩͓̝̠̠͈̖̟̠͍̝͚͙̪̗̙͔̹̦̼͚̲̟̦̣̥̭̗̤̿̉́̍̏̑͆͛̌̐͛͜͜ ̵̨̪̙̮̘̖̠̖͉̝͎̤͚͋̀̏̋̈́M̵̛̲̞̥̻͔̮͚̖͛̄͌̇̿̊͂͊̈͒̎͆̀̿̔̉͂̀̚̚͘͘͠͝ͅę̷̧̧̢̡̨̨͈̙̯̲͚͓͓̙̩̞͚͉̻͙̮̺̤̩̘͚͖̖͓̯͍͔͈͈͓̹̙͎̲̣̞͉͆̇̄̓́̃̔̄̐́̏͑̒͆̈̊̇͊̏͊̽͘̚̚͜͠͝͠ͅ ̶̧̡̨̛͈̖̳͉̬̗̤̳̞͉̣̩͔̤̼̦͉͎̳͖͓̥̝̠͖̗̰̗̙͉̳͖͉̠̺̟͍̦̟͕́̌̓͗̇͗̓̎̋͐̒̔͋̏͗͑̇̈́̊̀͐́̿̆̑̄̆̚̚͘̚͘͝͝I̸̧̦̤̯̣̻͕̼̤̻̱͎̠͒͌͒͗̋̑̔̄̄̀t̷̢̨̧̹͓̹̦̬͓̹̞͇̜͔͕̰̜͙͍̥̖̱̭̖͍͔͉͉͉̳̪͈̙̦̲̲̅̄̍̑̃̀̄̍́͐͝ ̶̡̨̧̧̡̛̣̯̟͈̭̥̲̳͍͔̲̜̬̰͍̟͈̩͙̮͕̺̤͚̟͕̰̙̩͕͉͉̼̙̜͇͙͉̰͎̈́̀̊̊͂̒̿̎̎̒͋͆̿̐̇̓͛̇̚̚͘Ḭ̸̧̛̘͎̠̮̮̙̘̭̘̹̪̫̫͚̜̝̤̘͙̙͍̱̲̠̩͓̼̺͓̙̭̖̖̲̭͚̞͚̐̿̊͒̊̆̀̈́̈́̌̽̊̄͌̏͋̄̈̊͊́̽͊̉̔̃̈͂̊͛̂͘͘̚͠͝͠ͅs̷͓̗̏̑̋̀̎͊͋̕̕͝ ̴̨̳̙̮̫͖̩̟̟̜̩̝̪̂͊̍͋̓̋̓̿́M̷̧͉̭̗̹̺̩͙̭̳̜̹͍̠̘̥͎̗̟̪̈́͆̈͐̍͌̓̐͐̓͌̄͆̇͊͑̈̔́̊͛̐̊͊͋̔̚̕͝͝͝͠ȉ̷͙͔̜͊̈̃̓͐̓͊͋̃̒̊̾͛̒̈́̈́̏̎͗͑͘͝N̷̨̯̘̄̐̄͌͋͌͒͆́̒̋̇͐͐̇̒̍̈́́̑̊͋̎̈́̄͊̌̔͊̉̉̾̕͝ͅȆ̸̢̞̘̟͎̪̹͕͉̲̹͇̺̺̬̻̮̪̖̪͚̪̱̝̿̄͊̈́̄̄̀̔͌̀̍̐͘̕̚͝
İ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅİ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅİ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅİ̴̧̛̛̛͇̭̘̖͎͈̖͚̺̼̲̙̗̖̘̹̘̲͈̙̰͉̥̪͉̦͚̫̑͛͒̾̆͂́̓̽̏͆̎̽̏͆͐̀̃̍̋̀̽͌̓͌̌̓̒̇̈͐͒̋͒̽̐̃́͌͂̽̄̏̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̨̯̪̱̮͙͈̰̺̣̺̀̓͆́a̴̢̛̟̩̬͈͔̲͇̭̻̖͔̥̖͋͗͒̊̀̀̎̃̌͑̔̄̈̄̏̈̽̀͒͊͂̃̒̏͂͊̀̉̿̎̑̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝m̸̡̧̨̨̧̙̠̩͎̫̯̙̊̑̈͊̈́̂́̏̆͗̐̍͠͝ ̶̨̢̧̡̢̣̫̲̭̻͔̘̞̹̲͉̦̩̜̤͍͙͓̫̘̙̤̙͖̺̙͚̞̳͇͖̩̮͇̖̼̫͉̭̟͉̭͕̩͚̲͈̼͚͇̭̼̏̓͛̂̀̀͆̊̔̈́͗̓̄̍͛̌͊̊͒̽̅̉̓̏̾̉͂̒̓͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝Ǧ̸̨̡͖͕̻͔̫̖̦͙̗͎̱͖̺̻̟͇̣͉̩̺̪͔̀̇͆̓̈́̒̅̑̽̽̆͑́̏̓̈́̔̍͘͝O̷̘̹̘͓͖̳̦̟͓̙̙̮̱̳͛̓̿̋͊͑̈́̐̒̈̈́͌̊͌͛̽̋́͐̑̅͠͝ͅD̵̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̛̼͙̗̜̥̖̼͖̠̱̯̼͇̻̫̪̤̻͇͎͉͕̲͈̬̮̙̳̞̻͇͎̫̲͖͖̲͈̳̫͎̥͍̰͙̰̥̥̤̈́̈́̓̈́̀̍͐̔͗͊͊̇̈̏̒̈́̏͗̾̅̑̏͊̏͂̔̊̊̂̒̊̔̍̀͋͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅ
Deactivates his quirk.
He nearly vomits with the effort it takes to shut it off, is nearly dry heaving, and he lifts his fingers to his nose and feels the blood drip - drip - dripping down his face. he coughs once, twice before spitting a thick mess of blood into a wad of tissues. He cleans his face of blood carefully, waiting a few moments to make certain that the flow has fully scrunched before tucking the used tissues into his pocket.
There is sweat coating his features as he forces back his revulsion, forces back his nausea, forces back every shred of remorse that has wiggled it's way past the delicate barrier of neutrality he covers his mind with.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
He is calm. Serene. Izuku doesn't exist, after all, he forcibly reminds himself. Nothing can touch him. Father can't hurt him. His quirk can't break him.
He doesn't even have to check to know that the man's quirk is safely tucked inside his stomach. The unfamiliarity makes recognizing it easy despite the nausea he has suddenly found afflicting him. Izuku checks the man anyway.
Despite being in a coma the patient's face managed to contort around the tubes going down his mouth. Izuku is unsurprised to see the look of anguish. Having a quirk intrinsic to oneself ripped away is excruciating.
Izuku rarely kills coma patients if they do not die during the extraction process. It's not a luxury he is often able to afford since very rarely do those with powerful quirks survive his attempts at extraction, and very rarely do those with powerful quirks end up in comas.
It probably isn't even a mercy, to be honest. Most of these patients simply lay silently, hibernating for the rest of their lives until they pass away in obscurity. Those who do wake up find themselves suddenly quirkless in a society very much defined by the power a quirk possesses.
Despite the loose ends, Izuku can't find it in himself to kill them. He knows his father probably finds his empathy amusing, an indulgence that is something to be discarded the moment an actual risk is encountered.
Izuku turns back towards the door, squashing down his empathy. There is no use torturing himself. His stomach drops as he focuses once again on the passive part of his quirk. He has two more quirks he needs to retrieve before the end of the day.