Alexander hung up his apron and hat on a hook and waved a hand to the manager, signaling that he was leaving, and resisted the urge to collapse into the wall and fall asleep there. He felt awful- more awful than he normally did. But he couldn't faint here. He had to do his patrols. Which meant eight hours of fighting and jumping around the city, directly followed by eight hours of studying and sitting on his hands to stop him from hurling his desk at the wall out of frustration. No, there's no way he'd have the energy for that. It would be a miracle if he could even get through the night.

He groaned. This was going to suck. And four hours later, he could confidently say that this did, indeed, suck. The adrenaline pumping through his veins and the throbbing of his latest stab wound were keeping him awake, but just barely. Even as he was wrapping his injury and cleaning up the bloodstains he'd made to avoid leaving behind any physical evidence, he'd wanted nothing more but to faint on the spot. Pathetic. You think you can be a hero like this? You're still the same worthless Deku you've always been. Do everyone a favor, stop playing kiddie games and take Bakugo's advice.

...Damnit. Petit Lion laid down on a roof and savored the feeling of coolness soaking through the fibers of his suit. Even after all this time, he was still so weak. Why had a good-for-nothing like him been born anyway? No. He had to stop before he went to places he knew he would regret going. He didn't have time for this; he had to re-wrap his wound. He cursed softly. It would need stitches, and those always hurt like hell. Especially without painkillers, which he believed he was fresh out of. The painkillers would be a waste on him anyway. This was his own fault for being so worthless. He tensed. ...Someone else was here. He couldn't tell who.

"Come out," he called in the steadiest voice he could muster. He wasn't sure how well he could manage in a fight right now. He was half dead from exhaustion, his body ached, and he was losing blood; in the state he was in, even someone fairly weak could beat him. But it wasn't like he had any choice. He had to win or he'd most likely be killed... or worse. You'd deserve that, a voice whispered to him. He ignored it.

"You are Petit Lion, correct?" A deep tone emanated from the shadows.

"Who's asking?" He had to keep calm. That was most important. If this person had wanted to capture or kill him, he doubted they'd be trying to speak to him, so they probably only wanted to talk. That didn't mean he would let his guard down, but it was a relief considering his currently severely diminished fighting abilities.

"I am Stendhal, another vigilante. I have been pursuing a certain villain to this area. I do not wish to intrude into your territory; I will leave as soon as I capture him if you wish me to. To be honest, I respect your work very much. You truly have the heart of a hero."

"Stendhal? I've heard of you before. Can't say I approve of your methods, they're a bit too bloody for my taste, but you do good work," he told the other vigilante. Although he agreed that the people Stendhal had killed were bad, he thought murder was unnecessary and stepping over the line. He couldn't condone it. Still, Stendhal had good intentions, and if he stuck with him while they found the criminal he might be able to convince Stendhal to turn him in instead of resorting to more lethal methods. So he asked, "Who's the perp you're after? I might've seen him around, and two sets of eyes are better than one. I could lend you a hand if you want."

"His name is Shark. He's a drug lord with a sense-enhancing Quirk. And the help would be much appreciated, thank you. I will take you up on that offer."

"Hmm... the name doesn't ring a bell, but I'm sure the two of us can dig him out of his hiding place pretty quick. Plus it'll be nice to have someone around I can bother with my awful puns."

"...Then let us begin."

"Oh, are you the type of guy who has zero patience for puns? I can't Stand-hal that type of person, y'know~"

"..." It was going to be a long night for the both of them.

"He was pretty tough, wasn't he," commented Petit Lion as he tied the hands of the now-unconscious drug kingpin. "You could say he was a... jaw-some fighter. And you didn't have to kill anyone either!"

"You stopped me." The other vigilante dragged the other limp criminals and leaned them against the wall, making sure their bonds were tight. "Do you consider yourself to be against killing?" Petit Lion stood up and dusted himself off.

"Well, I'll kill if the situation calls for it."

"That's quite a black-and-white view of things," Stendhal said.

"Oh? How?" This was genuinely confusing to him.

"Surely there have been people you have failed to save. They were condemned to death through your own weakness. Isn't that the same as killing them with your own hands?" Petit Lion's eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a low voice.

"...What are you trying to say?"

"Listen. I will give you some advice. The reason you hesitate to kill is not that you think it's wrong; the reason you hesitate is that you do not want to bear the guilt of killing someone. But letting innocent people die because of your weak resolve would have the same effect of guilt. Therefore, if both options will result in unpleasantness, choose the one that will save more lives. If you must cause death, make sure they are the deaths of those who deserve to die. That way you will be able to continue on even if you feel guilt. After all, the duty of a hero is to bear all the pain and sadness so that no one else has to, is it not? So you must be willing to do anything to protect others, even at the cost of yourself. You must stain your own hands so that the innocent can stay clean. It is simple self-sacrifice... through sacrificing others. Do you understand?"

"That's your philosophy, not mine. And it isn't all true. I will kill. Infact, I've killed plenty." Petit Lion replied, pointedly ignoring the unease pooling in his stomach. He didn't want to think about the Revolutionary Wa, that- it was over. He was in the present, not the past. Stendhal shook his head and sighed as if he were dealing with a headstrong child.

"You're still naive. You don't know anything yet. I was once the same way, but one day a muse came to me and opened my eyes to the truth." A muse...? Stendhal's voice had taken on an almost wistful tone as he stared up at the sky for a beat of silence. Finally, the man seemed to gather himself and continued somberly, "You will understand soon, like I was made to, and there will come a time when you'll have to make a choice: when you must either kill or fail to protect. You'll have to decide if your resolve to help people is strong enough to withstand the price you must pay to do so."

Alexander growled in a way that would send shivers through anyone who heard the usually happy-go-lucky boy get mad. The other vigilante regarded him for a tense moment before nodding almost imperceptibly. The two said nothing more. No words were needed. They had come to a silent understanding, and so they let the fragile quiet hang in the air even as Stendhal began to walk away, fading until he was nothing but a dark blur in the distance. Leaving Petit Lion alone with questions that he didn't want to answer.

A glance at the time told him he still had about ten minutes left in his break before he had to go back to work. Might as well study, then. He pulled out a ratty textbook from his bag and flipped it open. But his mind was elsewhere. "...there will come a time where you'll have to make a choice." He knew that. And he'd thought about it almost non-stop for the past few days, yet he was still unable to come to a conclusion. Someday his indecision could get someone killed. He knew that too. He did, but he didn't want to think about it. He'd already had to make too many hard choices. He looked at the clock again. His downtime was over. Already? He hadn't even gotten any work done. He could have sworn the break had just started a minute ago... Sigh. The pounding in his temples worsened at only the thought of going back to work. Maybe the smell of the coffee beans would wake him up a little if he was lucky.

He smoothed down his apron, stretched his aching muscles, and walked into the front of the café- oh no. Eraserhead was back. And someone else was with him. He froze in place, and his mind began to spin. Why was Eraserhead back?! Was it a coincidence, or did he know something? And the one sitting next to him looked suspiciously like Present Mic; no, it was definitely Present Mic, so why the hell were two pro heroes sitting and chatting in his coffee shop?!

No, he had to keep it together! If they were really here to talk to him, they would have had the manager call him out or something. And he'd been thorough in hiding his identity, so they shouldn't have been able to find him this fast. It probably was just a coincidence. With that thought, all of Izuku's energy drained out of him, leaving him exhausted and exasperated. Of course. Of course they were here. Of course, of all the coffee shops in Japan the two people after him could have chosen to frequent, they'd chosen this one. He should have expected this. It was just his luck.

He was struck by an overwhelming urge to walk out the door and never come back, but he knew that there would be no getting out of this one. Not if he wanted to keep his job, which he did. So... this would be interesting. All of those thoughts had flashed through Izuku's mind in the span of a few seconds. As he took a breath to steel himself, praying that his sudden pause hadn't attracted the heroes' attention, he began to walk towards the counter. But before he could take another step, Present Mic began to screech.

"SHOUTAAAA! THAT'S TOTALLY THE LI-" Eraserhead's hair began to float, and to the immense relief of everyone else in the room, Present Mic's voice was reduced to a normal scream instead of an ear splitting one. "-ttle listener you mentioned, right? Right?!" The voice hero shot up and rushed at Izuku, who flinched involuntarily. Why was Present Mic after him? Had they found out about him being Petit Lion after all? What if-

"Shouta said you gave him free cake and stuff! That was you, right?! And he never talks about anyone, but he mentioned you, so you must be super awesome! I just had to meet you! Oh, I'm Present Mic, by the way," the hero in question blabbered excitedly as if he were an overeager fanboy (took one to know one, after all). "But you can just call me Hizashi!" Izuku's mind went blank for a second, and a jolt of nausea writhed in his stomach. Hizashi... it sounded too similar to another name. One that brought up bad memories. Very, very bad memories… Izuku clenched his fists. What was he doing? Now wasn't the time to reminisce. If he didn't give an answer soon, Hisashi- Hizashi would start to suspect something. His tongue was a lump of lead in his mouth, but he managed to force out something along the lines of, "U-um, hello, H-His- Hizashi-san... I-I'm a b-b-big f-fan, andIlistentoyourshowalotandIthinkitsreallyamazingsoIjust, um, w-well, s-s-sorry... t-t-thank you...f-for... everything..."

The words came out in a jumbled and nonsensical rush, and his eventually voice trailed off into an inaudible whisper. Great going, genius. Real smooth. He'd probably upset Present Mic- better that than Hizashi- with that stupid response. It was better to not make eye contact and risk angering him further, so Izuku looked down and instead trained his gaze on the hero's hands. Years of both vigilante work and living with Hisashi (his father, not the pro hero) had taught him to always track a person's body language. Especially facial expressions and hand movements: they were an excellent indicator of a person's mood, intentions, and whether they were about to attack. Now he did it out of habit more than anything. He was constantly profiling his surroundings without having to divert too much conscious attention to it, but purposely focusing on it like this relaxed him. It served as a reminder that he was staying alert.

To Izuku's surprise, Present Mic's body language didn't show any anger. That was strange. Maybe he was getting rusty? He'd have to brush up on his skills later; not being able to read an enemy properly would cost him someday.

"Leave the kid alone, Yamada. And you're overreacting, I barely said anything anyway," Eraserhead drew Izuku out of his thoughts with his grumble. Despite his complaints, there was a small blush barely visible on his cheeks. Oh, that's right, there was a conversation going on. Hizashi gave a jovial grin in response and elbowed his grumpy friend.

"Don't mind him, little listener! He's just being shy! Hey, you're pretty young to work here, right? What's it like working here? Is it fun? Do you like coffee? Actually, do you even drink coffee? Shouta over there loves it, you know, he practically worships it. And, get this, he says the coffee you made was half-decent! That's like Shouta-speak for 'this is the ambrosia of the gods'! And he's like a coffee connoisseur, so he knows good coffee when he tastes it, and can you make all kinds of coffee as good as you can make black coffee? Cuz I really like caramel fraps and-"

Izuku scratched the back of his neck and listened to the man's ramblings. He was more than happy to let the other party do all the talking in this conversation, but having all these questions being directed at him made him feel like he was being interrogated, even though he knew from the genuineness radiating from Present Mic that the man had no hidden intentions. Maybe this was how other people felt when he went on one of his muttering sprees? He really had to kick that habit. Not only was it annoying to others, he could accidentally let something slip that he didn't want others to overhear, and that could have catastrophic consequences. Honestly, he had to-

"-istener? Little listener, are you okay? You were mumbling a lot!"

"Huh? A-ah! I- I'm r-really s-s-sorry, I j-just, I-I j-j-just, um, it's a h-habit a-and I-I-I-" Izuku clamped his mouth shut, took a deep breath, and spoke again. "I'm f-fine... t-thank you. S-s-sorry about t-that..."

"It's okay, just relax! Like they always say, keep calm and listen to Present Mic's radio show!"

"No one says that," Aizawa said as he sipped his coffee.

"Sure they do! You're just not listening hard enough! YEEA-"

"Don't scream." Izuku stood there awkwardly as the two continued in their friendly banter. This was his time to leave, right? They were wrapped up in their own conversation, so he should leave now, right? Yeah, they clearly wanted him to leave. Making himself as unnoticeable as possible, he slipped away from the pair and took his place behind the register. The two continued to talk mildly, with Present Mic gabbing enthusiastically and Eraserhead either making a snide comment, nodding, or just ignoring the other person entirely as he made his way through a mountain of paperwork.

Mission successful. Izuku resisted the urge to caress the bridge of his nose in what would have been a useless attempt to relieve the growing knot of pressure in his forehead. No time to feel sorry for himself. Just make the stupid coffee, you baby. Suddenly, Present Mic began to approach the counter. Here it was, he'd made some horrible mistake and now he was going to have to-

"Little listener, you're mumbling again."

"A-ah! I'm r-really s-s-sorry! I d-didn't- I d-d-don't, um, I'm s-sorry... i-is there a-a-anything you n-need?"

"Could I please get another black coffee for Shou back there?" He lowered his voice as much as possible (which wasn't that much). "With a little cream in there too, he needs some sugar in his blood. But don't tell him, okay? I'll pay you extra!"

Izuku could see Eraserhead quirking his eyebrow from his seat, clearly having seen- or heard- through Present Mic's poor attempt at secrecy. But the tired hobo only shook his head and went back to his papers.

"Y-you d-d-don't have t-to do t-that... I-I'll m-make it f-f-for you. One s-second, p-p-please." Izuku turned around and grabbed the nearby coffee pot, along with a fresh cup. To his surprise, Present Mic didn't make any move to go back to his table. Was he planning to wait here for his order? Maybe he wanted to make sure the stupid barista didn't mess up. A justified worry, he supposed.

"Whoa, your hands are pretty roughed up, little listener," Present Mic commented. He'd tried to sound casual, but the worry laced in his voice was clear as day. That was also a justified reaction, especially when you considered how they must have looked to people who'd never seen them before. Alexander tensed, thinking up a quick explanation.

His fingers had been broken many times over the years courtesy of Hisashi, and the countless fractures had never set properly. As a result, the digits had become crooked, bent, and scarred. The rest of his hands didn't look too good either; every inch of skin was covered in nicks, calluses, and small cuts. Most notable were the two misshapen starburst scars on his palms from when Hisashi had decided to have some fun with a drill, but there was also the acid burn snaking up his wrist from a villain with a nasty venom quirk, only partially concealed by his sleeve. Izuku let out a nervous laugh.

"I-I'm k-kind of clumsy, s-s-sorry... H-here's y-your order." He pushed the coffee forward, hoping to change the subject. The blond's grin radiated kindness.

"Thanks a ton! But you should take care of yourself, little listener. I'll give you a $20 tip if you promise to be careful! How about it?" Izuku's chest squeezed painfully, and he struggled to keep his facial expression neutral. The honest compassion in the offer felt like a punch to the gut. Why was he being treated like this? Why was someone so important wasting so much time on him? He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to be cared about, and he had no right to make anyone worry about him. Especially when they had no idea how dirty he really was.

"I can't make a promise I know I'll break..."