"You really overdid it, Nii-san," Izuna remarks idly, punctuating his words with a seemingly innocent press of his thumb into Madara's shoulder blade, targeting an especially tense spot near the spine. The effect is immediate – a choked grunt of pain from Madara.

Undeterred, Izuna continues his assault. His fingers trace a path along Madara's neck and shoulders, following the course of his muscle fibers beneath his skin. Over and over again until he gradually eases away Madara's tension, and his brother becomes a relaxed starfish sprawled out on the bed.

As the minutes pass, the strained breaths beneath Izuna become steadier, and a contented sigh escapes Madara, muffled by his pillow. "I love you very much right now, Izuna."

Izuna responds with a grin that's as mischievous as it is affectionate. "Oh? Do tell me more about that. Keep the praise coming and don't be stingy!"

"Never mind, you are a brat."

"You think so?" Izuna asks with feigned pleasantry, his grin widening into an impish expression. Then, with a sudden change in strategy, he targets a muscle knot near Madara's spine with a jab. A yelp of pain and a flinch follow, breaking the calm atmosphere.

Startled, Madara jerks upwards, dislodging Izuna and sending him sprawling. With the speed of lightning, Madara turns the tables. In an instant, he's on top of Izuna, his tone sickly sweet as he mutters, "You dirty little weasel," before grabbing him and locking a flailing Izuna in a headlock that swiftly escalates into an all-out brawl.

"Is this the thanks I get for helping my brother in need? You ungrateful bastard!" Izuna exclaims, squirming in his brother's unrelenting hold.

Madara only tightens his grip. "You are so full of shit."

Feigning desperation, Izuna appeals to Obito, absorbed in some task, seemingly determined to ignore the impromptu wrestling match. "'Bito, help me!" Izuna bellows, hoping for a rescue.

Obito, however, remains indifferent, attention fixed on something in his hands. "Just don't knock over one of my plants again," he nonchalantly remarks, offering no sympathy to Izuna's plight. Betrayed! By his own brother. Izuna has to wipe away a mental tear at the audacity.

He shoots a scornful glance at the plant in question standing proudly on Madara's nightstand, potted in a blue round vase with countless little cracks running across it that originally weren't part of it, but the result of a little mishap that Izuna had fixed with hours of handiwork and a lot of glue – Izuna thinks it adds charm to the clay pot, Obito thinks it looks ridiculous, but he hasn't gotten rid of it yet.

The plant is a Calathea Medallion, Obito had explained at some point, although that means little to Izuna. To him, it's just another addition to the mini-forest that seems to sprout in their room at an alarming pace. Sometimes, he can't help but wonder if the Mokuton somehow transferred into this world within Obito – they checked, and it didn't.

"By the way," Obito says offhandedly, finally lifting his head from whatever has captured his attention to observe the ongoing tussle. "This Kanjin and Amaya apparently passed the exam and are asking whether you did as well, Madara."

Ah, so it's Madara's phone he had been toying with all the while.

"So, they passed? Good for them. I lost sight of them at the start of the third part of the exam," Madara remarks, unfazed by the fact that his phone has been snatched.

Izuna has come to understand that people in this world fiercely guard their phones and the information stored on them. It's considered a highly personal possession not meant for prying eyes. As shinobi though, they learned early that if there's something you don't want others to see, it's better to never leave any physical trace of it in the first place, as information that is simply lying around is fair game – not that there's much to hide between the three of them.

Madara's grip on Izuna finally loosens, and he could probably manage to wriggle away now, but the position has become kind of comfortable. So, Izuna flops down onto Madara's lap instead, observing with mild amusement as Obito continues typing away at Madara's phone.

"They are congratulating you now," Obito updates. "Are you planning to keep in contact with them?"

"For now. Having allies in the hero community might come in handy," Madara replies, settling into a more comfortable position and absentmindedly petting Izuna like a cat. "And they are not total buffoons, unlike some of those heroes."

"Speaking of heroes!" Izuna interjects, tugging at Madara's sleeve to get his attention. "Can you get me an autograph from Endeavor when you start that internship tomorrow?"

His brother frowns down at him. "Why would you need one?"

"To sell it, of course! Those things are worth good money!"

"You really have no shame," Madara sighs, shaking his head, but smiling in amusement.

Izuna snorts in response. "Don't pretend like that's news to you."

.

.
Shoto has learned to assess his father's mood based on the sounds accompanying his return from work.

Every evening, like a macabre ritual, he holds his breath as he leans close to his bedroom door. Huddled on the floor, he listens intently as his father arrives home, noting the volume of the door closing, how his father puts away his shoes – is it a careful placement or a toss to the side? He pays attention to the steps on the wooden floor – are they forceful and thundering or controlled and quiet?
Most crucially, he listens for the direction of those steps – are they approaching his room or moving away from it?

Tonight, Shoto thinks that it's a good night. His father doesn't slam the entrance door, places his shoes quietly, and the footsteps, though coming his way, don't echo across the entire hallway.

Shoto hastily scrambles to his feet. Methodically, he ensures that his bed is neatly made, checks the tidiness of his desk, and gathers all his action figures from the floor, hiding them deep in his closet. His father dislikes it when his room isn't immaculate, and even more so when Shoto appears to have wasted time with what he deems as useless toys – items he's supposed to have outgrown long ago.

He takes extra care to hide the All Might figure - a secret gift from his brother Natsuo on his last birthday. Though, Natsuo had made him promise to never ever show it to their father; given the disdain that crosses his father's face at the mere mention of the number one hero, Shoto had readily agreed.

Just as he steps away from the closet, the door to his room is torn open, revealing his father's stern face on the other side. He still wears his hero costume; his flames are licking at the doorframe without torching it. It makes Shoto feel bare in comparison, clad in only shorts and a t-shirt.

"Shoto."

Instinctively, Shoto tenses. His posture stiffens, shoulders hitching up in preparation for whatever is coming next. However, his father stops at just his name. There's no demand to inspect his completed homework, no sharp command to head to the training room, and no yelling for any of his many inadequacies. Instead, his father stands unnaturally still, gazing down at him with an inscrutable expression.

It has Shoto on edge in an instant; he can't read his father's face and the resulting uncertainty sends his hackles rising and his heart racing. If he can't read his father, he doesn't know what his father is thinking, and that means he can't predict what's coming next, and not knowing what comes next means he is not prepared for it, and not being prepared means being vulnerable, and being vulnerable brings nothing but pain.

Gritting his teeth, hands trembling faintly at his sides, Shoto holds his chin up as defiantly as he dares, careful to keep his face devoid of emotion. He refuses to display vulnerability before his father, determined to project nothing to the outside but empty coldness. Any sign of weakness only fuels his father's anger, after all. Shoto is expected to be strong, the strongest in every aspect.

"Today, the youngest hero to date in Japan has attained his hero license, Arano Junichi. He is twelve," his father declares with a stony demeanor, casting a grim gaze upon Shoto.

In that moment, Shoto is acutely aware that he is being measured against this newly licensed hero, Arano. His father's eyes scrutinize him openly, drawing comparisons to the benchmark set by Arano, and the outcome of his evaluation is evident in the subtle expressions that play across his father's face – a displeased tilt of the mouth, narrowing eyes, and a twitching brow.

Shoto has never seen this Arano or heard anything about him, other than that he is a hero and that he is twelve. But he already knows that he can't measure up to him, that he is better than Shoto, and that makes Shoto not good enough; something his father will not stand for, never has, and never will.

In Shoto's life, there exist only two categories of people: those he has already surpassed in power and skill, and those he is yet to surpass. The first group, his father deems unworthy of association, while the second is seen as mere steppingstones for Shoto to reach greatness, all meant to get crushed under his heels sooner or later as he makes his way to the top. Until one day, there is no more climbing to do, because Shoto has reached the summit, and he is standing alone on the top as the unquestioned best.

"Tomorrow, Fuyumi will drive you to the agency after school. There, you will observe Arano, and you will learn from him. Am I understood? You are to become the number one hero, and as such, I expect you to not only catch up to his skill but to surpass him. I will not accept failure."

Without waiting for a response – for there is only one correct answer anyway – his father leaves, slamming the door with a resounding bang. The weight of his words hangs heavily in the air, pressing down on Shoto like a physical force. His father's expectations are as clear as they are absolute, leaving him no choice but to fulfill them, or train until he is able to do so.

Shoto clenches his fists at his sides until his nails bite into his flesh. A bitter chill sweeps through the room as a storm of emotions brews within Shoto. Frost creeps over the floor, and the air around him fogs as the rage intensifies. His gaze remains fixed on the closed door, listening with a clenched jaw to the retreating, heavy footsteps.

The hatred coursing through his veins is familiar, an old companion by now, as is the anger, constantly simmering inside him, building until some days it becomes too much to hold in, and he is left screaming into his pillow in the darkness of his room until his throat is shredded, and his lungs are raw.

Better, stronger, faster. As long as All Might is the number one, as long as Shoto is not the unchallenged best, he will not be enough. Only when Shoto is the number one will he be father's perfect son, and not a day sooner.

Arano Junichi is the next obstacle in his way, and Shoto has to beat him, just as he had to with everyone else so far.

.

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Madara shuffles into Endeavor's agency at nine in the morning, accompanied by two unshakeable shadows trailing behind him.

"Holy shit, this place is huge," marvels Izuna as soon as they enter, his eyes roaming across the vast entrance hall. Obito merely hums in agreement, his eyes wandering more subtly but no less impressed.

Madara would have used the word excessive, but Izuna is not wrong. High ceilings, polished marble, dark wood, and crystal chandeliers give the entrance hall a luxurious and grandeur aesthetic. The morning sun shines through the high windows just right, bathing the hall in warm light, and if his steps were audible, Madara is sure they would echo across the room.

Towering in the center of it all with an air of impatience is Endeavor. His posture is wide-footed and ramrod straight, making himself as tall as possible. His arms are crossed to seem even more imposing, and the flames on his shoulders make him appear broader than he actually is. His chin is lifted slightly, creating the illusion of looking down on anyone standing before him.

Madara comes to a stop a few feet in front of him, posture much laxer, and his eyes impassive.

"Who are they?" The hero asks first thing, his voice filled with displeasure as he tries to burn holes through Izuna and Obito with his piercing eyes alone.

"We," Izuna starts overly cheerful, stepping in front of Madara with the flair of the performer that he is. "Are Madara's brothers."

The flame hero scowls, unimpressed by the explanation. "What are you doing here? This is no place for children."

"Naturally, we wanted to accompany our Nii-san to his first day interning here!" Izuna declares, dripping fake childish sweetness all over, unbothered by the huge man looming over him. He blinks innocently as he swipes a piece of high-quality paper and a pen out of his jacket pocket. "Also, I would love to have an autograph of you!"

If possible, Endeavor's whole demeanor turns even more sour. He does, however, surprisingly sign Izuna's piece of paper with a quick scrawl. "Now go. This is not a daycare, and I have work to do."

Izuna grins wickedly, the autograph vanishing into his pocket. "Yes, yes. Thank you kindly!" With that, he grabs Obito and vanishes out of the building as if he had never been here in the first place. Madara sincerely hopes Izuna will choose to sell this online rather than behind a dumpster in some schoolyard, leaving some poor high schooler that doesn't know any better broke, again.

Endeavor's rumbling voice interrupts his thoughts. "Follow me," he instructs.

Leading Madara at a brisk pace through bustling halls and corridors, Endeavor guides him right past confused and curious stares until they reach his private office. There, the hero settles behind a sturdy wooden desk in the dimly lit room, his flames casting an ominous atmosphere. Without wasting a moment, Endeavor addresses Madara, who remains standing before his desk.

"Today, you will spend commissioning a proper hero costume," he begins, looking Madara pointedly up and down, his gaze lingering on the many bloodstains he had not been able to get out of the dark fabric. "You will provide a first design, which will then be sent and reviewed by someone in my partner support company. It will either be approved or sent back with changes and feedback for you to accept or disapprove of. Take these files as references and guidelines. The final design should be finished by today. My agency will fully provide you the costume, within the bounds of reason, of course."

Madara takes the stack of papers Endeavor hands him with interest, quickly shuffling through them. He does a double take as he catches sight of the listed materials available to him. What is liquid armor?

"You can use one of the free desks outside in the sidekicks' office. If you have questions, ask one of them for help."

"Hm," Madara hums. He supposes he should use this opportunity and get himself a generous upgrade if it's being so willingly offered. "Fine," he says and leaves without another word, looking for said sidekicks' office.

The longer he stands before Endeavor's desk, the more uneasy he becomes. The whole setting reminds him too much of the Hokage's office.

.

.
Delving into the various materials and gadgets available to him and studying their properties is a time-consuming process. In the end, he doesn't intend to make significant changes to his original 'costume' design, but Madara is determined to explore all possibilities, so he does, no matter how much time it takes.

Regarding his clothing, he opts merely for more resilient fabrics while maintaining the original shinobi style. He forgoes any fancy additions and complex support items.

Where he goes all out is in the weapon department. Finally presented with the opportunity to hold a proper blade again, he is not going to waste it by being modest. Detailed sketches of kunai, shuriken, katana, and wakizashi fill his designs. Complementing these, he commissions different renditions of ninja wire, smoke bombs, and a substitute for explosive tags he comes up with.

His notes are meticulously detailed, providing exact instructions on how the bladed weapons should be balanced, specifying preferred materials, and underscoring the importance of their sharpness. For now, he excludes his signature Gunbai; he couldn't wield one effectively anyway. However, he has noted down a few materials that could make it feasible again in the future without the help of chakra-enhanced strength, by making the Gunbai lighter without sacrificing durability; but that's a thought for another day. And if he commissions two extra sets of kunai, then they are solely spare sets for Madara, not for Izuna and Obito.

While he fills page after page with instructions and sketches, the few sidekicks present in the office shoot him curious glances. Fortunately, they leave him to his work, having observed his earlier entrance with Endeavor. Those daring enough to approach him receive a pointed glare, effectively scaring them away. He will introduce himself at some point, Madara supposes, but today is not that day.

Before he knows it, he has sent the first version of his designs to Endeavor's support company. They respond astonishingly quickly, providing him with an overworked version incorporating a few minor changes, adjustments, and suggestions for improvement. There's some back-and-forth, but soon Madara is satisfied with the updated version of his shinobi equipment and gives his approval to commence the manufacturing process. Nevertheless, the entire process takes the majority of the day.

When he reenters Endeavor's office at the end of the day, he doesn't bother to knock. "I am finished," he states simply as he strides in.

"Madara," Endeavor scowls, looking up displeased from the files spread before him. "You will knock the next time before entering."

Madara neither agrees nor denies; in fact, he doesn't give Endeavor any attention at all. Instead, his focus shifts to the boy standing beside the man. White-red hair split in the middle, bicolored eyes - Endeavor's teal and storm gray - and a badly healed burn scar on half his face. The boy is clothed in an expensive-looking school uniform and maintains a neutral expression, bordering on bored, with a straight and proper posture.

But that is only a mask, isn't it? Madara tilts his head in interest, examining more closely. And there it is - a flickering flame burning in his eyes, barely there but radiating heat that could melt iron. Resentment steeling his spine and hatred boiling under his skin. The boy doesn't blink as Madara keeps staring intently at him, simply returning his gaze.

"Madara, this is my son, Todoroki Shoto," Endeavor introduces, but Madara's eyes stay firmly on the boy. Suddenly, he is reminded of a volcano - a mountain, resting silent and calm on the surface. Yet, underneath the outer shell of hard, unyielding stone, there is red-hot, scorching magma coursing out of sight and out of mind, steadily building pressure for years and years. One day, that pressure will become too much, and the tranquil mountain will explode, raining smoke and cinders down on its surroundings, and flooding its valleys with liquid fire.

Does Endeavor know his son is a sleeping cataclysm? That there is something explosive building up under the guise of indifference, ready to burst forth at any moment, or perhaps in a few years, or maybe never?

Madara doesn't think he does. There is no tender warmth as he addresses his supposed son; there is pride, yes, but only the pride of a craftsman in his creation. The man's eyes don't linger on Shoto with affection, as parents often do. Endeavor's eyes are those of a scrutinizing inspector. He may see the constructed shell standing at his side, but he doesn't see the boy living inside it.

Madara on the other hand knows and sees, because he has witnessed this scene before. It has played out before his eyes in a hauntingly familiar manner once already. History truly loves to repeat itself, does it not?

"Shoto, this is Arano Junichi, aka Madara," the hero continues, oblivious to Madara's thoughts.

The boy nods stiffly in acknowledgment, and Madara doesn't outwardly react at all. It's been a while since he has seen such hatred, especially from a mere child directed at his own father, the number two hero of Japan no less. What could Endeavor have done to earn such resentment from his son? What secrets is he hiding in his basement? Perhaps this internship won't be as boring as initially thought.

"There is one last thing before your first day ends, Madara," the flame hero says, standing up from his desk. "I want to test your physical skill set in a spar."

Madara's keen eyes catch how Shoto stiffens minutely at the declaration, and just like that, his curiosity is even more piqued – Has Obito ever flinched away from him? He cannot remember.

"Shoto will be there to observe, but he will be careful not to disturb us."

"Hm." Madara finally shifts his gaze away from the boy, the beginning of a familiar excitement coursing through his veins. A spar with the number two hero in all of Japan? He is not about to refuse that.