Izuku stood in the living room of the Midoriya house, where he had built a raging fire in the fireplace. He was clutching his costume, bunched up in his right hand, staring down at it, tears streaking his cheeks.
He looked up, at the mantle, at a picture of himself, with All Might, taken a couple years ago.
He stared, he clutched his costume, his hand shook with the agony, the indecision, the choice.
He hurled his costume into the fire.
The flames roared, the orange tongues licking up, consuming it, the sheer fabric curling up and melting, the stenciled spider outline warping and dripping down into the flames.
Izuku leaned against the mantle, in unendurable pain.
Out in front of the Midoriya house, a dark figure in an overcoat stood in the shadows, just outside the arc of light thrown by a streetlamp.
The Dark Figure stared into the living room of the Midoriya house, its drapes wide open. The Figure watched Izuku, still leaning against the mantle, the fire burning brightly in the fireplace.
The Figure waited. Put a cigarette in his mouth. Clinked open a Zippo lighter. Swatted a mosquito. And unscrewed the lightbulb in the streetlight. All at once.
Guess who.