In a dimly lit townhouse on the outskirts of the bustling city, High Street cherished the tranquillity currently offered to him. It was a secret haven, hidden from the prying eyes of other members of The Market, who had no idea of its existence. This place was in fact just one element of a constructed persona he'd crafted for himself. High Street was a part of two worlds, his real self: The figurehead of a secret league of killers. And his fake self: A globe-trotting businessman who rarely found the time to be at home.

For the most part, these two aspects of his life remained separate, a necessary precaution in case The Market's activities ever came to light. But there was one connection between them. High Street slid his hand beneath the smooth surface of his mahogany desk, searching for a hidden mechanism. After a moment, he found it - a hidden disk integrated into the desk's woodwork. With a soft click, a concealed drawer emerged, revealing the worn notebook resting inside. He flipped to the first page, as memories and secrets flooded his mind.

Asuji Nikita was four years and two weeks old when his quirk first revealed itself. It was also at this age that his mother's feelings toward him began to change.

It all started with just a simple touch of a son's hand on his mothers arm. "Mommy, it was you! I saw you, and you were so happy! You were wearing a fancy suit and had a big smile on your face. There were all these other people in suits too, and there was a man sitting on a big chair at the front!"

Perplexed, his mother tried to keep up with the excited stream of words. "Asuji, Asuji slow down, what are you talking about?"

"When I touched your arm, I saw it! I saw you in this big special building!" he exclaimed, his tiny hand mimicking the size of the structure. "You were talking to this man sat next to the other man in the big chair, then he got really mad and you smiled, then he got taken away and everyone was saying 'congradoolations' to you!"

His mother's expression shifted, Asuji couldn't quite work out the emotion she was showing. It wasn't something he had seen before. She struggled to process what her young son had told her. "You saw me, but I was a lawyer?"

Confusion filled Asuji's eyes as he looked up at his mother, "Mommy? What's wrong?" he asked.

She was wordless as she packed her son into his car seat and drove.

A short trip to a quirk specialist revealed that Asuji Nikita's quirk, entirely unique and entirely baffling, had manifested itself. After a series of tests, willing subjects and hypotheses, it was given a name.

Asuji Nikita. Quirk: Potential.

It was unprecedented. An ability to see into the deepest recesses of a person's capabilities, their untapped potentials, the person they could be - or the person they should have been.

It was a quirk that acted as a revealer of truths, exposing a reality that Asuji's mother had tried to evade. A truth that she had desperately avoided confronting. If she had never made that decision to leave college to have her son, she would have achieved great success in her dream job. It was a revelation that weighed heavily upon her, leaving her heartbroken and regretful. Now whenever she looked at her son, she saw the career she dreamed of but never pursued. She saw the happiness she lost out on. Seeking solace, she found herself drowning at the bottom of a bottle, attempting to numb the pain of a lost life that should have been.

Asuji and his mother became distant after that day, becoming family in name only. School wasn't any better for the young boy, mainly because his quirk made him a social outcast. Asuji soon realised that people didn't really want to hear about their greatest potential, because it rarely aligned with their own dreams and aspirations.

At first, his classmates were intrigued to learn what Asuji saw in their futures. But after the fifth aspiring hero was advised to consider a life as a baker, veterinarian, homemaker, politician, or skydiving instructor, their initial excitement turned into anger. They began to resent him like his mother did, for shattering their lofty ambitions. The teachers shared in their frustration as Asuji unintentionally exposed their deep-seated regrets and unfulfilled desires.

To defend himself against the mounting hostility, Asuji got involved in frequent fights at school. As he honed his fighting skills and hit back with enough force, people eventually learned to leave him alone. Over the years, his quirk remained dormant, unmentioned, and unused.

He was eleven years old when he found his mother in the apartment, surrounded by bottles and lost in her own world. It was a sight that stuck him with an easy decision. He gathered some food, packed his belongings, and quietly left, leaving the locked door behind him.

Alone and facing the harsh realities of life, Asuji roamed the streets of Musutafu City. Living here was tough, but Asuji was used to tough. He started with small acts of survival, resorting to petty theft and mugging children around his own age, using his towering build as an intimidation tactic. Whenever someone bigger demanded his meagre rations, he reluctantly shared, but he never hesitated to fight back when they pushed their demands too far.

News of this audacious young boy quickly spread like wildfire within the city's underbelly, eventually catching the attention of a notorious gang composed of ruthless teenagers. The allure of a life filled with power and belonging drew Asuji into their tight-knit circle, cementing his position as a member of this fierce crew. They became his constant companions, navigating the gritty streets together.

As time went on, their crimes escalated. The group of six delved deeper into a life of thievery and confrontation, over time evolving into a far more menacing force. With each passing day, their acts of violence grew bolder and their targets more high-stakes. By the time Asuji reached the age of fifteen, he'd settled into the role of the group's muscle. His imposing build, fueled by the extra food on his plate and the relentless brawling, earned him a reputation as a fierce enforcer. It got to the stage where people speculated that he had a strength-enhancement quirk.

At that pivotal age, tragedy struck once again in the life of Asuji Nikita. It was supposed to be a straightforward heist. An easy score on three unsuspecting salarymen returning from a business trip, flaunting their Rolexes and bulging wallets. The plan seemed simple enough: intimidate them, knock out a few teeth, and make off with their valuables…

…Amidst the chaos and violence, blood dripping from his mouth, Asuji refused to flinch. He stared defiantly at his assailants, paying no mind to the battered bodies of his comrades strewn across the floor. The steel-toed boot of one of the "salarymen" crushed his fingers, while another delivered a blow to his jaw.

"Just kill him already! What are you waiting for?" The one crushing his hand demanded.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" the other sneered, leaning in close to Asuji's battered face. "You're a tough son of a bitch, aren't you?"

Asuji spat in his tormentor's face, a defiant smile creeping onto his blood-stained lips. "Is that the best you've got?"

"Alright, kid. You asked for it," the man responded, relishing the moment. He took a few steps back, unholstered a gun, and aimed for Asuji's head.

But before he could make a move, a commanding voice boomed, "STOP!" The words echoed through the air, freezing the assailant in his tracks. Asuji heard the deliberate footsteps of another person approaching, and a new face leaned down towards him.

"Don't often see someone still standing after going a few rounds with these guys, you must have something real strong inside you." the newcomer observed, scrutinising the teenager with discerning eyes. Rising to his feet, he retrieved a gun from his jacket pocket, and without a hint of remorse or hesitation, shot the three men dead right before Asuji's eyes.

Heart pounding in his chest, Asuji struggled to hear the man's voice over the ringing in his ears and his own heavy breaths. "You weren't part of the contract, and I don't work with people who break contracts," he explained. Extending a hand towards Asuji, he introduced himself. "Come with me, kid. The name's High Street."

High Street ushered Asuji into a hidden facility known as The Market, a clandestine underground hub teeming with activity. Dozens of individuals operated under the command of one leader and eleven formidable head assassins. For the next three years, Asuji found himself immersed in an intensive training regime, eagerly absorbing the abilities and skills of each mentor like a sponge.

There was Museum, the expert in infiltration. Barbershop, the master of close-quarters combat. Library, the genius in research and intelligence analysis. Bakery, the specialist in covert stealth operations. Blacksmith, the go-to person for weapons and equipment. Hospital, the skilled medical practitioner and poison expert. Observatory, the master of long-range reconnaissance and sniper operations. Tailor, the master of disguise. Bank, the financial wizard. Garage, the expert in all things vehicular, and lastly, Theater, the cunning manipulator and deception specialist.

Asuji surpassed the expectations of each mentor, his skills advancing at an astounding pace over the years. On his eighteenth birthday, as a token of recognition for his unwavering commitment and tireless efforts within The Market, as well as the fatherly bond he had developed with High Street, Asuji received his own codename - Bistro. From that moment forward, Asuji Nikita was no more.

Throughout his training, Bistro delved into the intricate workings of The Market. They were a group of assassins available for hire, catering to the ultra-wealthy clientele. Known for their speed, stealth, and ability to leave no trace, they operated in the shadows, their actions ranging from toppling governments to igniting wars and manipulating stock markets. Strangely enough, their interventions always seemed to yield positive outcomes for the affected regions.

Growing up in such an environment was undeniably captivating, and Bistro internalised the principles of being a merchant of death. However, despite his accomplishments and stellar performance - breaking training course records, surpassing his instructors, and showcasing his readiness for more significant missions - High Street adamantly refused his requests.

"You're still not ready," were the words he had to endure time and time again. Even as he proved himself time and time again, demonstrating his capability and determination to make a greater impact, the answer remained a resolute "No."

Denied the opportunity to embark on missions of his own, Bistro begrudgingly accepted his assignment to The Market's cleanup crew. It was an essential role, erasing any traces of their activities from crime scenes involving murder, robbery, and kidnapping. Though he executed his duties with efficiency and discretion, the work left him bored and restless. The mundane nature of the job, despite the substantial paycheck, gnawed at his spirit, fueling his desire to prove himself.

Driven by his desperation, Bistro tapped into the skills instilled in him by his mentors. Drawing upon his knowledge of The Market's operations, he managed to obtain a confidential list of names that were currently targeted by the organisation. His plan was to carry out a hit on his own, thereby showcasing his worth beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Bistro was meticulous in his decision, reading and rereading every name as he weighed the potential targets. It was important he chose someone who possessed the right blend of significance and vulnerability - someone whose death would send a message while ensuring his own success.

After careful consideration, he managed to narrow down his options to three targets, each with their own allures and risks. The first was a corrupt politician, entangled in a web of illicit activities, who had failed to fulfil his financial obligations after ordering a hit on a rival. Taking him out would not only serve justice but also send a powerful message to others who dared cross paths with The Market.

The second option was a notorious crime boss, a shadowy figure who had been encroaching on the territories protected by The Market. Removing him would reinforce their reputation as protectors of their domain. However, this would be a formidable opponent.

Lastly, there was the wealthy businessman who had been threatening to expose the inner workings of The Market. Eliminating him would not only safeguard their secrets but also serve as a reminder to anyone who considered betraying them.

Bistro decided on the wealthy businessman as his target, seeing an opportunity to make a bold statement. The man's lifestyle and predictable routines made him a good option for a high profile hit, one that would make headlines.

The body, slumped back in its office chair with a single bullet wound in the centre of the head, zero trace of any intruders, did indeed send a message. The police never found the handwritten note clutched in the corpse's hand, but High Street did.

"A gift,

-Bistro"

"No, you were reckless and arrogant! That kill was not yours to make, Bistro! I told you that you weren't ready, and it looks like I was right!" High Street's furious words reverberated through his office, the force of his hand slamming on the desk doing little to shake the imposing figure before him.

Bistro's voice rose in defiance, matching High Street's intensity. "I did a better job than most of your top killers! Why can't you see that?!"

Gripping the edges of the desk with both hands, High Street's anger burned brightly, but he fought to regain control. "Because I'm protecting you!" he roared. "I'm protecting you from all of this. This life! It was never meant for you. I never intended for you to become a killer!"

Bistro stood before him, flabbergasted as he paced back and forth, running a hand through his hair. "Then why go through all this? Why train me?!"

"If I hadn't trained you, you would be dead on the streets by now, you stupid child! I was giving you a chance to survive. I never expected you to... I never expected this."

"You never expected me to be good," he said bitterly. With those words hanging in the air, Bistro stormed out of High Street's office, slamming the door shut behind him.

Returning to his quarters, Bistro seethed with anger, reverting back to the ruthless enforcer he had once been. He unleashed his frustration by mercilessly pounding his fist against the wall, the pain of his bloodied knuckles and chipped paint serving as a twisted release. Standing there, breathing heavily, he muttered to himself, "He never believed in what I could do, what I was capable of. It was all lies! He never saw my potential!"

As he rubbed the back of his bloodied knuckles, the touch of his own blood triggered something. His vision blurred momentarily before gradually coming into focus. He found himself seeing through his own eyes, observing an office with a mahogany desk. In his hand, he held a piece of paper.

Focusing on the paper, he saw a list of names. Bakery, Blacksmith, Tailor, Bank, and more. All of them crossed out. Blood stained his hands, and he picked up a pen, crossing out the last name on the list.

High Street.

At that moment, Bistro saw his own potential for the first time.

Over many years, Bistro never held back, working tirelessly to reach the potential he saw in his own vision. Ruthlessly hunting down and murdering his former colleagues in the market, using the very skills they had taught him to exploit their weaknesses and lead them into traps and ambushes. His approach was methodical, brutal, and deadly.

The market was thrown into chaos and panic by Bistro's killings. Many of the lower-ranked members fled into hiding. He thought of these as the smart ones, but he always kept tabs on their movements. No matter what the leading members of The Market tried, Bistro was always one step ahead, and in time they found themselves with a bullet in the head or a knife to the throat.

Decades of tireless work and sacrifice went into Bistro's unwavering pursuit of his goal. He never truly lived, as his entire existence revolved around this singular purpose. Every now and then, he would activate his quirk, adding a new name to his list. One page turned into two, then ten, as he swiftly and violently brought justice upon each name.

Eventually, he finally managed to find him. High Street, aged and weary, living in isolation in the mountains in a simple cabin.

He never put up a fight.

"What have you done, Asuji?" High Street said softly, sitting in a wooden chair out in the snow, as though he was expecting this arrival. "You've destroyed The Market, there's nothing left for you to claim."

Bistro stood before him, colder than the snow piled around them. "I did it because it was my potential. The potential that you never saw." he replied. "You were all just a means to an end. Nothing but stepping stones."

The beaten man in front of him shook his head in disbelief. "You're lost, deluded," he said, his voice cracking. "Potential isn't fixed. It's meant to be challenged, not blindly pursued." His voice began to rise in anger at the stupidity of the man he once thought of as a son, rising from the chair. "You speak to me about potential?! You squandered your potential and became a monster!"

It took three shots to kill High Street.

Bistro turned to leave, ready to finally move on to the next stage of his rise to the top, when a piercing scream tore through the air.

A little girl, no older than 4 or 5, tears streaming down her face, ran towards Bistro with a mixture of anguish and fury in her eyes. "Grandpa!" She cried out, her voice filled with raw pain. "You killed him!"

Taken aback, Bistro faced the little girl with uncertainty. "Stay back!" he warned, raising a hand in a matching gesture.

The forks the little girl embedded in the palm of his hand hurt like hell.

The second man to claim the title of High Street wrote another two names down on his pad of paper, weathered and beaten over the many years of use. Two more targets given to him by his quirk, and two more names that would drive him closer to reaching his full potential.


Meanwhile, in the Midoriya household:

"Now try a marker pen! No, a vacuum cleaner! No wait! A lamp!"

"Mom, seriously! You're worse than Mei! I can't turn into electronics anyway, it doesn't work that- …huh."

"You were saying?"

Turns out it did work that way.