Another Friday rolled around at Aldera Junior High and as the bell rang to signal the end of the school day, students began lazily packing up their bags. Some drifted towards the door, others began chatting with friends who were slower to pack up.

In this midst of all this, Izuku let out a sigh—a mix of relief and restlessness. He had a mixed relationship with Fridays.

Even after months of Gran Torino lobbying to increase their training sessions from four days to five, Recovery Girl had remained firm. She insisted that Izuku, as a teenager, needed time to rest and experience his youth, both for his physical recovery and mental well-being. Hence, he still had Fridays off from training.

Izuku appreciated her stance. But lately, he'd begun to notice two issues with the arrangement.

First, Gran Torino seemed to take Recovery Girl's limitations as a challenge, cramming an extra day's worth of intensity into the four sessions they already had. Even after a weekend break, Izuku often returned to training stiff and sore, the rest of the weekend having barely dulled the aching of his body.

Second—and more troubling—Izuku wasn't sure what to do with his free time anymore.

In the past, he would have filled it with schoolwork or his favorite pastime: hunting for and analyzing quirks.

But school was slow this time of year. January's post-holiday lull meant final exams and entrance exams were still months away, leaving him without the usual flurry of academic pressure.

As for quirks...

Izuku stared down at his hand, flexing his fingers in quiet contemplation.

It wasn't that his fascination with quirks had vanished since inheriting One for All—and manifesting Black Whip. He still marveled at the diversity and power of others' abilities. But something fundamental had shifted.

In the past, his passion of analyzing or just observing even the most mundane quirk might have dragged him halfway across the city, burning hours he didn't have on the hobby of people or quirk watching. Now, that drive had dulled. His curiosity felt quieter, less obsessive. Most of the time, he was content to passively observe quirks rather than actively seek them out.

(I have a quirk!)

Was it because, for the first time in his life, he had a quirk of his own? That he no longer had to wonder what it felt like?

The small, satisfied smile on his lips faded as a sudden realization struck him. Shock rippled through him as he noticed thin, shadowy tendrils slipping from his hand, curling lazily in the air, extending about an inch from his hand. In his absentmindedness, he'd let Black Whip leak out.

Panic flared in his chest, and the quirk reflexively darted back into his hand. His heart pounded as he glanced around, thankfully nobody had seen. They were probably to focused on their own lives to notice him.

His moms advice, training to use the quirk for every mundane task imaginable, had done wonders for his performance in training. Gran Torino actually seemed surprised at his progress, despite the fact they hadn't been able to overcome the quirks weird power limit.

This progress was nice, Izuku was beginning to feel comfortable using One for All, it was beginning to feel like his quirk. The issue is that he might have gotten too comfortable with his quirk over the past month. Sometimes he wouldn't notice himself using the quirk until after the fact.

This was the first time it happened in public, though, and thankfully this time it went unnoticed.

Izuku glanced around and realized most of the students had already left. He stood and began packing his bag, pausing when he noticed a paper handed out earlier. Scanning the long list of career options, he noted with some amusement that "Heroics" was placed at the very bottom—despite the rest of the careers being listed alphabetically.

Probably an attempt to nudge students toward other paths, he thought. Too many teens burned all their bridges chasing hero work, leaving themselves stranded if they failed.

A small smile tugged at his lips. He'd almost been one of those students himself. The weight of gratitude settled in his chest again—All Might had given him a chance.

The moment was cut short by an odd tickling sensation at the back of his neck. It felt like a bug crawling on his skin.

He yelped, instinctively swatting at it—only to be met with another yelp of pain from behind him, followed by a familiar chuckle.

"Ow, ow, ow. Dammit, Midori, that actually hurts." Sadao winced, cradling the fingers he'd used to poke him. Next to him, Shiki was grinning from ear to ear.

"Nice one, Midori." Shiki gave him a thumbs-up. Izuku hesitantly returned it, still unsure what had just happened.

"Hey, what gives, man?" Sadao shot his friend a betrayed look. "All I did was tickle him."

"I'm enjoying your pain," Shiki deadpanned. "Because it's annoying as hell when you do that to me."

"Yeah, 'cause you're too slow to smack me like he did." Sadao smirked. "You always end up hitting yourself."

Shiki swiped at him lazily, and Sadao ducked away with a chuckle.

Izuku let their antics fade into the background as he zipped up his bag. Just as he slung it over his shoulder, Sadao poked him again.

"Hey, so... we had a question," he said, his usual playfulness dimmed by something more uncertain. Shiki, too, looked more reserved.

Izuku hesitated. "Uh… sure?"

Sadao scratched the back of his head. "We know how things went down the last time we went to the arcade…"

Izuku's breath hitched. The memories surfaced uninvited, uncomfortable and sharp.

"But… it was a lot of fun having you there. So, we were hoping you'd come with us again?"

His voice had lifted slightly at the end, like he wasn't even sure he should be asking.

Izuku swallowed. The thought of going back was… uncomfortable. He'd buried those memories, avoiding them had been easy considering how busy his life at been. Saying no felt like the obvious choice.

But then he saw their faces—uncertain, maybe even a little hopeful. They were reaching out in their own way. Turning them down felt… selfish.

Before he fully processed it, his mouth moved ahead of his thoughts.

"Sure!" he said, sounding far more enthusiastic than he felt.

"Hell yeah!" Keiichi grinned as the TV screen flashed a victory screen for Captain Celebrity, who floated triumphantly above his defeated opponent, Big Red Dot.

"Awww, dang it. I almost had you there." Sadao groaned, throwing his arms up in defeat.

Keiichi glanced at his health bar, still well above half, and shrugged. "If you say so."

...

"Double or nothing," Sadao offered with a sly grin.

"Hey, hey, hey—since when are we betting? Besides, you know the rules. King of the Hill means loser hands over the controller." One of the other boys called from the couches near the snack table.

"Spoilsport." Sadao pouted theatrically, handing the remote to the next challenger before flopping onto the couch beside Shiki. He stretched lazily. "Hey, so… did your homeroom teacher also hand out that career options list?"

Shiki barely looked up from his phone. "Oh, yeah. Kinda funny I didn't see 'heroics' on it."

Izuku and Bakugo both started speaking at once. "It was—" They stopped, glancing at each other. Bakugo glared. Izuku, avoiding his gaze, simply popped the straw of his drink back into his mouth.

Bakugo scoffed. "It was on the bottom. Probably trying to push extras toward something more realistic."

"Haha, like that'll work. I'm going straight for UA, baby!" one of the boys yelled excitedly.

A few snickered—including Bakugo.

"What? So Bakugo can dream, but I can't?" he protested.

Shiki smirked. "Bro, nothing against you, but even Bakugo doesn't have a guaranteed shot at getting in."

"You wanna say that again?" Bakugo challenged, voice low.

Shiki just grinned and looked away. "Act tough all you want, but you know it's true. UA was already tough last year, but this year? It's insane with all the attention."

"Yeah, I mean… I'd love to get in, but I know I'll probably end up somewhere else. Doesn't mean I won't try."

"So what, you're applying to multiple high schools? Sounds like a pain."

"That's what you're supposed to do, dumbass."

"Hey, chill." A long, thin finger poked Bakugo in the ribs. "He's right, though. Like Mr. Uyagi says—cast a wide net, and you're more likely to catch a fish. And if you catch multiple, you get to choose the best one to eat." Sadao explained.

"You actually listen to that guy in class?" one of the boys asked, raising a brow. "I thought you wouldn't care, since you're gonna be a hero."

Sadao wrinkled his nose, hesitating. "I mean…" He scratched his cheek. "Actually, I think I might want to do something else with my life."

Bakugo snorted. "You mean you finally realized your quirk's too weak, and at best you'd be a sidekick."

A few kids shifted uncomfortably.

Izuku finally pulled his straw from his mouth. "Kacchan! That's so mean!"

A few murmured in agreement.

Bakugo crossed his arms. "So? I'm right." He looked directly at Sadao.

Sadao just waved a lazy hand. "Yeah, yeah, hotshot." His tone was light, but his expression was serious. "He's right. I just don't think I can be a hero with my quirk."

Izuku sat forward. "But that's not true! Your quirk is—"

"Nothing compared to ones like Bakugo's or Endeavor's." Sadao cut him off, his voice quieter this time.

A heavy silence followed before Shiki finally spoke.

"I kind of get what he means." He set his phone down. "I used to be dead set on hero work, but after watching that fight between All Might and Endeavor… I just don't think I can do something like that. I know I wouldn't have to, but the fact that some people saw that fight and went 'Hell yeah!'—it gives me the shivers." He exhaled. "I don't think I have the…"

"Balls."

A few boys snickered.

Shiki rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks, Bakugo."

Bakugo preened.

"I just mean… I don't see hero work the way you do. I don't feel that drive to reach the top, to risk everything for it. And if I don't have that, then maybe I should focus on something else instead of wasting my time chasing something I won't realistically get."

A few moments of silence passed, the only sounds coming from the arcade outside and the ongoing match on the TV.

"So… what would you do if you don't go into heroics, then?" Sadao leaned to his right, looking at Shiki.

Shiki hesitated. "I mean… it's kind of funny considering my quirk, but maybe something like geology?" His smile was a little wary, but it widened when the other boys seemed to seriously consider it.

"How about you?" He turned the question to Sadao.

"I don't know… I guess it's too late to raise my grades enough for a support course, but I've been dabbling in it. I like it so far."

Sadao leaned to his left, making Bakugo arch an eyebrow. "What, are we going in a circle now?"

"I don't see why not."

"Tch. Heroics."

"And if you can't do heroics?"

"Heroics."

Sadao gave him an unimpressed look before moving on.

"I think maybe a sailor."

"My grades are probably good enough for medicine?"

One by one, the boys went around, tossing out ideas for their futures, until the conversation looped back to the person sitting left of Shiki.

Izuku.

"So, Midori, I guess if anyone's had a head start thinking about this, it'd be you. Considering…" Sadao trailed off.

"Actually, not really," Izuku admitted.

Bakugo groaned.

"I've had my mind set on heroics as long as you guys have. I don't have a well-thought-out answer, but off the top of my head… probably a teacher. But I'm definitely going for heroics."

That got him a few odd looks.

"Midori, you sure?" Shiki frowned. "How will you do that without a quirk? I mean, we're already certain we can't, and we at least have quirks."

Izuku felt his heart skip a beat.

He hadn't told anyone about Black Whip yet. Despite Gran Torino and Sir Nighteye encouraging him to.

This might be the best opportunity.

Not that it wasn't nerve-wracking.

"About that…" He exhaled, raising his palm toward the ceiling.

Shock and disbelief spread through the group as dark green tendrils extended from his fingertips, writhing and reaching upward in a display of his quirk.

"I-I kind of forgot to tell you." He smiled nervously.

In one of Tokyo's shadier districts, a pair of unlikely companions sat at a bar. Like many places in the area, this wasn't just a drinking hole—it was a gathering place for those who thrived in the underbelly of society. Similar to how the yakuza of the past "owned" certain bars they would regularly attend.

One of the two was a gaunt, frail-looking man, his skin marred with burn scars beneath a thick black trench coat. Hunched over his whiskey, he scowled at the flickering pre-quirk era television, which replayed the recent clash between All Might and Endeavor. The screen's glow reflected in his narrowed eyes, highlighting his simmering anger.

His companion, in contrast, stood out. Broad-shouldered and towering over most patrons, he had the build for intimidation—if not for the baby fat softening his features. His chubby cheeks and undefined jaw betrayed his youth, and the nervous twitch of his draconic wings only heightened the impression that he didn't belong. His darting eyes, filled with barely restrained anxiety, screamed that he wanted nothing more than to leave.

After a while, the smaller man grumbled at the barman about the television. The bartender merely scoffed and gestured toward a group of rough-looking patrons who had rearranged the furniture to suit themselves—clearly regulars, if not the de facto owners of the space.

The message was clear: If he wanted the channel changed, he'd have to take it up with them. Judging by the number of empty bottles at their feet, that would likely end in a fight.

Not worth the effort. Instead, he took another sip of his drink, then, on a whim, lifted his hand.

A cool blue glow flickered at his fingertips. Flames, sluggish and unnatural, dripped from his fingers, casting eerie shadows against the grimy bar top. Conversations hushed. Heads turned.

His lips curled slightly—almost a smile—as the flames wavered, on the verge of condensing into something more, just like that move Endeavor had pulled off against All Might. It wasn't as refined as Endeavor's technique, but it was something. Proof that he was getting closer.

Just as the flames seemed ready to take shape, a large hand came down, cutting through the embers before they could fully form, ignoring the heat of the flames is it did so.

The smaller man snapped his head toward his companion. "I almost had it! What the hell was that for?"

The dragon-winged teen leaned in, voice a harsh whisper. "I should be asking you that. We're supposed to be keeping a low profile. Now the whole bar's watching us."

A quick glance confirmed it. Most of the patrons had averted their gazes—but not before their wary stares had given them away. Fire quirks, even weak ones, could cause serious burns that were a nightmare to treat properly without going to a hospital. The display had likely made them reconsider any bad intentions.

The smaller man scoffed dismissively. "Like they weren't eyeing us up already."

His companion's confusion was evident, so he elaborated, voice low. "Your twitching made you look like prey. I just took us off the menu."

The teen frowned. "At the cost of drawing attention to us. We're supposed to observe and report back to the boss."

The scarred man waved him off. "Relax. The target isn't even here, and really? 'Boss?' Isn't he your gramps?"

Before his companion could respond, the bar door burst open with unnecessary force, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack. Several patrons flinched, some tensing as if expecting a hero raid.

"Listen up, scrubs! I'm—"

The door rebounded off the wall and slammed shut.

A beat of silence.

Then the bar erupted into laughter.

Slowly, the door creaked open again—this time with a more reasonable amount of force.

"Shut up!" Shigaraki barked, his voice thick with irritation as he stepped inside, face flushed with barely concealed embarrassment. Now that everyone could see him properly, the contrast was almost comical. His unkempt hair, his boyish, petulant scowl, and the casual hoodie and jeans did little to sell the image of the fearsome villain he was trying to act.

It took a while for the laughter to subside, though a few lingering chuckles remained. Choosing to ignore them, Shigaraki forged ahead.

"Listen up! I'm looking for muscle for a job—only the best of the best. Who wants in?" He puffed out his chest, trying to sound commanding.

The scarred man at the bar palmed his forehead with a sigh.

Silence stretched until one of the rough-looking regulars stood.

"Listen, kid, I don't like your attitude," the thug said, cracking his knuckles. "We don't even know who the hell you are. Why should we work for you?"

A few others jeered in agreement.

Shigaraki tilted his head. "So you're the one in charge here?"

"Pretty much," the thug scoffed. "And you're not welcome, sonny."

He moved fast—faster than a normal man, likely enhanced by a quirk. His fist shot forward, aiming for Shigaraki's face. But Shigaraki slipped aside with eerie ease.

The thug barely had time to register his own miss before Shigaraki reached out, fingers grasping lazily at his forearm. It looked like a weak grab. Pathetic, even.

Then his arm crumbled to dust.

A strangled scream tore through the bar as the thug staggered back, staring at the dissolving stump where his forearm had been. His horror was so consuming that he didn't even notice the hand reaching for his face.

A moment later, his head was gone.

His body dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, the only trace of his head a pile of ash that was rapidly mixing with the blood spurting out his neck.

The bar went silent.

Shigaraki took a breath, then exhaled. "Cool. So, now that I've beaten the boss, I'm in charge."

...

"You bastard! You killed Kiryu!"

A thug staggered forward, voice thick with alcohol, vaulting over a table. His fingernails elongated into razor-sharp crystalline daggers, gleaming under the dim bar lights.

At the counter, the burn-scarred man cringed, sensing an oncoming free-for-all. He briefly considered stepping in to help the target, but that would mean disobeying orders. And after seeing what the Doctor did to Mocha, he wasn't willing to pay the price for disobedience.

Besides, the manchild seemed capable enough.

Unfortunately, his companion didn't seem to share that confidence.

Tsubasa moved first. With a powerful swing of his wing, he sent the charging thug sprawling across the floor with a dull thud.

Dabi exhaled slowly, his irritation mounting.

Well, there was no turning back now.

Tsubasa might be the boss's grandson, but that wouldn't mean much when it came time to answer for this mess. And when that time came, the dragon boy would need someone in his corner to keep him from taking the worst of it.

He flexed his fingers. Blue flames flickered to life in his palm as the bar erupted into chaos.

Then again… maybe this wasn't such a bad turn of events.

Tsubasa owed him now. And having someone fireproof in his debt? That could be useful.