Disclaimer: I do not own My Hero Academia or its characters. My OC is inspired by an OC created by Konamino.
CHAPTER 3
Aizawa wasn't sure what he'd find when he trailed the oddly conspicuous gecko-like figure through Kamino Ward. Reports had been coming in about suspicious activity in the area—rumors of a villain group searching for new recruits, whispers of black-market deals exchanging hands. None of it was solid, but in his experience, vague leads often led to bigger discoveries.
The gecko man made his job far easier than expected. With purple hair spiking out in unruly waves and scales reflecting in the midday sun, he was practically a beacon. Aizawa hung back, slipping through the crowds with practiced ease, letting the oblivious hustle of the plaza serve as his cover. The target headed straight into the heart of the square, where families fed pigeons and office workers milled around on lunch break.
Aizawa kept a discreet distance. It was a typical vantage watch—eyes drifting over the throng until they locked onto the gecko man. He noted how the reptilian stranger took up a spot near a fountain, acting as if he was merely pausing to look around. For a moment, it seemed like nothing would happen. Then someone brushed by—a short figure in a hooded sweatshirt, shoulders hunched low, as if trying not to be noticed. The exchange was so quick, he almost missed it. In the blink of an eye, something passed between them: a small envelope slipping from one hand to the other, then just as swiftly disappearing into a bag.
Aizawa tensed. Instinct told him to follow the gecko man; that was his original mission, after all. But there was something off about that hooded figure's urgency—anxiety radiated from them in every purposeful step. He had to decide, and fast. Either stick to the known target or gamble on the possibility that this new individual was carrying something critical.
He made the call in a heartbeat. Let the gecko slip away for now; better to investigate that envelope exchange. Without warning, he raised his voice, calling out to the hooded figure. "Hey!" He tried to keep it casual enough that it wouldn't alarm innocent bystanders, but they barely slowed. When he specified the hoodie and backpack, that was when they bolted.
Aizawa broke into a run, weaving through the crowd with a speed and grace honed by years of experience. The hooded figure was surprisingly agile, slipping between people like water around rocks. For a moment, it looked like they might lose him—until they made the fateful turn into a quieter street, away from the protective shield of pedestrians.
Now free of the crowds, Aizawa vaulted up a nearby fire escape and continued the pursuit from the rooftops. It was easier to track them this way, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the alleys. He watched them sprint between buildings, checking over their shoulder every few seconds. They didn't look back at the rooftops, though—most didn't think to. Within minutes, they slowed, chest heaving, believing they'd shaken him off.
That was his cue. He dropped down from above, landing silently behind them. They froze for only an instant before turning to glance at the distant plaza. He seized the moment, stepping forward to clamp a hand on their shoulder. Their body jerked under his grip, and they spun around with wide, panic-filled eyes.
He got a good look at their face—a kid, though it was hard to be certain with the hood pulled up. Jagged blonde hair, messy and uneven as if it had been hacked off in a hurry. And those eyes…a striking sea-green, slightly slitted. Not a typical appearance. But none of that was as important as the tension in their posture, or the sheer terror darkening their gaze.
"You need to come with me," Aizawa said firmly. He could already sense the swirl of questions forming in his mind: Who was this kid? What was in that envelope? Were they truly linked to the rumored villain recruitment, or just a desperate courier tangled up in dangerous business?
Even as he spoke, he remained alert—ready for them to lash out or try to flee. He'd studied enough villains and desperate rogues to recognize that cornered animals often bite. But so far, they stood there, trembling, breathing hard, on the edge of fight or flight. The name "Eraserhead" might mean nothing to them, or it might be exactly the reason they looked ready to bolt.
Aizawa tightened his grip, still gentle but unyielding. "Let's not make a scene," he murmured, voice low. "Tell me what's going on."
Aizawa barely registered the split-second warning in the kid's wide, panicked eyes before something lashed up from the asphalt—long, sea-green chains that glowed with an otherworldly light. They coiled around his legs and arms with startling speed, the sensation more solid and biting than any intangible Quirk he'd felt before. He sucked in a sharp breath, adrenaline spiking.
In an instant, his hero instincts kicked in. He locked his eyes on the chains' source—this kid—and activated his Erasure. The moment his Quirk took effect, the ghostly links dissolved into thin air, as if they'd never existed. The kid gasped, that catlike gaze going briefly distant, and Aizawa used the opening to yank free of their grasp.
But the break was fleeting at best; the kid, desperate and cornered, wrenched themselves out of his physical hold the moment the chains disappeared. Aizawa's capture scarf shot forward in a fluid, well-practiced motion—he expected to bind them in a heartbeat.
They were faster than he anticipated. Despite the haphazard look, the kid twisted low to the ground, narrowly evading the scarf that whipped past and clanged against a nearby dumpster. Skidding across the grimy pavement, they seized a fistful of dirt and debris from the alley floor. Aizawa realized too late what was happening. He tried to pull back, but a cloud of dust caught him square in the face.
Grit stung his eyes, forcing him to flinch and blink desperately. He snarled a curse under his breath. He hadn't bothered with his goggles earlier—they tended to draw attention in casual pursuits—but now he regretted it. His vision blurred, tears welling involuntarily, and his Quirk flickered out of effect.
In that split second, when Erasure deactivated, the kid's Quirk surged again. Aizawa felt the air crackle with energy. By the time he'd rubbed enough dirt away to see again, the sea-green chains were back—thicker this time, glowing so fiercely that they left ghostly trails in his vision. They snapped around his legs and arms like constricting pythons, yanking him off balance. He gritted his teeth, trying to activate Erasure again, but he couldn't get a clear look at the kid. The chains tightened, pinning him in place.
He twisted in an effort to free his arms, desperate to get the right angle on the kid—just a few more inches, and he could erase the Quirk once more. But before he could blink away the last of the dust, something solid smashed into the back of his skull. Pain blossomed, bright and hot, and his body slackened. The world around him dimmed, the fierce glow of the chains turning to murky shadows.
His last thought as consciousness slipped away was that he'd severely underestimated this unknown courier—and whatever powers they harbored. Then everything went black.
Yume stood there, heart pounding, staring at the unconscious Pro Hero splayed on the grimy alley floor. Her chest still heaved with each breath; she half-expected Eraserhead to snap awake at any moment and subdue her. But he stayed limp, a thin trickle of blood seeping where the flower pot had struck him.
She could hardly believe what had just happened. For a moment, she'd been sure she was done for—that the pro had her cornered. But the chains that shot from the ground at her command had given her just enough of an opening to pull that flower pot off a windowsill above. She felt a flutter of disbelief. They emerged from the ground itself…? Her quirk had never done that before, only coiled around her arms or materialized at close range. Is it growing stronger?
Unease prickled at her. This was dangerous—way too dangerous. She had just knocked out an underground hero, and if anyone found out, it would only confirm the vile suspicions people tended to have about black-market couriers like her. Still, her conscience gnawed at her. Leaving him there, face-down in the alley, could be disastrous if he choked on his own blood or if some opportunistic villain found him.
Swallowing hard, Yume crouched next to him and carefully rolled him onto his side. She checked his breathing, relieved to find it steady. The blow had been serious, but definitely not life-threatening. As she adjusted him, one of his pockets shifted, revealing a phone. She hesitated. She could smash it, but that might do more harm than good—and time was ticking.
Reluctantly, she pulled out the device. The lock screen glowed, showing the battery percentage and a list of missed calls and messages. She couldn't unlock it, but there was an emergency contacts feature. Pursing her lips, she scrolled through until she found the top listing—someone labeled simply Yamada (Present Mic). She recognized that name. She'd seen him on TV once or twice, a flamboyant figure with bright hair and an ear-splitting voice.
She pressed the call button, her pulse pounding in her ears. It rang twice. Then an explosive, energetic voice burst through the speaker.
"Eraser? Why're you usin' this line? Helloooo? Yo, Shōta, can you hear me?! You better not be ignoring me, man!"
Yume's grip tightened around the phone. She forced her voice into a flat monotone, trying to quell the tremor threatening to creep in. "He's… knocked out," she said. "He needs help. The address is…" She rattled off the cross street and building number, feeling her pulse thunder.
The man on the other end let out a startled exclamation. "Knocked out? Who is this? What the—where is— Shōta!?"
"Just… come get him," she repeated, her tone colder than she intended. "He's unconscious, but he's breathing." She read the address a second time.
"Wait, who are—"
She didn't let him finish. She ended the call with a tap, letting the phone fall from her shaking fingers back to Aizawa's side. That loud voice was sure to raise half of Yokohama in minutes, and she couldn't be around for that. Her own survival was too important.
Anxious energy coursed through her veins. If the hero had backup on the way—and it sounded like they definitely did—she had only moments. The last place she wanted to be was trapped between heroes in a back alley. She spared one final glance at Eraserhead, guilt gnawing at her gut. He didn't really do anything wrong—just doing his job. Then she turned on her heel and bolted.
Slipping out of the alley, she forced her pace to slow the second she was back on the main streets. Sprinting outright would draw too many eyes. She ducked her face beneath her hood again, merging into the stream of pedestrians heading toward the station. The city's sounds—car engines, train whistles, buzzing chatter—pressed in, swallowing her small figure.
Her mind raced. She was in Kamino Ward, a fair distance from the train station, and she needed to leave Yokohama as soon as humanly possible. She jammed her hands into her pockets, feeling the bulge of the envelope the gecko man had given her. For once, the money's weight felt more like a burden than a blessing.
A few blocks later, she spotted the station's sign overhead. Ignoring the weight of her exhaustion and the swirl of panic churning inside her, she pushed through the turnstiles behind a group of rowdy teenagers, sliding in unnoticed without a ticket—again. The next train heading toward Musutafu was due to depart in minutes.
Just hold on, she told herself. Once I'm back in my own district, I can figure out what to tell Giran…
The station's fluorescent lights and cacophonous announcements enveloped her. Despite the adrenaline still pounding through her veins, she managed to keep her expression neutral and her steps steady. She didn't dare look back, not even once, as she slipped into a train car just before the doors slid shut with a hiss.
Yume kept her gaze trained on the passing cityscape as the train rattled back toward Musutafu. She tried to calm her racing heart, but her mind kept drifting to the sea-green chains that had burst from the ground. That shouldn't be possible, she thought, fingers curling around the edge of her seat. They came from me, but—through concrete? Every time she replayed those moments, her stomach twisted with an anxious excitement she couldn't quite name. Part terror, part fascination.
She couldn't let that fascination distract her, though—she'd almost been captured by a Pro Hero. If not for luck and a well-placed flower pot, she would've been on her way to some holding cell by now. The very idea made her feel ill. Stop thinking about it, she chided herself, letting the rhythmic clack of the train tracks lull her into a tired haze.
By the time she arrived back in Musutafu, late evening had settled in. The neon signs buzzed and flickered across the city's skyline, casting colorful reflections on wet sidewalks. Yume slipped through narrow alleyways until the old, beaten-up sign of Delirium Bar came into view. Her nerves hummed with the reminder of her near-capture, but she knew she had to see Giran—he was waiting.
Sure enough, Giran was already there, sitting in his usual corner booth amid the stale haze of smoke. He flicked his cigarette, ash falling into a chipped tray, and gave her a half-lidded glance as she approached.
"Welcome back, kid," he drawled. "Heard everything went smoothly?"
Yume swallowed, forcing her shoulders to relax. "Yeah," she lied, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. "No problems."
He studied her for a beat, then nodded with apparent indifference. "Good job. That wraps up your debt, by the way."
Yume blinked. She'd been preparing to fight for a day or two of rest—maybe ask for a small advance—but she wasn't expecting him to say she was free. "Huh?"
"This last job paid a premium." He leaned back, exhaling smoke in a lazy curl. "Guess those 'actual villains' you met have deeper pockets than the usual small-timers." He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, and happy birthday, kid."
Her breath caught in her throat. "W-What?"
"You got your ID from me, remember?" Giran tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. "I know your birth date better than you do." His lips curled into a wry grin at her baffled expression.
Yume felt her cheeks warm. For a moment, she didn't know what to say—it had been a long time since anyone bothered to acknowledge her birthday. "Thanks," she murmured softly, unsure how to feel.
"So what are you gonna do now?" Giran continued, flicking ash again. "You've got your new identity and no obligation to me. But don't kid yourself—you can't enroll in school. They'll want a guardian's signature, paperwork, all that crap."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her mind raced with possibilities—she was free, but that same freedom felt almost terrifying. Could she keep scraping by, paying rent on a crummy apartment? Could she find a normal job with her new ID? Maybe, but the thought of daily life under constant scrutiny made her queasy.
Giran let the silence ride for a moment before shrugging. "Well, I got a proposal for you. I've kinda gotten used to having you around, and you've got skills. Good at staying unnoticed, good at not asking stupid questions. So here it is: be my eyes and ears in the city. You find me interesting intel, I make it worth your while—enough that you can afford a decent place, maybe somewhere you don't have to share with rats."
Yume stood there, the bar's dim overhead bulb making Giran's face look shadowy and amused. The proposition was tempting—she'd have reliable money, and she wouldn't be forced into more direct confrontations like the one she'd barely survived today. But it was also a tether to the underworld, a place she still wasn't sure she wanted to stay.
"Think it over," Giran said, misreading or ignoring her hesitation. "You want in, you'll get a monthly retainer. Plus bonuses whenever you bring me something particularly juicy—like corporate secrets, hero intel, maybe even more of those bank plans if they cross your path." He put out his cigarette with a final, decisive twist. "If not, you walk away. No hard feelings. I'll even slip you a little going-away gift."
The offer hung in the smoky air. Yume's mind spun. If she said no, she'd be left to fend for herself with nothing but a fake name and whatever scraps of money she had left. Could she survive that? She was only barely getting by now. And in a world crawling with heroes, her Quirk—and the memory of what she'd done—felt like a ticking time bomb.
On the other hand, staying close to Giran meant she'd keep dancing along the edge of legality. She'd keep crossing paths with villains, delivering info that might hurt innocent people. A knot of guilt twisted her stomach, remembering Eraserhead's unconscious form. This was the kind of life that led to more confrontations like that, maybe with more dire outcomes.
She glanced at Giran's bored expression. He was waiting, but not pressuring her. For him, this was just business. For her, it was everything. She swallowed and forced her voice into a steady calm.
"Okay," she found herself saying, heart pounding. "I'll do it."
Giran's grin broadened almost imperceptibly. "Knew you'd see reason." He slid a small envelope across the table. It felt heavy with a mix of bills. "For now, call it a birthday bonus. You'll get the details of your first 'scouting' soon."
Yume nodded, slipping the envelope into her hoodie's pocket. Her hand shook slightly, but she clenched it into a fist. She told herself it was just a precaution—a way to keep a steady income while she figured out a better plan.
"Don't look so tense," Giran drawled, stifling a yawn. "You've got more freedom now than most folks in your shoes. Make the most of it."
With that, he stood, checked his phone, and gave her a two-finger salute in farewell. She watched as he made his way toward the bar's exit, leaving her alone in the hush of stale cigarette smoke and flickering neon.
Yume exhaled shakily. Happy birthday, huh? She'd almost forgotten. She had turned ten years old. So Giran remembered just from her giving the details for the ID. Her life barely started. But the truth was, she felt older than any piece of plastic could verify.
For a moment, her thoughts drifted to her siblings—Kotarō and Ayame. Were they safe? Had Kotarō somehow held everything together in her absence? A pang of longing stabbed at her. But that was a different life, and she couldn't dwell on it now.
Stuffing her hands in her hoodie pockets, she made her way to the bar's front door, stepping back onto the dimly lit street. The city lights glimmered overhead. She had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but for now, she was free of debt and had a pocketful of cash—enough to keep her afloat, perhaps to move somewhere that didn't smell like mold and sewage.
Yet part of her couldn't shake the dread that settled in her chest. I just knocked out a Pro Hero. Heroes had a way of remembering faces, Quirks, everything. If Eraserhead woke up and put two and two together, she might have bigger problems down the road. No matter what Giran said, she wasn't truly free—only free to run as far as she could before fate caught up with her.
Aizawa lounged against the raised hospital bed, a dour expression etched across his features. His head wound was minor—just a bruise from that flower pot—but he still felt the dull ache like a bruise to his pride. A kid had knocked him unconscious. The thought nagged at him more than the actual pain, a persistent reminder that he'd let his guard slip.
Hizashi "Present Mic" Yamada was making it worse, of course. He sat in a nearby chair, straddling it backward with his arms draped over the backrest. A grin as wide as the ocean split his face, and he hadn't let up teasing Aizawa since he arrived.
"Seriously, Shōta," Hizashi said, voice always on the edge of a shout. "You can't go anywhere without me, can you? Out in Yokohama for a day, and boom, you get your butt handed to you by a kid. A kid!" He punctuated the word with a boisterous laugh.
Aizawa sighed, burying his face in his bandaged palm. "Keep your voice down," he muttered. "I can still hear you just fine without you projecting."
Hizashi responded by leaning closer, an insufferably smug twinkle in his eye. "You're unbelievably lucky it was just a minor concussion. They said you were out for almost ten minutes, man. Imagine if it'd been someone with a deadlier Quirk!"
Aizawa tried to tune him out, but the endless banter felt like a thousand gnats in his ear. He rubbed his temple, doing his best to stave off an oncoming headache that had nothing to do with the blow to his head.
Before he could come up with some cutting retort, a familiar figure in a tan trench coat strolled down the hospital corridor: Naomasa Tsukauchi, a detective with the police force who regularly liaised with pro heroes. Aizawa shoved off from the bed, ignoring the twinge of pain in his skull. "Tsukauchi," he greeted. "Got a minute?"
The detective smiled politely. "Afternoon, Aizawa. I heard you were—er—injured."
Hizashi snorted behind him. "He got KO'd by a kid," he supplied, leaning in with relentless cheer. "With a chain Quirk, apparently! Kamino Ward! Can you believe it?"
Aizawa cast Hizashi a withering glare. "I was about to get to that," he grumbled, then focused on Tsukauchi. "Has there been any report on a kid running around Kamino with a chain-related Quirk?"
Tsukauchi frowned, pressing a hand to his chin. "A kid, you say? No, I haven't heard of anything like that." His gaze sharpened with curiosity. "Are they dangerous?"
Aizawa hesitated. He wasn't sure whether "dangerous" was the right word. The kid had certainly been desperate—scrappy, quick to defend themselves, and they'd shown surprising skill for someone with apparently little formal training. But calling them a villain outright didn't sit right with him. "I'm not sure," he said slowly. "But they're strong, and I suspect they're involved with some shady deals."
Tsukauchi's brow rose. "I'll keep my ear to the ground," he promised, slipping a notepad from his coat pocket and scribbling a quick note. "Any other details? Appearance? Age?"
Aizawa opened his mouth, but he didn't have much to give—messy, short blonde hair, those unsettling sea-green eyes, a hooded sweatshirt. Before he could shape the words, Hizashi interjected, slinging an arm around Aizawa's shoulders. "He just wants to track down the kid who gave him a bump on the head," he teased. "Revenge mission or something. You should've seen him when he came in. Face like thunder!"
Tsukauchi's eyebrows climbed higher. He gave Aizawa a wry, disbelieving look. "You were actually knocked out?"
Aizawa shrugged off Hizashi's arm and stuffed his hands into his pockets, scowling. "It was a tricky Quirk," he muttered. "Don't get any ideas." Then he pushed past them both, ignoring Hizashi's continuing cackles and the detective's amused smile.
He strode down the corridor, a fresh wave of frustration bubbling up inside. It wasn't about revenge or bruised pride—okay, maybe it was partly about that—but something else bothered him. That kid had panicked, unleashing powerful chains that seemed tied to an unstable emotional state. Whatever they were involved in, it was dangerous. And if they were so desperate as to attack a Pro Hero on instinct, they could easily fall into deeper criminal circles—or be exploited by someone far worse.
I'm going to find them, he told himself. If not to arrest them, then to figure out what's really going on.
He stormed through the automatic doors, stepping out into the late afternoon sun. Cars rumbled by, carrying on with the day's routine. People passed without a glance, all busy with their own lives. Aizawa let out a long exhale, ignoring the sting in his head.
I'll find that kid, he repeated silently.