"Sometimes the hardest part is moving forward... when part of you stays behind."
- A random quote I found online
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The morning light filtered into Classroom 1-A like a pale memory, casting long shadows across desks that had once pulsed with energy, voices, and purpose.
Aizawa stood at the front, arms crossed, face unreadable—but his usual stillness felt heavier today, as if even blinking might stir something fragile. To his side, stood a familiar face from General Studies.
Shinsou stood stiffly at the front, his hands tucked inside his pockets, his eyes guarded but not cold. He was used to side glances and muttered assumptions—being "the mind-control guy" came with its own brand of alienation—but now, standing here, officially part of the class he'd once competed against, the weight felt different.
"Alright, listen up," Aizawa said in his usual flat tone, but even that lacked its usual bite. "Starting today, Hitoshi Shinsou will be joining Class 1-A as a full-time student."
The words echoed—brief, clinical—but the meaning hit like a crack in the glass.
Murmurs buzzed across the classroom, but they didn't swell into excitement like they might've months ago. The seat once reserved for Izuku Midoriya remained empty at the back of the room, its silence impossible to ignore.
Shinsou stepped forward, his uniform pressed and posture straight, but his hands were tucked deep into his pockets. He didn't want them to see the faint tremble in his fingers. His gaze swept the room, never settling. Not because he was avoiding them, but because he was still figuring out where he belonged.
He was used to being different, even though it still hurt. Having a "villain's quirk" does that to you.
They're not just looking at me. They're looking at the shape he left behind.
He knew he wouldn't fit in it as well as the original. Besides, he never planned to.
"I'm not here to replace anyone," he said, voice low and dry. "Just here to prove I belong."
Even to himself, the words felt like a challenge. Prove it, Hitoshi.
Silence hung in the room, thick and uneven.
Iida was the first to stand, adjusting his glasses even though they didn't need adjusting.
"Welcome to Class 1-A, Shinsou," he said with a bow. "We... look forward to training with you."
Uraraka nodded faintly, her eyes straying toward the back—toward Izuku's desk. The chair was neatly pushed in. His pen, always a little chewed at the tip, still lay there. She swore she could hear the soft scratch of his note-taking, the murmur of strategy under his breath.
Bakugo's arms were crossed, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Not in anger—but in conflict. Todoroki sat still, his gaze on Shinsou not with suspicion, but with the solemn curiosity of someone who recognised a kindred sense of dislocation.
Lunch came, but the cafeteria was subdued. There were no "Plus Ultra" cheers, no excited ranting about training goals. Just half-empty trays, half-finished conversations, and eyes that flicked toward doors and hallways, hoping for a silhouette that would never return
At the dorms, everybody had noticed that Midorya's stuff wasn't out of his room and hauled to the nearest storage room as they expected. The door however, was slightlty jarred open. Shinsou was inside, cleaning up the place.
" This was Midoriya's room, wasn't it? "
Iida who had come closer to close the door, had heard something inside and widened the gap to see what was going on. Shinsou, sensing someone staring, had asked the question without looking back.
" What made it obvious?"
" The merchandise, duh."
After the sports festival, Hitoshi and Midoriya had gotten in good terms with each other. Hitoshi had eve started considering him as what most referred to as a 'friend'. He wasn't sure though. He had none in middle school since everyone was wary around him and he considered everyone close to him in high school he considered acquaintances at best.
Izuku had been the first of his peers to genuinely look at his quirk in awe. Childish,m yes but it meant so much to Shinsou. The fact that someone saw him as the good guy he was, not the villain he would never be.
And that someone was gone.
Coming back to reality, Hitoshi remembered the class rep was behind him.
" Midoriya was the first friend i ever had in my life," He continued, " figured the best way to honor his memory was to keep his room as tidy as his notes, so I asked admin to give me another room other than the one Midoriya had. "
Iida smiled a little. A gesture that small meant a lot to the class, and Hitoshi probably knew. He really is a good guy.
Almost like Midoriya, almost.
Elsewhere, in a quiet dorm room softened by pastel colors and warm blankets, Eri sat cross-legged on her bed, her Eraserhead plushie tucked against her chest. Her arms wrapped tightly around it, little fingers clinging to the seams like lifelines.
"Eraserhead-san says I have to be brave," she whispered into the scarf around the plush's neck. "Even when I miss him."
She reached up and gently adjusted the tiny goggles with careful precision—like fixing something that had broken in ways she didn't fully understand.
Voices drifted in from the hallway, hushed and heavy. The mood around the dorms had changed, and even though no one told her why, she could feel it. Everyone moved more slowly. Smiles were rarer. Laughter, gone.
She looked around her room, eyes wide and uncertain.
"Why do people go 'gone' and not come back?" she asked softly.
Dad was gone.
Mom was gone.
Grandpa was gone.
Now, Midoriya was gone.
Even when she always hoped that she would see their faces again, a part of her whispered that she never would.
Then she hugged the plush even tighter, as if it might answer.
She knew it would never.
That night, Inko dreamed again.
She stood in a field shrouded in mist, but her body was not her own.
These limbs—lean, muscular, burdened—moved with instinct born of war. Each breath seared like fire in her lungs. Her heart beat faster than she was used to, each thump echoing with dread and purpose. She could feel the weight of a thousand unspoken things pressing against her spine.
Across from her stood a boy, young and unreadable—Itachi Uchiha.
His eyes met hers. They were deep and dark and ancient. Burdened. The kind of gaze that had watched too many endings.
She—Shisui—understood.
"I trust you," she whispered, her voice caught in the wind like a confession. The words felt heavy in her throat, like she was swallowing a final goodbye.
There was no hesitation when her body stepped back toward the edge. Only peace—and pain.
The cliff greeted her with quiet inevitability.
She fell.
And Itachi screamed.
Inko sat up, gasping in the dark, sheets clutched in shaking hands, her nightgown clinging with sweat. Her heart thundered, and for a moment, she didn't remember who she was. She stared at her palms—her own again—and let the silence seep in. Blood was trickling down her mouth from biting her lip too hard.
Her breathing was heavy, her throat was scratchy and her eyes were burning but not from crying.
Later, the city hummed on, oblivious, indifferent and bright.
Inko sat on her balcony in the dull haze of afternoon, a cigarette between her fingers. She hadn't smoked since before Izuku was born—hadn't needed to. She quit for Hisashi. She stayed clean for Izuku.
But now, there was nothing left to stay clean for.
Mitsuki Bakugo stood beside her, leaning against the railing, a bottle of water in hand. Her brows were slightly furrowed, but her voice was soft.
"You're smoking again?"
"I stopped when I married Hisashi," Inko murmured. "He hated the smell. Said it made me smell like sadness."
Mitsuki didn't respond, but her eyes flickered with something—something like recognition. Like a mirror.
" It's the dreams again, " She begun, " isn't it?
"Yeah," Inko said, lit cigarette hanging from her already dry mouth. "They're getting clearer. At first, I thought they were just... my brain trying to cope. But now? I'm not even myself in them. I felt that fall. I felt what he felt. Shisui. He was scared... but also ready."
Mitsuki didn't speak. She sat beside her and listened. Present. Unwavering.
"I know it's not real," Inko continued. "But when I wake up... It's like some part of me stayed behind. Like I left something in the water."
Mitsuki reached out and gently took the cigarette from her hand, extinguishing it in the ashtray.
"You don't have to carry it alone."
Inko looked at her, lips trembling.
"I know," she whispered. "But where else do I put it?"
Outside, a soft breeze rustles the trees. The world keeps moving, but inside the little apartment, time holds still for a grieving mother trying to remember how to breathe without her son.