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Chapter 2 The Bonds That Shaped Us
It took two weeks for the stitches to dissolve and three before I stopped waking up expecting to taste blood. The doctors called it "a remarkable recovery." Mom called it a miracle. I just called it time.
The scar ran from the base of my jaw down to my collarbone, a pale line that caught light when I turned my head. It didn't fade, and I didn't want it to. Every time I saw it in the mirror, I remembered the sound of my mom's voice screaming my name and the shadows that had answered before I could.
I didn't cover it. People looked, whispered, even flinched once or twice. But I wasn't hiding anymore. That scar was the line between who I was and who I was becoming.
At night, I tested my quirk. The shadows didn't respond slowly anymore — they obeyed.
"Rise," I whispered once in the dark, my hand resting on the windowsill.
The black beneath me rippled, then lifted like smoke caught in reverse. It moved fast, silent, stopping at my feet as if kneeling.
"Return."
It folded back, smooth and exact, as though awaiting permission to rest.
No hesitation. No resistance. When I spoke, the shadows listened.
The first few nights, I thought it was just instinct — like training a muscle. But after a while, I could feel it. There was a mind in there. Not a voice, not words — more like awareness. Presence. When I stood too long in silence, I could sense it watching, patient and ready. Loyal.
It didn't frighten me. If anything, it steadied me. Someone — something — was always at my back.
By the time I went back to school, my classmates barely recognized me. The bandages were gone, replaced by the scar. My posture was different. I didn't flinch at slammed lockers anymore. I didn't look for Bakugo in every hallway, though my stomach still tightened when I heard him laugh.
He'd ignored me for a while after the incident. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because for once, I had something I didn't before — a quirk that was powerful, deep and dark.
But Bakugo never stayed quiet for long.
It started small: muttered comments when I passed by, the scrape of a chair against the floor when I sat down. Every time, I said nothing. I focused on my notes, my handwriting steady even when my pulse wasn't.
It finally happened a week later. It was an ordinary day, until it wasn't.
We were in science class, the kind that always smelled faintly of chalk dust and old glass cleaner. Sunlight poured through the windows, carving sharp lines across the desks. I'd been sketching something in the margins of my notes, a training exercise for my shadows, when the chair in front of me scraped backward.
"Still pretending you can be a hero, Deku?" Bakugo's voice hadn't changed; it was sharp, dripping disdain, but now with something else beneath it. Unease.
I didn't answer. Just looked up. The sunlight hit the left side of my face, tracing the scar.
"Don't ignore me!" His hand slammed down on my desk. Tiny pops of light flared from his palm and some of those hit my scar making me flinch. A few students gasped.
My fingers twitched. My heart spiked, throat tightening — the same old reaction that years of pain had carved into me. But before I could even blink, the shadow under my desk moved.
It surged up like a wave rising up from the flor the floor, forming a tall, faceless silhouette between us. The room went dead silent.
Two faint blue lights blinked where eyes should have been. They weren't bright — more like embers seen through fog. But the weight behind them pressed against the room like gravity.
Bakugo's hand froze mid-spark. His expression flickered — confusion, then something I'd never seen from him before. Fear.
The shadow didn't attack. It didn't even reach for him. It simply stood there, posture straight, head tall, one arm raised across its chest like a knight's salute.
The air felt colder. My pulse matched the rhythm of something old and patient.
"Enough."
The word left my mouth before I could think. Not a command — a decree.
The shadow bowed once and melted back into the floor, vanishing so smoothly it left no trace.
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the lights and Bakugo's unsteady breathing.
Our teacher burst through the door, drawn by the commotion, but stopped short at the sight of us — me standing behind my desk, Bakugo pale and wide-eyed.
"What on earth happened here?"
No one spoke. A few of the kids glanced at each other, but nobody wanted to explain what they'd just seen.
Bakugo opened his mouth, closed it again, and muttered, "Nothing." His hands trembled slightly.
The teacher frowned, eyes narrowing at the faint scorch mark near my desk and the tension still crackling in the air. "We'll discuss this after class."
I sat down slowly, keeping my calm even as my heart thundered. The shadow under my chair was still. Waiting.
When the bell rang, Bakugo left without a word. The rest of the class avoided my gaze.
I stayed seated until the room emptied. My hands shook only a little when I gathered my things.
As I walked down the hallway, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window — me, and the faint outline of the shadow just behind my shoulder, eyes faintly blue before fading to black.
I whispered quietly, "You protected me."
For a second, the light from the window dimmed, and the shadow rippled like it was kneeling again.
"Thank you."
Then it went still.
Izuku Midoriya left the building that day with his head high and his hands steady, but his chest heavy. He wasn't afraid of his power. But he understood something crucial — the shadows didn't just obey him. They belonged to him. And that meant he was responsible for what they did in his name.
He didn't see Bakugo stop in the hallway behind him, gripping the railing with white-knuckled hands, muttering under his breath. The words were drowned out by the ringing in his ears — a single phrase looping again and again.
Those eyes looked at me like I didn't matter.
Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shapes on the ground. Izuku's shadow glides beside him — taller, straighter, sharper. Watching.
The sun was lower than normal by the time I left the school grounds. Every step away from that classroom felt heavier, like the weight of all those years was catching up now that the adrenaline had burned out. I shoved my hands into my pockets and headed toward the station park, where I was supposed to meet the others. We'd promised to hang out like we've been doing the past week. It was a small reward for surviving another week at that place. I wasn't sure if I should still go. But skipping out would only make them worry more.
When I reached the park, the benches were bathed in orange light. Momo sat straight-backed, scrolling through her phone; Nerissa balanced on the swing, rocking idly; Shōko leaned against the slide pole, half hidden by the shadows. They looked up at the same time as I took a seat next to Nerissa.
"You're late," Nerissa said, hopping off the swing. "And you look like you saw a ghost."
"Something happened," Momo murmured, reading my face before I could fake a smile.
"It's nothing," I said, too quickly.
Shōko stepped closer. "You're shaking."
"You texted 'I'm fine' and vanished," Nerissa said, half scolding, half relief. "Which is code for 'I am not fine at all, please come get me.'"
"I am fine," I lied, then ruined it by rubbing the scar like a worry stone.
Momo sat on my other side, hands folded. "Tell us what happened."
I almost said "it was nothing." The old instinct—the one that saved teachers paperwork and saved me from detentions and changed exactly nothing—rose up like a reflex.
Nerissa leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Izuku." Her voice softened. "We're your friends and friends help each other. You don't have to be alone when things go bad."
I stared at the gravel. The words sat behind my teeth like a mouthful of pins. If I spit them out, they'd hurt coming, and then they'd be out, and I wouldn't be able to pretend anymore.
"It wasn't just today," I said. "It's… never just today."
Momo's posture changed. Not a flinch, not a jolt. A quiet readiness, like bracing for a tide.
I told them.
Not everything at once; the words came out in fragments that hurt to touch. Bakugo's voice in the hallway. The notebooks that burned. The laughter. The explosions that left bruises teachers called "roughhousing, the times I got in trouble reporting it and got called a liar." Years of it. And then what happened today—the sparks and explosion, the shadow that moved before I could, the look on Bakugo's face.
By the time I finished, Nerissa's hands were balled into fists in her lap. "That little—" She cut herself off, eyes glassy. "You can't just let them do that to you."
"I didn't," I said quietly. "Not today."
Momo's jaw tightened; she inhaled slowly, controlling the anger behind her eyes. "This has been allowed to continue for years. That school's administration is either incompetent or complicit."
Shōko's voice was low. "He hurt you because he could. That needs to end."
I shrugged, unsure what to do with their fury. Then Nerissa moved. No hesitation—she just threw her arms around me, squeezing hard enough that my breath caught. The smell of her shampoo—citrus and sunlight—filled the space between us.
"You don't have to go through that alone," she said against my shoulder.
Something unclenched in my chest. "Thanks," I managed as I hugged her back.
When she let go, Momo was already pulling out her phone. "My parents can help," she said. "They'll know exactly how to handle this."
"Momo—" I started, but she'd already stepped aside, voice calm and precise as she spoke into the receiver. "Mother? Father? I need to see you this evening. At Izuku Midoriya's home. There's been an incident… yes, it's serious." She listened, nodded. "Thank you. I'll explain everything in person."
She hung up and turned back to me. "They're coming tonight."
My stomach twisted. "Tonight?"
"It's better to act quickly," she said. "You've endured enough delay."
I stuttered" b-but what abo-
"No buts, no objections said sternly in a flat tone
Nerissa grinned faintly. "Guess you're getting a Yaoyorozu house call. Fancy."
I groaned. "My mom's going to panic."
"Then we'll explain first," Momo said.
The decision was made. As we started toward my building, dusk deepened. Momo walked a few steps ahead, already organizing her thoughts; Nerissa filled the silence with stories about a stray cat that had followed her bus; Shōko drifted beside me, quiet. After a block she glanced down, noticed my trembling hands, and, with a tiny frown of concentration, reached out to hold my hand.
I blinked then blushed at her. "Uh—Shōko?"
"My mom does this," she said, not meeting my eyes. "When I'm anxious. It helps."
It did. The tremor in my fingers eased. I squeezed back once, grateful. "Thanks."
She nodded, face still turned forward. "It helps," she repeated softly.
By the time we reached my apartment complex, streetlights had flickered on. I hesitated at the entrance, nerves spiking again, but Nerissa bumped my shoulder. "Come on. We've got you."
Mom answered on the second knock. "Izuku! Oh—hello, girls." Her smile faltered when she saw my face. "Is everything all right?"
"Can we come in?" Momo asked politely.
Something in her tone made Mom step aside without another word. The apartment smelled like simmered miso and lemon polish. We crowded around the low table. Mom poured tea automatically, the way she always did when she didn't know what else to do. Her hands trembled slightly.
"What happened?" she asked finally.
I opened my mouth, but Momo spoke first—gentle, careful. "Midoriya-san, we came because something very serious occurred at Izuku's school today, and because it wasn't an isolated event."
Mom's eyes darted to me. "Izuku?"
I wanted to say It's fine. Old habit. But Momo's look stopped me. So I told her. All of it. The years of bullying, the teachers who looked away, the times I got in trouble for reporting it, the explosion this afternoon. My voice shook once and steadied. When I finished, the room was silent except for the quiet hiss of the kettle.
Mom's cup rattled against its saucer. "How… how could I not see this?" Her voice cracked. "You came home bruised, you said it was training, and I—"
"Mom," I said quickly. "I didn't tell you. I didn't want you to worry."
She covered her mouth, eyes bright. "Worry is my job."
Nerissa reached across the table and touched her hand. "He's okay now. We made sure."
That broke the tension enough for Mom to breathe. She looked at each of them—the perfect composure of Momo, the warmth in Nerissa's eyes, Shōko's quiet strength—and managed a tremulous smile. "Thank you. All of you."
Momo folded her hands neatly. "My parents are coming to discuss a transfer. Izuku needs a safer environment and a proper hero-prep curriculum. They can provide that."
Mom blinked. "Tonight?"
"They were available," Momo said simply.
"Midoriya-san," Shōko added, "he won't be alone there. Momo be with him."
Mom nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "I don't know what to say."
"Say yes," Nerissa suggested with a grin.
A knock sounded then—three measured taps. Momo stood, smoothing her skirt. "That will be them."
Keiko and Hiroshi Yaoyorozu entered like calm weather after a storm. Keiko's smile was kind but assessing; Hiroshi's bow was formal and deliberate. "Thank you for having us," he said. "Our daughter spoke highly of your son."
Mom bowed back, still visibly flustered. "I'm sorry the place is so small—please, sit."
Keiko accepted the tea Mom poured, then set the cup aside untouched. "Momo told us about the bullying and the recent incident. We're deeply sorry that the adults responsible failed you. We'd like to sponsor Izuku's transfer to the Academy our daughter attends, effective immediately."
Mom's mouth opened, closed. "That's… very generous, but I can't—"
"This isn't charity," Hiroshi said gently. "It's correction. Good students deserve safe schools."
Keiko turned to Nerissa. "Momo also mentioned your involvement in the mall incident and again today. If you'd like to attend, we'll cover your tuition as well."
Nerissa froze mid-sip of tea. "Wait—me? Seriously?" When Keiko nodded, she almost dropped the cup. "Oh wow, yes! Thank you—thank you so much!"
Everyone smiled at her enthusiasm. Then Keiko looked to Shōko. "And you?"
Shōko straightened. "That's kind, but unnecessary. My father can afford mine. I'll arrange it myself."
Keiko's eyes warmed. "Responsible and independent. You'll fit in perfectly."
Momo's father took out a folder, sliding it across the table. "Transfer forms, preliminary contracts, and documentation of today's incident. I've already contacted the district board. Expect inquiries at your current school by morning."
Mom exhaled shakily. "Thank you. I—thank you."
We sat very still, trying to take it in. For years the world had felt like one long hallway with doors that stayed locked no matter how many times I knocked. Tonight, someone had simply opened one and yanked me through.
Mom reached over and squeezed my hand. "You said you wanted to learn," she whispered. "Now you can."
"I'll make it worth it," I promised.
"I know." She smiled, soft and fierce. "You always do."
We talked about logistics until the tea ran cold. When the Yaoyoruzus finally rose, Hiroshi promised swift follow-up. "Tomorrow you'll have official confirmation. And," he added dryly, "a few administrators in need of new careers."
That earned a laugh from Nerissa and even a small snort from Shōko.
At the door, Momo's mother bowed once more. "Thank you for trusting us. We'll see you soon."
Mom bowed even lower and thanked her for the help.
Momo was first. "Tomorrow," she said. "Will be better, I promise." Then she dashed forward for a quick hug that left me stunned for a second.
"Tomorrow," I echoed with a blush.
Nerissa hugged me again, light catching in her hair. "I'll check in later, okay? Don't overthink everything tonight."
"I'll try," I said, knowing she'd message me anyway.
Shōko stared like she didn't know if she was supposed to hug me or not. "See you soon," she murmured, then hugged me as well. I was just sitting here getting stunlocked by these girls and their surprise hugs. I thought with a smile.
When the door shut behind them, the apartment fell quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Mom turned, crossed the room, and pulled me into a hug that smelled of tea and soap and safety.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then she let go, wiped her eyes,kissed my forehead and went to make fresh tea because that's what she always did when she needed to do something with her hands.
I stayed where I was, looking at the lamplight stretching across the floor. My shadow lay still beside me—calm, solid, waiting. Not looming, not hungry. Just there. Loyal.
"And again" I thought idly to myself, more hugs, but who am I to complain hugs are nice after all.
-next morning-
Morning came quietly.
For once, I didn't wake to the sound of an alarm or the weight of dread sitting in my chest. The light through the window was warm instead of harsh, and the apartment felt... peaceful. It still smelled faintly like the tea Mom made last night after everyone left, that soft scent that somehow felt comfortable just smelling it.
I sat up, stretching. My neck twinged where the scar ran down from my jaw to my collarbone — a dull reminder of everything that had started this strange, impossible journey. I caught sight of my shadow against the wall. Still there, still steady, like it had been waiting for me to notice.
Mom was already at the kitchen table, surrounded by papers. Transfer forms, contact sheets, and something stamped with the Yaoyorozu family crest. Her hair was still messy from sleep, and she had that focused look she always got when trying to make sense of official documents.
"You're up early," she said when she noticed me. "Couldn't sleep?"
"I slept fine," I said, walking over. "You're the one up doing homework."
She smiled faintly. "It's been a while since I had to fill out school paperwork. I forgot how complicated these forms are."
I leaned beside her, scanning the sheets. "I can help."
Her hand came up, brushing over the scar on my neck before I could flinch away. "Does it still hurt?"
I shook my head. "Not really."
Her expression softened. "You're so brave, Izuku."
That word still felt strange when applied to me, but I didn't argue. I sat and helped her go through everything, double-checking names, emergency contacts, and signatures. When we finished, the little stack of forms felt heavier than it should have — like proof that yesterday had really happened.
Mom poured tea and handed me a cup. "I got an email from your old school this morning," she said, hesitating before she continued. "They said Katsuki Bakugo's been suspended. His parents called to apologize but honestly I didn't feel like letting them talk to you."
I stared into the cup. The steam swirled, distorting my reflection. "Oh."
She sighed. "You don't have to say anything, sweetie. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to go back there. Ever."
"Yeah," I murmured. "I know."
And I did. For the first time in years, I wasn't scared of walking into a classroom.
By midmorning, I was standing in front of the tall wrought-iron gates of the Academy.
It felt surreal. The gold emblem gleamed against the sunlight, and the campus beyond looked like something out of a movie — all elegant architecture and pristine gardens. I didn't belong here. Not yet. But I wanted to.
Momo was already waiting by the entrance, perfect posture and crisp uniform of the school even though it wasn't required yet. She waved when she saw me, her smile softer than usual. "Good morning, Izuku. Did you bring your forms?"
I held up the envelope. "All signed and sealed."
"Excellent." She turned slightly as Nerissa came jogging up, her long hair bouncing as she waved. "Sorry! The bus was packed! I had to stand the whole way."
"Don't worry," I said, grinning. "You're right on time."
"Wow," Nerissa said, looking up at the building. "Wow that thing is big!! Like, 'am I allowed to breathe near it' big."
Momo laughed lightly. "It can be intimidating at first. But you'll get used to it."
Before I could say anything, a voice called out, "Sorry I'm late!"
Shōko approached at a brisk pace, still a little winded. She was wearing casual clothes, a file tucked under one arm. "I had to stop by my father's office."
"That's fine," Momo said. "We were just about to drop off our paperwork."
We all went together, turning in the forms at the main office. The secretary smiled, gave us temporary passes, and told us to come back tomorrow for the official start of classes.
-timeskip to after a small tour-
Outside again, we stood near the gate, the air full of late-spring warmth and the sound of birds.
Nerissa stretched, hands behind her head. "You know, this is kinda crazy. A week ago we were just hanging out after school, and now we're all enrolled in one of the best prep academies in the country."
"Crazy in a good way," I said.
She grinned. "Yeah. Definitely that."
Shōko nodded slightly. "We'll make it work."
Momo smiled, the sunlight glinting on her hair. "Together."
For a few seconds, we just stood there grinning.
That afternoon, while I was helping Mom organize my uniform and school supplies, I caught myself smiling for no reason. The scar on my neck pulled slightly when I did, but I didn't care. I'd earned it.
Mom looked up from the ironing board. "You seem happy."
"Yeah," I said softly. "I think I am."
Flashback – The Todoroki Household
Earlier that morning, Shōko had stood in the hallway of her family's home, the polished floors reflecting the early light. She'd rehearsed the words in her head a dozen times, but now that she was actually holding the folder — her admission packet — her palms were slick with sweat.
Rei sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, quiet as always. When she noticed her daughter hovering, she smiled gently. "You should tell him, Shōko. He's in his study."
"I know," Shōko said. Her voice came out thinner than she wanted.
She crossed the hall and stopped at the sliding door. Inside, Endeavor sat behind a low desk surrounded by papers and training logs. He didn't look up right away. When he did, the weight of his gaze made her shoulders tighten.
"What is it?" he asked, voice deep but not harsh.
Shōko stepped inside, clutching the folder like a shield. "I… I want to attend a different school. The one my friends are transferring to. It's a really prestigious Academy funded mostly by the Yaoyorozu's and some other familys."
He blinked once. "I know the one you're talking about, it's an elite prep school?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. They're all going, and I— I think it would be good for me." Her throat felt dry. "I was hoping… you'd cover the tuition."
For a long moment, there was only the ticking of the clock. Then his brows furrowed slightly. "Your friends. The Midoriya boy, and the other two?"
"Yes."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing in thought. "The shadow user. And the light girl and the Yaoyorozu girl. Hm."
Shōko's fingers tightened on the folder. "They're good people," she said quietly. "They make me… want to do better."
That earned the faintest flicker of something in his eyes — not anger, but consideration.
"If they push you to improve," he said finally, "then I'll support it. I'll cover your tuition. And if they want to train, I'll give them some of my time when I can to train you all together."
She stared at him, caught off guard. "You… will?"
He grunted. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Her lips curved into a tiny, uncertain smile. "Thank you." She turned to leave sprinting away, afraid if she stayed he might change his mind.
As she slipped through the door, Rei looked up from her tea, meeting Endeavor's eyes. "She's trying, Enji," she said softly. "You should, too."
He didn't reply. But for once, his expression wasn't carved from stone. He glanced at the door his daughter had left through and muttered under his breath, "The shadow boy, huh? Interesting."
Present Day – Evening
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, my uniform was neatly folded on my desk. My phone buzzed — a message from our group chat.
Nerissa: "Bet I trip on the first day!"
Momo: "Please don't."
Shōko: "She will."
Nerissa: "Rude 😤"
I laughed, typing back: "I'll catch you if you do."
Nerissa: "Deal."
Momo: "Everyone ready? I'm so excited for you to be coming to school with me!!!!"
Shōko: "Yes."
Izuku: "Ready for tomorrow."
Nerissa:"yeppp"
Mom poked her head into my room a few minutes later. "Big day tomorrow."
"Yeah," I said, setting my phone aside.
She smiled. "Get some sleep, my little hero."
I didn't correct her.
When she turned off the light, the room went dim, filled with the sound of distant city traffic. My shadow stretched across the floor, still and watchful.
I looked at it for a long time and whispered, "Guess we're really doing this, huh?"
I smiled, lying back on the bed, heart steady for the first time in years.
Tomorrow, everything changes again
— timeskip and training montage Ten Years training—
(Ages 9–12)
The first months after the transfer felt like learning how to breathe again.
Classes weren't minefields anymore. Teachers looked me in the eye and remembered my name for reasons that didn't hurt. At lunch, I didn't eat fast with my head down; I sat with three people who always made room. After school, the Yaoyorozu estate became our practice ground—trim lawns, smooth flagstones, and strange hedges.
Momo brought order and supplies: cones, timers, a whiteboard with goals in tidy handwriting. Nerissa brought chaos: "let's try it and see if it explodes" energy that somehow made me braver. Shōko brought stillness: the kind that kept things from spiraling to far.
My shadow obeyed like it always had, but now I asked for more of it—rings that rose at my command, chains of darkness that curved over a target and held, lines thin as thread that stitched two points together for a second before fading. Nothing stored, nothing left behind. If I blinked, it vanished; if I smiled, it listened harder like it was to be praised for doing a good
We started syncing little drills. Momo would call, "Three-count rotation," and I'd lift a panel of shadow to intercept Nerissa's light bolt. The beam shattered into glitter across my surface—no damage, just dazzling—while Shōko iced the ground behind me to force an imaginary opponent to slip. I learned to extend and retract like I had lungs. They learned how to trust a wall that wasn't there a heartbeat earlier.
The first time it all flowed, we broke formation and just laughed. Not relief-laughter, not the brittle kind that leaks through fear. The real thing. I can still hear it when I think of those evenings—Momo's bright surprise at her own success, Nerissa's whoop as she spun, Shōko's breathy not-quite chuckle that counted because she tried.
When I walked home at dusk, my shadow stretched long in front of me, blue eyes looking around and I realized it didn't feel like a reminder of the mall anymore. It felt like a promise.
(Ages 13–15)
Endeavor's arena smelled like heated metal and scuffed rubber, with a sting of smoke from fire that clung to the throat. The first day he watched us train, I thought I might choke on the silence between his footfalls. He didn't speak at first, just stood with arms crossed, firelight flickering almost lazily around his shoulders. Then he barked a single instruction to me: "Again. Faster." It wasn't cruel. It was a test.
He started coming more often—officially to guide Shōko, I think, but his eyes kept tracking the way my shadows braced against heat. We built tolerance the only way you can: slowly, safely, on purpose. I learned to read the rising shimmer in the air, to thicken a panel just enough that flame skated instead of biting, to drop a second barrier in the exact pocket where the heat would recoil. Nothing I made stayed when I looked away; nothing acted without the shape of my will except the shadow with glowing blue eyes every now and again. But my reflexes sharpened until the distance between thought and motion was almost nothing.
"Not bad, kid," he said one night after a full-intensity burst caught my shield dead center and I didn't buckle. The words were flat. The corners of his mouth weren't.
Nerissa learned to hold a beam steady without frying herself, then to split it—one line for offense, one gentler ribbon ready to mend a scrape or defend. She celebrated everything, even other people's tiny wins. Momo began bringing prototypes she could create and then reuse—collapsible braces that anchored my shadow to a railing for exactly two seconds, lens rings that let Nerissa concentrate light without flaring, cooling bracers for Shōko that bled heat off her right side so her left wouldn't have to overcompensate. Shōko's fire and ice stopped feeling like a tug-of-war and became a conversation; you could see it in the way she moved, balanced from heel to crown.
We ate together more than we trained. Momo's family table. Endeavor's sidekicks' breakroom when we'd earned it. My apartment when Mom insisted we let her cook. Even Nerissa's family hosted us. There was always someone to shove extra rice at you if you pushed too hard that day; always someone to say "good work" like it mattered that you heard it.
We turned fifteen on a loop of cake and sparring and small, awkward compliments. Sometime around then I realized my notes about my friends' quirks had turned into notes about my friends—how Nerissa laughed right before she overdid it, how Momo's eyes softened when a plan clicked for someone else, how Shōko's shoulders loosened when she felt safe.
If you'd told the boy I used to be that life could feel like this, he would've looked for the trap. I stopped looking.
(Ages 16–17)
We no longer trained "after school." We trained like a team with a schedule.
Endeavor's sidekicks ran us through scenario circuits that made my lungs burn in the best way. No other students—just pros in orange vests who didn't pull punches and didn't waste them, either. One of them, a compact man named Haze with a smoke quirk, loved to vanish in tight spaces and reappear where you least wanted him. "Eyes up, Midoriya," he'd say, already behind me. "Use your eyes, not your shadow." I stopped relying on the comfort of the black at my heels and started trusting my own reads. My shadows learned to arrive exactly where I told them, exactly when I needed them, or not at all.
Momo started carrying a slim belt full of tiny capsules she could produce on the fly and restore later—impact dampers I could slap to a wall, flexible anchors that let a shadow plane hold against concussive force for just three heartbeats, a palm-sized lamp that cut through Haze's smoke for Nerissa. She'd crouch beside me between runs, tightening a strap on my wrist or adjusting a weight on my forearm while she explained why version six was better than version five, voice low and bright with quiet pride. I started noticing that her fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary. I didn't mind.
Nerissa flickered like sunrise when she fought—not just bright, but warm. She teased me every time we raced the obstacle gauntlet. "Come on, shadow boy, try to keep up," followed by the serious, steady, "Midoriya, left—" when a foam projectile came from a blind angle. When I took a hard hit, her hands were on me in an instant, light pouring into bruised muscle until it released. Once, I called her amazing and she forgot how to talk for a full five seconds before she leaned into my shoulder, laughing at herself.
Shōko didn't need to say much anymore. I could read her in the temperature of the air. Ice under my left foot meant pivot and set; a wash of heat across my right side meant brace and ride the strike into a counter. We sparred directly, too—solid shadow blades against ice blades, heat shimmering around a barrier as I thickened it to the exact grain that wouldn't crack. She'd end a bout with a tiny smile that only existed because I learned to look for it. I kept those smiles like souvenirs.
Endeavor treated us like we were worth the time. He didn't coddle and he didn't condescend. "Again," when it was sloppy. "Reset," when we were tired and it mattered more to do it right than to get it done. Once, when I aligned a 3 shadow wall defense simultaneously to catch a staggered series of flame arcs—one low, one high, one slicing from the side—he grunted without looking at me and said, "Good instinct." It was almost nothing. It meant everything.
And somewhere in all the drills and coffee-fueled mornings and late-night ramen at the shop that never asked questions, we stopped being just four kids who'd been scared together. We became… us.
It snuck up on me in pieces. Momo's laugh, softer when it was only for our table. Nerissa's habit of tapping a knuckle against my shoulder right before she started a sprint. Shōko handing me a water bottle and looking at the mats instead of my face when she said, "You did well." The way my chest unclenched when I heard their footsteps coming down a hall even before I saw them. The way my shadow seemed to stand a little straighter and wrap around them protectively when they were near, like it understood what I refused to say out loud.
I'm not oblivious anymore. The warmth wasn't one-sided. I caught Momo watching me once while I tested a new anchor brace, her expression not for a plan, but a person. Nerissa would joke and bump me in front of everyone, then sit close on the bus and go quiet like proximity answered a question she hadn't voiced. Shōko's hand would brush mine when walking next to me; she didn't pull away. None of it was a confession. All of it meant more than it pretended to.
One evening, after a brutal circuit where Haze and two other sidekicks boxed me in with smoke, heat, and pressure waves, we finished on the main platform under humming lights. I managed the last set clean: shadow plate to deflect, whip to snag a dummy's ankle, brace to keep a rolling concussion from knocking Nerissa off her mark. We collapsed in a heap, all sweat and steam and the kind of laughter that happens when you're too tired to be anything but honest.
"Endeavor almost smiled," Nerissa said, flopping backward.
"He did not," Shōko replied, but the corner of her mouth turned up.
"He did," Momo said, thoughtful and amused. "A fractional upward shift of the right lip."
I stared at the ceiling until the fluorescent bars became constellations. "I'm writing that down as 'witnessed.'"
We sat there with our feet dangling over the mat edge until the arena vents turned the heat into a cool draft. The sidekicks packed gear. Endeavor spoke in low tones to a lieutenant, glanced our way once, and nodded like a punctuation mark.
I looked at my hands—callused, steady—and then at the three people sprawled beside me. The heaviness that used to live in my ribs wasn't there. The old fear that someone would shout my name just to watch me flinch had gone quiet. I remembered it. I respected it. But it didn't run the room anymore.
The truth arrived as lightly as the air moving across my skin: the trauma was gone. Not erased—earned away. It had been washed out by a thousand ordinary kindnesses and a thousand deliberate, difficult hours. Mom's tea. Momo's plans. Nerissa's light. Shōko's steady presence. Endeavor's grudging regard. My own shadow, waiting and ready without question.
When we finally stood, my shadow rose with me, nothing left to haunt the ground after I moved just a black, disciplined echo answering its king. I flexed my fingers and it mirrored me perfectly. Ready when I was. Rest when I rested. Blue eyes sharp and ready.
We turned off the lights together. At the door, Nerissa bumped my shoulder and whispered, "Same time tomorrow?" like there had ever been an answer besides yes. Momo adjusted the strap on my forearm brace, her touch careful. Shōko met my eyes for a heartbeat, then looked past me toward the city and said, "It'll be a clear morning."
I believed her.
Outside, the night pressed cool and clean against my face. The arena sign hummed behind us. Somewhere far off, a siren rose and fell. I breathed in the ordinary, perfect noise of a life that finally belonged to me.