The bell above the convenience store door chimes softly as I step inside, breathing hard.
Sweat clings to my shirt, and my pulse hammers in my ears. The air-conditioning hits like a blessing, washing over me in cool waves.
I've been running longer every day, further and faster, just to reach the point where I actually feel tired. Even then, the burn in my legs fades faster than it used to. It's annoying. Encouraging. Both.
I pull my green notebook from my bag and flip to the latest page of training notes.
Distance to fatigue: 12.3 kilometers.
Goal for next week: +1.5 km.
I pause, tapping the pencil lightly against the page. Eight years. Eight years since I woke up in this world, since I opened my eyes in that hospital chair and realized I wasn't me anymore.
Thirteen years old now. Still figuring out what that even means.
Some days it still doesn't feel real. The quirks. The hero culture. The way physics occasionally looks at people here and just… shrugs.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and a magazine from the rack, something about new hero rankings, a headline blaring: "Villain Activity Rising in East Musutafu." Standard stuff.
As I walk toward the counter, my mind drifts back to the question that's been bothering me for years.
It isn't just quirks. It's people.
Apparently, human potential itself has skyrocketed since quirks first appeared. I read a study once claiming that quirks didn't just change society, they changed evolution. Even the quirkless today are stronger, faster, tougher than the average person from the pre-quirk era. Centuries of selective breeding, natural adaptation, and cultural obsession with strength… it all adds up.
Which means… even at a biological level, I'm not in my world anymore.
I twist the cap off my bottle and take a long drink, letting the cool water wash away the dryness in my throat. My reflection stares back at me faintly from the freezer glass. It's sweaty, red-faced, thirteen years old and somehow older than that.
My thoughts wander back to that first conversation with Sensei, all those years ago.
This body was still only 5 years old. I'd just finished one of the early training sessions, barely able to hold a stance without shaking, and I remember blurting out something stupid like, "If I overdo it, will it mess up my growth?"
He gave me this blank look. Like I'd just asked if rain gets people wet. It took several more minutes of explaining before we got anywhere.
When he realized what I was talking about, he sighed, motioned for me to follow him outside, and walked over to one of the old trees near the yard.
Then, without saying a word, he pulled back his fist-
-and punched the tree.
The tree fell.
Just toppled. Roots and all.
For a second, I honestly thought I'd discovered his quirk, some kind of strength amplifier, maybe. But he just brushed his hands off, looked at me, and said,
"No quirk. Just a quirkless man doing what he can to protect himself. We don't deal with those types of things anymore. I don't even know how far a normal person can go but I've been training every day for 20 years and I haven't seemed to meet any limit."
My brain short-circuited right there.
In my old world, that kind of strength was impossible. You'd need years of specialized conditioning, perfect diet, optimal hormones, and even then, physics had the final say. Here? Here it… I don't even know! That's just not how normal things work! Sensei isn't petite or anything but he's not body builder level either!
The cashier gives me a polite nod as I place the magazine and water on the counter. I fish around in my pocket for my wallet.
That's when the bell above the door rings again, hard this time, slamming against the frame.
Three men burst in, faces covered by black masks, guns glinting in their hands.
Everything stops.
The cashier freezes mid-scan. My hand stills halfway out of my pocket. For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then one of the men points his gun directly at us.
"Hands up! Both of you!"
The words come out raw and too loud, cracking slightly, someone who's never done this before.
The cashier obeys immediately, trembling, both arms raised high. I sigh and follow suit, lifting my hands. The gunman's grip is unsteady, but not enough for me to risk testing him.
Another man starts sweeping items from the shelves into a duffel bag. Literally anything and everything. Chips, drinks, candy, anything he can grab. The third stands by the door, glancing through the glass every few seconds, his shoulders tense. Watching for police. Or heroes.
"Empty the register!" the leader shouts.
The cashier's shaking so hard the bills spill out of his hands.
I watch quietly, heart pounding in my chest but mind running calculations.
Should I do something?
…No.
Not only would that technically count as vigilantism, which could get me barred from ever entering U.A., but nobody's been hurt. They're nervous, untrained, sloppy. This is desperation, not malice.
And this isn't Gotham or something. Japan has villainy insurance. The store will be compensated. Even the cashier will get trauma pay.
Interfering here helps no one.
The bag fills fast. The gunman gives one last wave of his weapon.
"Now you, kid. Pockets. Let's go."
I blink. "Seriously?"
"Do it!"
I roll my eyes, muttering under my breath as I pull out my wallet and toss it into the bag. "Fine. But you're robbing a middle-schooler. Not exactly the score of the century."
"Shut up!"
Annoying, but fine. I'm thirteen. It's not like I've got rent money in there.
The man is about to move on when his eyes flick down to my other hand.
My notebook.
"That too," he says, pointing his gun.
I frown. "What? It's just a personal journal."
"Then you won't miss it. Put it in the bag."
"It's worthless to you," I start, trying to keep my voice even. "Just notes. Training logs. Really, it's-"
"Tough shit," he snaps. "Bag. Now."
My jaw tightens. I glance at the barrel aimed at my face. The distance, the tremor in his wrist, the way his finger twitches on the trigger, all of it tells me he's scared. One wrong word, and I become the story on tomorrow's headline.
I exhale slowly, extending the notebook. "You're making a mistake. That thing's-"
"Go! Go! Go!" the lookout at the door suddenly shouts.
The leader jerks the notebook from my hand, shoves it into the sack with the cash, and bolts.
"Wait-!"
They're gone before the word finishes leaving my mouth.
"Damnit!"
I don't think. I just run. The bell slams against the door again as I burst outside, scanning the street.
They're sprinting down the block, bags swinging, shoving past pedestrians.
And just ahead of me, someone blurs past in a streak of color and motion. A hero.
He's dressed in a sleek blue-and-silver suit with wheels embedded along his arms, knees, even his back. The air whistles as he skates forward, sparks flickering under his feet every time he turns.
"ROLLRUSH HERO: GEARSHIFT!" someone yells from across the street as he takes off.
I chase after them, legs burning but adrenaline drowning out the fatigue.
We round a corner. The robbers dart into a narrow alley, knocking over a trash can to block the path. The hero vaults it easily; I slide through right behind him, lungs screaming.
But when we reach the other side…
They're gone.
No footsteps. No sound. Just empty space and a fluttering receipt caught in the wind.
"Damn it," the hero hisses, slamming a fist against the wall. "They must've had a getaway vehicle."
I stand there, bent over, catching my breath. My pulse thunders.
My notebook. My notebook.
Eight years of data, theories, training logs, everything. Gone in thirty seconds.
The hero pulls out his communicator, calling for backup. I just stand there, staring at the empty street, my reflection staring back faintly from a shattered window.
"Damn it," I whisper again, softer this time.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel something unfamiliar crawl up my spine.
Not fear. Not anger. Something colder.
Resolve.
"Hey! Kid!"
The hero's voice snaps me out of it. He skates toward me, stopping in a smooth glide that sprays dust across the alley floor. Up close, I can see the faint glow of micro-motors spinning along the wheels built into his boots and forearms. His visor retracts with a soft hiss, revealing tired eyes and a five-o'clock shadow that looks like it's been there for three days.
"Name?" he asks sharply.
"Midoriya," I answer automatically, still catching my breath. "Izuku Midoriya."
"Alright, Midoriya." He glances at the empty alley again before turning back to me. "Mind explaining what the hell you thought you were doing running after armed robbers?"
"I-"
"No, don't say it was instinct," he cuts in. "Instinct gets people killed. You're lucky they didn't turn around and shoot."
I shut my mouth. He's not wrong.
"I wasn't trying to be a hero," I say finally. "They stole something from me."
He raises an eyebrow. "A wallet?"
"My notebook."
He stares for a second, as if waiting for me to realize how ridiculous that sounds. "A notebook."
"It's important," I say flatly. "Years of research, training data, plans, everything I've worked on since I was five."
The hero sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Kid, listen to me. I get it. You're upset. But you could've died over a piece of paper."
"It wasn't paper," I state without remorse.
He gives me a long, heavy look, the kind adults reserve for kids who clearly don't understand how close they came to disaster. "You think being brave means chasing after danger. It doesn't. You're lucky I showed up when I did."
"I wasn't trying to fight them," I say, a bit more defensive now. "I just wanted to see where they went."
"That's the same thing," he snaps. "You chase villains, you become part of the scene. You interfere, you become responsible for whatever happens next. You understand that?"
I look down at my hands. They're still trembling slightly. I curl them into fists until it stops.
"Yes, sir."
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well… at least you didn't use your quirk. Last thing I need is a minor pulling a stunt that ends up on my paperwork."
I blink. "My… quirk?"
He nods, still half-distracted, eyes scanning the rooftops. "Yeah. Whatever it is. Speed, strength, whatever. You've got good control for your age, I'll give you that. That sprint back there was textbook form. Clean posture, perfect breathing. I've seen sidekicks who can't run that efficiently."
I hesitate. "I don't have a quirk."
The hero stops. Turns.
"What?"
"I don't have one," I repeat. "Never did."
For a moment, he just stares. His visor catches the flicker of a passing streetlight, and I can see his eyes narrow behind the tint. "You're telling me you chased armed criminals… without a quirk?"
I shrug lightly. "They stole my notebook."
He groans, loudly if I may add, and drags a hand down his face. "Unbelievable. Of course the one time I catch a kid doing something suicidal, it's a quirkless one."
He sighs, shaking his head like he's scolding himself as much as me. "Look, Midoriya… guts are fine. But guts don't stop bullets. You can train every day for the rest of your life and it still won't make you faster than a trigger pull."
I don't respond.
He softens, though just barely. "You've clearly put in the work. Don't throw it away doing something stupid. Let pros handle it, alright?"
He taps his communicator, calling in his report. "You're clear to go home. But if I catch you chasing villains again, quirk or not, I'll personally haul you to the nearest police station. Got it?"
"Crystal," I say.
He nods once, visor sliding back into place. "Good. Go home, kid."
He pushes off the ground, wheels sparking against the asphalt as he disappears down the street, leaving me alone in the fading light.
The silence feels heavier now.
I stare at the corner where the robbers vanished, jaw tight. His words replay in my head- 'You're lucky they didn't notice.Guts don't stop bullets.'
Maybe he's right.
Maybe.
But that notebook was everything. My notes, my theories, my proof that I could still matter in a world built for power.
Without it… I don't have proof that any of this is working.
That I'm working.
I exhale slowly and glance toward the streetlights.
"Let the pros handle it," I murmur. "Yeah… sure."
But deep down, I already know I won't.