Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The ambulance rocked gently as it sped through the city streets, sirens wailing a warning to the late-night traffic. Aizawa sat stiffly on the hard plastic seat beside the stretcher, his arms crossed, his usual blank expression betraying none of the exhaustion creeping up his spine. Izuku lay curled on the stretcher, his face turned away, the scarf still wrapped tightly around his head, shielding his eyes. Even now, the kid wouldn’t let anyone see them. His tears had slowed to a trickle but never fully stopped, leaving his face streaked with remnants of his earlier breakdown.

His snakes writhed weakly against the fabric of the scarf, sluggish and restless, mirroring their owner’s unease. Some of the snakes coiled close to Izuku’s face, protective and fearful, while others lay limply across the pillow, too drained to move. The dim light from the ambulance’s overhead panel cast faint shadows of them against the stretcher’s surface..

Weakly, Izuku extended a trembling hand, fingers reaching out blindly. Aizawa hesitated for only a moment before taking the boy’s hand in his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. It was the only comfort he could offer in this moment of uncertainty.

Aizawa had allowed the paramedics to give Izuku a quick examination, but he’d drawn the line when they tried to remove his capture weapon from around the boy's eyes. The medics had been eager to assess the damage, but Aizawa knew they’d need to be cautious. The boy's Quirk had clearly changed, and if Izuku really could turn things to stone, this wasn’t the place to test its limits. He had explained, as professionally as he could manage, that Izuku’s Quirk seemed to have developed a new aspect—something powerful, something uncontrollable. A bird had been turned to stone, and right now, Izuku was far too shaken, too afraid of what might happen if he couldn’t control it. The medics exchanged wary glances but didn’t press the issue, a small mercy. Izuku was fragile enough without feeling like a threat.

The boy's wings twitched at his back, shifting uncomfortably against the stretcher. Feathers ruffled with each small movement, uncertain and restless. They hadn’t fully settled yet, still reacting instinctively to his distress. More than once, a medic had to keep from flinching when a feathered limb gave a sudden, involuntary jerk. Aizawa noticed how Izuku tried to keep them as still as possible, pressing them down against the stretcher as though he could will them away.

Aizawa wanted to stay. He wanted to be there when Inko and Hisashi arrived, to make sure the kid had someone he knew beside him. But he couldn’t. His patrol had already been derailed long enough, and he was stretching himself thin as it was. He wasn’t exactly in a position to be calling in favors, not this early into his career.

As the ambulance pulled into the hospital bay, Aizawa gave Izuku’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The boy flinched at first, and his wings gave a startled shudder, but he relaxed under the touch, nodding slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could offer in the midst of all this uncertainty.

The medics instructed Izuku to keep his eyes closed while they swapped out the capture weapon with clean bandages, giving them time to assess his injuries. The boy hesitated, his hands instinctively reaching up to cover his eyes, but after a moment, he gave a tight nod. The medic carefully unwrapped the bandages, revealing eyes squeezed shut tight. A mix of tears and blood had begun to dry in streaks down his face, soaking the cloth. The captured weapon came back stained, both with blood and with the remnants of Izuku’s tears.

The snakes on his head hissed softly, barely more than a whisper, their tiny forked tongues flicking out as if tasting the air. Some curled closer to his face as though to shield his eyes from everyone, while others began examining their surroundings, still appearing alert and unsettled.

One medic’s face twisted with concern. “I can’t tell if the blood’s coming from his eyes or another cut on his face. We need to check his eyes to be sure.”

Izuku’s hands shot up to cover his eyes again, and he let out a panicked whimper. “No... please...”

Another medic, gentler in tone, approached with more bandages. “It’s okay,” they reassured him, moving carefully to remove his hands and wrap fresh bandages around his eyes. “We won’t look at them just yet. We’ll wait until we can get Quirk suppressors before we do anything.” Izuku’s tense posture loosened slightly, but he still trembled, a quiet sob escaping his lips as he relented, allowing them to brush his snakes to the side in order to cover his eyes again.

Once the immediate situation was handled, Aizawa’s gaze shifted to the police officers standing just outside the emergency entrance. At least he could make sure everything was documented properly before he returned to his shift.

The stone bird in his pocket weighed heavily on him. He wasn’t sure whether it would be better to give it to the doctors for a Quirk analysis or leave it with the police for evidence. Neither option felt entirely right, but there was no time to dwell on it.

As the hospital staff wheeled Izuku inside, Aizawa gave his statement to the waiting officers—explaining what he’d witnessed, what he knew about the incident, and ensuring they understood that Izuku had acted solely in self-defense. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The officers nodded, taking their notes, and assured him they would stay with Izuku until his parents arrived.

Aizawa, still undecided on what to do with the stone bird, decided to leave it with the police. They could figure out the next steps. For now, all he could do was hope that Izuku’s parents would arrive soon and that this ordeal would soon be behind them all.

That left one last thing to do.

Aizawa pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts, locating “Midoriya Inko.” He pressed the call button, and the line barely rang twice before she picked up.

“Aizawa!? Is—Izuku?” Her voice was breathless, thick with worry. In the background, he could hear Hisashi’s anxious tone, and the distant hum of a car engine. Aizawa had already instructed Hizashi to pass on the message about him locating Izuku. It seemed his parents had wasted no time and were already on their way.

“Izuku’s fine,” Aizawa said, keeping his voice as steady as possible, though the weariness was creeping in. “I found him at the edge of the park's forest. He’s shaken up, got some bruises and scratches, but nothing serious. There’s…” he hesitated, not entirely sure how to put it, “something happened out there, but I don’t have all the details. He’s at the hospital now, and the police are with him. I had to head back to patrol, but I wanted to call you first.”

A sharp intake of breath followed by muffled voices in the background—likely Inko relaying the news to Hisashi. “Oh, thank God… Thank you, Aizawa. Thank you so much. We’re heading there now.”

“Good. He needs you,” Aizawa replied, his voice softening for a moment. He hesitated briefly, then added, “Call me if anything changes.”

She promised she would.

The next call was shorter. Hizashi picked up with a tense, “Hello?” but exhaled in relief as Aizawa quickly explained the situation. For the past couple of hours, Hizashi and Hitoshi had been searching, along with Izuku’s parents. Hizashi’s response was immediate, quick and clipped, as he asked for more details and confirmed that he and Hitoshi would be there as soon as possible.

With both of Izuku’s parents on their way, and his own family heading over as well, Aizawa finally slipped his phone back into his pocket. The job was done. Izuku was safe. The authorities were handling the rest.

And yet…

Aizawa exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face as he walked back toward the city streets. His fingers trembled slightly. He flexed them, trying to shake off the residual tension. He’d gotten better about his fear of snakes over the years, but tonight had tested him in ways he hadn’t expected. The weight of Izuku’s trembling body in his arms, the feeling of those serpentine forms coiling and shifting so close to his skin—it had taken everything in him to push past that instinctive, deep-seated fear.

But there hadn’t been a choice.

Izuku needed him.

And when a kid needed help, fears didn’t matter.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Aizawa straightened his shoulders, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stepped back into the night. His patrol wasn’t over yet.

____________

The cold metal of the Quirk suppressant cuffs clicked shut around Izuku’s wrists, sending a dull shiver through his body. The moment they locked, a strange silence fell over his mind. Not the kind that came with an empty room or a hushed whisper, but something deeper—hollow and unnatural. The ever-present voices of his snakes, the quiet background hum of their thoughts that had been with him for as long as he could remember, were simply gone.

He blinked, slowly, adjusting to the unimpeded view of the room around him. He should have felt relief—his vision had been obscured for so long—but instead, all he felt was wrong. His snakes still moved, shifting atop his head and coiling loosely around his shoulders, but their presence was muted, distant. He couldn’t feel their emotions, couldn’t grasp their thoughts. It was like standing in a room full of familiar faces only to realize none of them could understand him anymore.

A sharp pang of panic seized his chest. His breath hitched, coming faster than before as he lifted trembling hands, reaching for the reassuring weight of Haz and Hugsy. They curled around his fingers instinctively, seeking comfort just as much as he was, but their touch felt incomplete—like grasping a hand through thick glass.

“I—I don’t like this,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hugsy pressed closer to his cheek, nudging him in slow, deliberate motions, but without their mental link, the gesture felt hollow. It wasn’t the same. The absence of their quiet reassurances was suffocating.

The other snakes stirred, responding in their own ways. Tangle and Whisp unwound from their usual resting places, flicking their tongues toward the doctors who stood nearby. Without the tether of shared thoughts to guide them, their movements felt more uncertain, and hesitant. Whisp stretched toward the gloved hands of one of the doctors, his tongue darting out to taste the air, while Coil remained tighter around his wrist, his body tense and unreadable.

A few of them turned inward, pressing closer to Izuku as if trying to sense him the way they always had. But it didn’t work. The connection wasn’t there.

He clenched his fists, but the suppressors drained even the faintest flicker of energy from his Quirk. It left him feeling hollow—adrift in a body that no longer felt like his own. The only small mercy was that he could open his eyes now without fear, yet even that came at the cost of everything else.

His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, trying to ground himself, but it didn’t help. The sensation of emptiness coiled around his ribs, squeezing tighter with every passing second, suffocating in a way that had nothing to do with the room’s stale, sterile air.

The doctors continued their examination—lifting his arms, checking his vitals, inspecting his wings and scales—but Izuku barely processed it. Their hands were clinical, efficient, and impersonal. They weren’t the ones he wanted to feel. He wanted his dad. He wanted his mom. He wanted the steady, grounding presence of his snakes' voices, their quiet reassurances weaving through his mind.

But there was nothing.

His snakes curled and writhed against him, their normally fluid, effortless movements replaced with restless uncertainty. Without their voices, their weight was just that—weight. A silent, shifting presence that only deepened the overwhelming sense of wrongness.

“His heart rate is elevated,” one of the doctors noted, the calm professionalism in their voice grating against the storm inside him. “Midoriya, are you feeling alright?”

No. No, he wasn’t.

But what was he supposed to say? That he felt like a part of him had been torn away, leaving behind only jagged, frayed edges? That the silence in his mind was deafening, suffocating, unbearable? That he was scared?

His grip tightened around Hugsy and Haz, fingers desperate for any form of connection. Their scales were cold beneath his touch, but the usual spark of understanding, the familiar echo of their thoughts against his own, was missing. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to push through the tremor in his voice.

“Can you—can you hurry?” he asked instead, his words barely above a whisper. “Please?”

The doctors exchanged glances. One of them, a woman with kind eyes, softened her expression and stepped closer. “We’ll be as quick as we can, I promise.”

It wasn’t enough.

Haz remained still in his grip, but the usual quiet strength he exuded felt dimmed, dulled. Hero, always brash and full of encouragement, offered no bold words of reassurance. Squiggles, the most talkative of them all, looked almost motionless, his small frame curled in a loose spiral against Izuku’s collar. Even Boop, usually an excitable little ball of energy, merely nudged at Izuku’s temple without his usual insistent taps.

Pod, who was normally indifferent to anything that wasn’t an immediate threat, uncoiled slightly and flicked his tongue toward the doctors, as if tasting the air could tell him what was wrong. Nibble did the same, hesitating before inching toward one of the doctors’ hands, weaving slightly as though expecting a response that would never come. Pretty wound tighter under his chin, as though he, too, was trying to hold onto something slipping away.

The minutes dragged on, stretching unbearably long. Each second without the familiar hum of his snakes’ voices felt like an eternity. He wasn’t just alone in a room full of doctors—he was trapped in his own mind, surrounded by loved ones who could no longer reach him.

At least during the incident, he had his friends' voices. Even through the chaos, they had been there, grounding him, tethering him to something real.

Cold fingers prodded at his ribs, tracing over the worst of the bruises. The sting of antiseptic followed as they cleaned the cuts along his arms and face, but Izuku barely flinched. The discomfort was secondary to the hollow ache in his chest.

“You’re lucky,” one of them murmured, dabbing at the scratches near his temple with a gauze pad. “Superficial injuries for the most part. You’ll be sore for a while, but nothing is broken.”

Izuku barely acknowledged them. His fingers twitched against Hugsy and Haz’s scales, seeking some kind of reassurance. His snakes still fidgeted, their movements lethargic and filled with uncertainty. A few of the bolder ones—Hero and Stripes—continued to curiously flick their tongues at the doctors’ hands whenever they got too close as if trying to understand what was happening. The others remained pressed against him, unmoving. Too quiet. Too still.

The examination continued, and eventually, they moved on to his eyes. A small flashlight flickered before him, and Izuku instinctively recoiled, his pupils contracting painfully against the glare. His breath hitched as his eyes throbbed in protest.

“Easy,” the doctor soothed. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but we need to check for any lasting damage.”

Izuku swallowed and forced himself to stay still. He could hear them murmuring to one another, their tones unreadable.

“The sclera hemorrhages are making it look worse than it is,” one doctor said. “The burst blood vessels should clear up with time.”

“The discoloration is… unusual, though,” another added. “His irises have significantly faded in color.”

A gloved hand gently tilted his chin up, and Izuku fought the instinct to pull away.

“Midoriya, can you still see clearly?”

He blinked. The room swam for a moment before settling. “Y-yeah. Everything’s the same, I think,” he admitted. His voice sounded distant to his own ears.

“That’s good,” the doctor said, though the concern in their voice didn’t fade. “Your eyes are inflamed, but your vision doesn’t seem to be impaired. You said they burn?”

Izuku nodded weakly. “Yeah… really bad.”

The doctors exchanged another glance before one of them reached for a small bottle. “Let’s try some eye drops. It might help with the irritation.”

Izuku barely reacted as they carefully applied the drops, though he did squeeze his eyes shut at the cool sensation. The relief was fleeting—his eyes still throbbed beneath his lids, the sharp burning sensation only settling slightly—but it was better than nothing.

“How does that feel?”

“A little better,” he admitted, but his voice lacked conviction.

The doctor hummed. “We’ll keep monitoring it. Let us know if it gets worse.”

Izuku gave a small nod, but his focus had already drifted. The doctors’ voices faded into background noise as his gaze dropped to his lap.

The soft echo of footsteps reverberated down the quiet hospital hallway before the door to Izuku's room creaked open. His mother entered first, her tear-streaked face a mix of relief and overwhelming concern. Without hesitation, she rushed to his side, wrapping her arms around him as if afraid he might vanish at any moment. His father followed closely behind, his expression unreadable, but his sharp eyes were filled with unmistakable worry as he stood by the door, folding his arms.

Izuku’s gaze lingered on his mother’s trembling hands as they gently stroked his hair, her voice a barely audible whisper. "Izuku, my baby… I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry."

Izuku blinked slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. His mind was still foggy from the trauma, and he could feel the heaviness of the day bearing down on him. His fingers instinctively curled around the edge of his blanket, but despite his own tense nature, he felt his snakes relax, sensing the familiar comfort of their presence in the room.

The doctor gave a reassuring nod to Inko before exiting, leaving the family a moment of peace. Izuku's parents exchanged a brief glance, the air thick with unasked questions, before both turned their attention back to their son.

"Are you alright, Izuku?" Hisashi's voice was low, but there was an unmistakable tension in it, a father’s concern laced with something deeper.

Izuku longed to say something that would reassure them, something that would ease their worry, but the words felt heavy and stuck in his throat. Instead, he nodded, his eyes drifting to a small patch of sunlight filtering through the blinds, its warm glow in stark contrast to the cold weight on his chest.

His mother’s gaze never left him, her search for any sign of pain palpable. "The lady at the front desk said you were okay, but..." Her voice cracked as her fingers tightened around his hand. "What happened, sweetheart? Why are your eyes—what happened to you?"

Izuku swallowed hard, gathering the strength to speak, his voice hoarse and trembling. "I don’t... There were... bad guys. They chased me. They... wanted to hurt me. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. The snakes, they—they just... acted on their own. I couldn’t stop them."

His father’s brows furrowed as he stepped closer, his tone thick with disbelief. "Bad guys?" he echoed, a harsh edge creeping into his voice. "What kind of bad guys? What happened?"

Izuku’s breath hitched, the memory of the chaos, the panic, the pain flooding back. "They tried to grab me. I don’t know why. They had weapons, and they—" His words faltered as the terror from that moment surged in his chest. "My snakes—they just protected me. I didn’t mean for them to bite anyone. They... They bit them, and then..." He paused, swallowing hard as his mind rushed back to the bird in the forest. "Then I saw a bird. I didn’t understand at first, but I... I turned it to stone. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I didn’t even know I could do that."

Hisashi and Inko exchanged a look, both parents struggling to process the gravity of what Izuku had just revealed. Inko wiped away a stray tear, her hand trembling as she reached to caress Izuku’s cheek gently. "Izuku… sweetheart, we know you didn’t mean for any of this to happen, but you’re saying these men were chasing you?" she asked, her voice soft but urgent. "Why—how—where did you even go? You said you were going to the park with Shinsou, but Yamada said he never even left to meet you."

The air in the room seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken words. Unable to keep the flood of guilt inside, Izuku suddenly burst into tears, his voice cracking with anguish. "It’s not Shinsou’s fault!" he sobbed, his words tumbling out in a hoarse, frantic rush. "I lied! I wasn’t supposed to meet him today, I lied and said that so I could practice flying in secret." Tears and snot streamed down his face like a torrent, each sob ripping through him. "I’m sorry! I’m a liar and a bad son."

Izuku’s body shook violently with the force of his sobs, his hands clutching the blanket in desperation, the weight of his guilt suffocating him. "I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to... I just..."

Inko’s face crumpled at his words, and without a second thought, she leaned forward, wrapping him tightly in her arms once more, pulling him close as though trying to shield him from the pain he was carrying. "Izuku, no. Don’t say that," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She stroked his back gently, her touch soft but firm, as though she could somehow absorb his sorrow and make it disappear. "You’re not a bad son. Yes, lying to us was wrong. And I don’t ever want you to do that again," she scolded, her voice regaining a hint of firmness, before her worry returned. "But we’re just so glad you’re here, and you’re safe."

Izuku’s trembling began to subside, his body gradually relaxing into his mother’s embrace. Her comforting presence offered a small measure of peace, a quiet refuge amidst the storm in his chest. His father stood by the door, still silent, his arms now uncrossed, as if unsure of whether to join them. But the relief in his eyes, masked by his usually stoic demeanor, spoke volumes.

Izuku’s shoulders shuddered, but he let himself sink further into his mother’s warmth, the weight on his chest easing just a little. After a long pause, Hisashi finally stepped forward, his gaze softening, though his concern still lingered in the tight set of his jaw.

“You’re not a bad son, Izuku,” Hisashi’s voice was low, yet steady, like the calm after a storm. He knelt beside the bed, placing his large hands on Izuku’s shoulders, grounding him in the moment. “You made a mistake, yes. But you’re still a kid. You’re still learning. What happened today... that wasn’t your fault. You need to understand that.”

Izuku sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, his shoulders still trembling. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to... to fly. To use my Quirk freely.” His voice faltered as he looked down at his hands, a lingering sting of guilt from the chaos that had unfolded. The thought of his snakes—his own Quirk—turning against those he never intended to harm was a weight he wasn’t sure how to carry.

Inko squeezed him tighter, her voice a soft murmur against his ear. “Sweetheart, I understand. But there’s a reason we don’t use our Quirks publicly. It’s dangerous. For you, and for others. There are people out there who could hurt you, like the ones you met today. You’re not at fault for using your Quirk to protect yourself, but your father and I... we asked you to wait, to be safe. We just wanted to make sure you were ready.”

Izuku nodded weakly, but the knot in his stomach remained, a gnawing fear that he’d hurt others with powers he didn’t fully understand. The room fell into a heavy silence, thick with unspoken words. Just as Izuku opened his mouth to speak, the door creaked open again.

Two police officers stepped inside. Their faces were serious, but not unkind. One, a woman with short, dark hair, approached first, her eyes softening as she looked at Izuku.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said gently, her voice low, almost comforting. “But we need to ask you a few questions about what happened. We just want to understand everything clearly.”

Izuku wiped his eyes once more, the rawness in his throat still painful. Hisashi and Inko exchanged a quick glance, and after a brief moment, Hisashi nodded.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We’ll be here with you.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted as he wiped his face once more, struggling to regain his composure. His snakes, as if sensing his unease, shifted gently around him, offering a strange comfort. Taking a shaky breath, he finally nodded and lifted his gaze to meet the officers.

The woman took a small step forward, her voice soft and steady. “Can you tell us what happened, Izuku? You mentioned being chased by some men. Do you know who they were or why they were after you?”

Izuku’s heart thudded in his chest as the memory of the villains flooded his mind. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself before he began recounting the events, speaking as clearly as he could. Several times, his voice faltered, and he had to pause, pulling his mother into a hug as the weight of the memory made it hard to continue. When he finally finished, his voice trembled. “...I don’t know what happened, but the snakes... I didn’t tell them to do anything, they just... they tried to protect me. They bit them. I didn’t mean for that to happen.” The words were barely a whisper, the heaviness of the memory making it hard to breathe.

The officers exchanged a look, the senior officer nodding knowingly. “And the bird?” he asked gently, holding up the stone bird that Aizawa had given them. “The hero who found you mentioned that you said you turned it to stone. Is that true?”

Izuku’s gaze dropped to his hands, the memory of the bird still vivid in his mind. “I didn’t understand what was happening at first... I was scared. I didn’t know what I could do. I was just trying to protect myself, and then I looked at the bird... and it just... turned to stone. I didn’t know I could do that. I didn’t mean to...”

The younger officer, watching him closely, seemed concerned, but it was the senior officer who spoke up, offering Izuku a kind smile. “You didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Midoriya,” he said gently. “You were acting out of fear, out of instinct. Your Quirk was just trying to protect you.” He gestured toward the snakes that coiled around Izuku's head.

Izuku nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily in his chest. The truth, as painful as it was, was now out there, and there was no taking it back. The events had spiraled beyond his control, and while he could explain them, the consequences were still looming in the distance.

His father, standing quietly by his side, placed a hand on Izuku’s shoulder, giving it a firm but reassuring squeeze. “It’s going to be okay,” he said softly, his voice calm and steady. “The police will find out who did this. Just focus on getting better.”

Izuku nodded again, the weight of everything still pressing down on him, but for the first time that day, there was a flicker of comfort in his chest—his parents, unwavering in their support, were here with him, no matter the turmoil inside.

The officer gave a small nod to her partner, then turned to Izuku. “We’ll need to ask you a few more questions later,” she said quietly, her tone gentle. “But for now, focus on resting. The rest will come in time.”

Izuku didn’t respond, too exhausted to say more. As the officers exited, his parents stayed, their presence a steady anchor amidst the storm of emotions inside him. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was filled with the understanding that, for now, all they could do was be there for him.

“Thank you, Mom, Dad,” Izuku whispered hoarsely, his voice barely above a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“We know, sweetheart,” his mom whispered back, wiping away a tear. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

And for the first time that day, Izuku allowed himself to believe it.

____________

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the hospital room, a steady reminder of Izuku’s lingering exhaustion. He sat propped up against the pillows, his hands curled tightly in his lap, the fresh bandages wrapped securely around his eyes. The presence of his parents—his mother fussing with the blankets, his father standing guard by the door—kept him grounded, but the weight of everything still pressed heavily on his chest.

A gentle knock at the door drew his attention. The doctor entered, a middle-aged man with tired but kind eyes, carrying a clipboard in one hand and a dark silk sleep mask in the other. Izuku tensed, his snakes instinctively coiling closer to his head, their tiny, forked tongues flicking out in silent apprehension. He still wasn’t used to how they reacted to his emotions, how they moved and twitched in ways he couldn’t predict. It was…well. With his connection to them muted, he found himself unable to predict how they’d react. 

“Midoriya-kun,” the doctor greeted, offering a reassuring smile as he stepped closer. “How are you feeling?”

Izuku hesitated. How was he supposed to answer that? His body ached, his mind was a whirlwind of confusion, and his Quirk—his terrifying, familiar yet painfully unfamiliar Quirk—felt like something separate from himself. The suppressants had dulled the strange pull of his new abilities, making his snakes sluggish and his wings heavy, but the fear remained, lurking beneath the surface.

The doctor seemed to understand his silence and nodded before continuing. “I know this is a lot to take in, but we need to discuss the next steps for managing your Quirk.” He lifted a sleek, black sleep mask, tilting it slightly so the dim hospital light reflected off its smooth fabric. “Long-term use of Quirk suppressants isn’t safe, especially at your age. They can interfere with your development and have unpredictable side effects. We need a safer way to help you control this new aspect of your Quirk without shutting it down completely.”

“A mask?” His mother asked, her brows knitting together as she eyed the fabric warily. “Is this really necessary? Are we even sure his Quirk is constantly active? What if it’s just a stress response?”

The doctor sighed, choosing his words carefully. “Without the ability to test it here, we can’t say for certain how it works. But given what we’ve been told, it’s best not to take any chances. I strongly recommend working with a Quirk counselor—if you aren’t already—to explore this new aspect of his abilities.” He paused before adding gently, “For now, it’s safest for everyone, including Izuku, to keep his eyes covered around others… to avoid any accidents.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his fingers curling into the blanket. “So… I have to wear that?” His voice was small, uncertain.

The doctor crouched slightly as if to meet his gaze even though Izuku couldn’t see him. “For now, yes. Just until we can come up with a better solution. This mask is designed to block your vision completely, so even if you accidentally open your eyes, you won’t turn anything to stone.”

Izuku hesitated, then slowly reached out, his fingers brushing against the fabric. It was soft, much more comfortable than the rough bandages currently wrapped around his head. He turned it over in his hands, his snakes shifting restlessly.

His mother spoke up, her voice gentle but firm. “Izuku, sweetheart, you don’t have to be afraid. We’ll figure this out together, okay?”

His father’s hand settled on his shoulder again, grounding him. “This isn’t permanent,” he reassured. “It’s just a precaution.”

Izuku inhaled shakily, then gave a small nod. With trembling hands, he lifted the sleep mask and carefully pulled it over his head. The world, already dark behind the bandages, became even more so, the soft fabric pressing comfortably against his skin. He could still hear everything around him—the quiet hum of the machines, his mother’s uneven breathing, the doctor shifting on his feet—but for the first time since his Quirk had changed, he didn’t feel like a danger to everyone around him.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Okay.”

The doctor smiled. “Good. We’ll take this one step at a time.”

_____________

The alleyway reeked of trash, blood, and something acrid that clung to the damp air. The metallic tang of spilled life mixed with rot, heavy and suffocating. It was the kind of place where shadows loitered too long and whispered warnings went ignored. Naomasa Tsukauchi adjusted the brim of his cap, his gloved fingers tightening around his notepad instead of a weapon—he wasn't issued one yet. Still in training. Still learning. But there was no learning curve for this kind of carnage.

Two bodies lay twisted and lifeless on the stained concrete, their faces locked in contorted expressions of agony. Even in death, the venom hadn’t released its grip. A third man, barely clinging to life, was being loaded into an ambulance. His breathing was shallow, muscles twitching beneath skin that had turned an alarming shade of gray-blue. A senior officer climbed in after him—protocol, though the medics didn't look hopeful.

The remaining two suspects sat slumped against a rusted shelving unit, wrists zip-tied behind their backs. Blood and grime streaked their torn clothing, the stench of sweat and iron hanging heavy in the narrow alley. Despite their injuries, they kept their chins high, eyes burning with defiance. Not a word escaped their lips—just the occasional sneer or muttered curse.

“Status?”

The voice sliced clean through the silence—sharp, authoritative.

Chief Inspector Nakamura stepped into the alley, his coat catching the breeze like a shadow unfurling. Tall and unsmiling, with silver at his temples and a permanent crease between his brows, Nakamura carried the weight of too many crime scenes—and the grim familiarity that came with them. Nothing rattled him anymore.

Detective Naomasa moved to intercept him, spine straight, voice clipped and controlled. “Five hostiles in total. Two confirmed dead on scene, one in critical condition en route to the hospital. These two”—he nodded toward the restrained men—“are in custody.”

He flipped open his notepad, the pages smudged with the alley’s damp grit. “No casualties on our end. Preliminary from medics suggests venom-based fatalities. Judging by the symptoms and the Quirk of the kid they ambushed, it looks like effects of the venom of either a Inland Taipan or Saw-Scaled Viper. Maybe even both. Rapid onset of internal bleeding, signs of organ failure. Fast-acting. They didn’t stand a chance.”

Nakamura’s expression darkened. “How certain are they?”

“Not definitive,” Naomasa admitted. “No toxicology, no autopsy yet. But the medics say the presentation lines up. Apparently one of them worked abroad for a while and said they've seen similar cases before—enough to make a strong preliminary call.”

The Chief Inspector glanced toward the ambulance’s tail lights as it disappeared down the street, red strobes pulsing like a dying heartbeat. “The one still breathing?”

“King Cobra, most likely. Paralysis, suppressed breathing. Medics say he might pull through—barely. If he does, he won’t be much good without a ventilator for the next few days.”

Nakamura gave a slow nod, jaw tight. The silence between them thickened.

“And these two?” he asked finally, eyes narrowing on the restrained men.

“Uncooperative,” Naomasa said. “But we found evidence on them—photographs, surveillance equipment, encrypted comms. They match items from other active investigations. Looks like they’ve been targeting minors with mutant-type Quirks. No confirmation if they had a buyer lined up, or if this was still recon work.”

Nakamura’s face hardened, voice turning cold and precise. “Transport them. I want them in interrogation within the hour. If they don’t talk, make them uncomfortable. I want names. Networks. Anyone they’ve worked with. And double the patrols in this district—until we know this is contained, we assume it isn’t.”

“Yes, sir,” Naomasa replied, already reaching for his radio.

As officers moved in to haul the restrained criminals to their feet, one of the men sneered and spat near Naomasa’s boots.

“Freakin’ monsters,” he muttered, venom laced in his tone.

The second man gave a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, they’re bad. But if you ask me, that kid’s the real villain here.”

Naomasa didn’t react—not outwardly. But his hand clenched slightly around his notebook, the leather cover creaking under the pressure. He turned his gaze back toward the bodies sprawled across the warehouse floor, the eerie stillness around them broken only by the distant hiss of a departing ambulance.

The evidence was undeniable—it had been self-defense. The kid had been terrified. Cornered. The venom had done the killing, yes, but it was the Quirk that had unleashed it. A reflex born of fear.

Naomasa had encountered dangerous abilities before, but this one lingered in his thoughts. It wasn’t just the brutality of the outcome—it was the potential, the sheer volatility of it. Powers like this blurred the line between victim and threat, protector and executioner. And in the hands of a child?

A weight no one should have to carry.

He exhaled slowly, letting the cold air sting his lungs. His breath came out in a faint cloud that vanished just as quickly as it formed.

He was still new to the force. Still in training. And yet here he was, standing in the middle of a crime scene already drawing headlines in his mind. The chief had trusted him to assist in the investigation—an opportunity he didn’t take lightly—but he also knew better than to let that go to his head.

Because this wasn’t just a case.

This was a kid’s life.

As the scene around him began to quiet—the rustling of tarps, the final clink of handcuffs, the fading sirens—Naomasa looked up at the night sky, a brief flicker of pity crossing his features.

“Poor kid…” he murmured.

Then he flipped his notebook shut with a soft snap, the first line of a long and difficult report already forming in his mind. And with steady steps, he followed the others into the dark.

_____________

Three days later, the hospital discharged Izuku with quiet caution and a carefully worded promise that everything would be okay, even if no one quite believed it. A nurse handed his discharge papers to his mother with hands just a little too stiff, her smile stretched too thin. They didn’t know what to do with him—what to say to a boy with eighteen watchful eyes that weren’t his own.

The soft mask clung to Izuku’s face, pressing gently against the skin where bruises were still yellow-green, blooming like bruised flowers across his cheeks and jaw. It muffled his breathing slightly, and the scent of antiseptic still clung to it no matter how many times it had been washed.

His snakes twitched subtly, each one coiled loosely or swaying with restless energy. They peeked out from under the hood like tendrils of wind-sensitive grass, flicking tongues at the air, sensing more of the world than Izuku could with his own eyes closed. It was comforting in more than one way. At least he wasn’t entirely blind to the world, and at least now he could hear the snakes voices in his mind once more now that the Quirk suppressants were out of his system. 

Haz remained unusually still, watching everything with a low, rumbling caution. Bow was muttering tactical advice under his breath, something about surveillance angles and predictable nurse rotations. Bub had draped himself over Izuku’s head like a lazy crown and sighed theatrically every time they turned a corner.

The doctors hadn’t reached a consensus on his long-term needs. There were debates—arguments, even—over whether his Quirk would evolve further, if the snakes could be considered autonomous entities, or if they were simply specialized extensions of his nervous system. For now, the mask stayed on. Until his Quirk counselor cleared a path forward, he was in limbo.

His mother’s hands were gentle as she helped him into a hoodie, guiding the fabric over his head with practiced care so it didn’t tug too hard on the snakes nestled in his hair. A few hissed in mild protest, coils shifting in irritation, but Pretty leaned close with a soft, purr-like hum that soothed them into stillness.

“Once we get home, we’ll set up a meeting with the counselor,” she said softly. “We’ll see if we can find something better than a mask for your eyes. Something that feels like you. We’ll take it slow. You won’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

Her voice was warm. Patient. Reassuring.

But it still made his stomach twist.

Her words made his heart sink. Testing meant living things. It meant animals. People. What if it happens again? What if I can’t stop it?

Izuku swallowed hard, throat tight behind the mask.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he whispered. His voice was hollow, like it was coming from somewhere far away, echoing inside him.

“You won’t,” his father said, crouching down to meet his eyes—well, the mask, at least. “We’ll find a way to do this safely. And we’ll be with you. Every step of the way.”

When it was time to leave, his father scooped him up without a word, holding him close like something fragile that might crack under its own weight. Izuku didn’t argue. He didn’t want to risk stumbling, or worse—risk his mask slipping off. Risk someone seeing his eyes.

Even now, blindfolded and quiet, he could feel the way people stared. Like they didn’t know whether to pity him… or fear him.

The hospital hallway buzzed faintly with footsteps, the murmur of voices, the hum of machines. But inside his mind, where eighteen voices usually competed for space, there was an unfamiliar quiet.

Then—

“Like Dad said, you won’t hurt anyone,” Pod murmured gently, a whisper in his chest like a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve got you, Izuku,” Hero added, firm and protective, like a shield sliding into place.

“They only got hurt ‘cause they attacked us,” Shins muttered. “They’d have been fine if they hadn’t acted like jerks.”

Haz snorted. “You’re not helping.”

A faint flicker of warmth curled at the corner of Izuku’s mouth beneath the mask. Not quite a smile. But not despair, either. Something in between.

Outside the hospital doors, the light had shifted. Pale sunlight filtered through gray spring clouds, the air still cool but touched with the promise of warmth. His hoodie was pulled up, wings tucked in tight, and the snakes beneath the fabric moved like living thoughts—restless, alert, alive.

He felt his father’s hand pat gently against his back. A subtle reminder: You’re safe .

Nudge brushed his father’s cheek with a soft bump of affection.

Boop swooped out from under the hood, tapping his father’s nose and chirping, “Boop!” loud enough to make Hugsy giggle, a small, hiccupy sound that made Izuku’s father laugh too—low and genuine, unbothered by the snakes, the wings, or the weight of his son. Who despite his small size weighed more than most children due to the extra appendages.

Izuku still didn’t know what came next.

But at least… he wasn’t facing it alone.

_____________

The days that followed passed in a strange kind of haze.

Izuku didn’t go back to school. He barely left his room. The sleep mask never left his face, except for the briefest moments—when he bathed, when he needed to wipe the tears from his cheeks, when his mother coaxed him into eating something small. Even then, he kept his head down, eyes clenched tight. At first, it was about safety. About protecting others. But now, it felt more like a punishment. Part of him felt unworthy to even have his sight..

He couldn’t trust himself.

His snakes were his only guides. They extended out from his scalp, flickering through the air like living antennae. They told him where the walls were, when furniture had been moved, when someone was nearby. They tapped against door frames and hissed low warnings through the back of his mind like a radar gone soft with static. Still, he stumbled. Still, he tripped, knocked over his trash can, bruised his hip on the edge of his bed. But without them, it would have been worse. Without them, he might never have moved at all.

It was on the second day that Shinsou came.

Aizawa was with him, of course. Whether out of obligation or guilt or something deeper, Izuku didn’t know. But he was grateful for the man's presence, after Aizawa had brought him to the hospital he hadn’t been able to visit again, and Izuku couldn’t deny the comfort he felt knowing the man who had helped save him was there. Yamada came too, quieter than usual, his upbeat voice subdued into something gentle and careful. They waited at the edge of the living room like they weren’t sure if they were intruding on something sacred.

Izuku sat curled up on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them like armor. His snakes were sluggish, draped over his shoulders and tangled loosely around his arms. They lifted their heads slightly when the door opened but made no move to strike. They were tired too.

Shinsou sat beside him without asking.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched and pulsed with all the words that hadn’t yet been said.

“I’m not mad,” Shinsou said finally, his voice rough around the edges. “But I was scared. You lied to your parents about being with me and then you just disappeared. And when they said what happened…”

Izuku flinched. He couldn’t see Shinsou’s face, but he could hear it—feel it—in the way his voice dropped low. There was hurt there. Hurt and fear and something else. Something heavier.

“I didn’t mean to,” Izuku murmured, his voice small. “I just… I wanted to practice flying. I wanted to do something . I was tired of waiting. Tired of being afraid to use my Quirk. My wins are the only part of me no one is afraid of… I thought—” he broke off, voice hitching.

“I thought maybe if I could control it, if I could just… master it… then everything would be okay.” His fingers tightened around his knees. “I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have gone out alone. And now I’m just—”

His voice cracked. Tears leaked from beneath the edge of the sleep mask, trailing down his cheeks in silent rivulets. “Now I’m just a—”

“You’re still you,” Shinsou said, cutting in. Not loud, not forceful. Just certain. Steady. “You’re still my best friend. This doesn’t change that.”

But it did. Izuku didn’t say it, but he felt it like a fracture in his chest. He was different. Everything was. His skin itched with the wrongness of it. The image of the poor stone bird—a once-living creature turned to lifeless rock—flashed through his mind. 

One of the snakes gently nuzzled Izuku’s jaw, a soft, careful touch that felt almost like a question. He reached up and rested his fingers against its head, brushing over the smooth scales with absent reverence. The tears kept coming—not loud, not violent. Just steady. Slow. Like rain that had been falling for so long, the sky had forgotten how to stop.

Across the room, Aizawa shifted. Even without seeing, Izuku could feel the weight of his gaze—sharp and observant, but never cruel. Never cold.

“Nothing’s changed, kid,” Aizawa said, voice low and even. “You went through something scary. You learned something new about yourself. But we’ll figure it out.” He paused, just long enough to let the words settle. “You’re not alone in this, Midoriya.”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Yamada added, his voice softer than Izuku was used to. Gentle, but still carrying that familiar thread of energy. Izuku could hear the faint smile in it, the way it warmed the room just a little. “Quirks can be scary sometimes. Mine can burst eardrums if I’m not careful. I had to learn how to control the volume, how to direct it. There’s always a way to train. Always a way to make it safe. You’re not the first to feel like this.”

Izuku didn’t answer—not with words. But he didn’t pull away when Shinsou leaned in closer. He let himself feel the warmth at his side, let it seep into the parts of him that still felt frozen. His fingers twitched—uncertain, trembling—and then settled gently on Shinsou’s arm.

Maybe he couldn’t trust himself.

Not yet.

But maybe, just maybe, he could trust them.

_____________

The police came two days after the incident.

His parents had asked him—gently, but with voices just a little too tight—to go to his room while they spoke to the officers. He obeyed, but not fully. He padded down the hallway, wings tucked in as tightly as they could go, which wasn’t much. The tips still brushed the walls with soft rustles and made the old floorboards creak louder than he liked.

He opened his bedroom door and closed it again without stepping inside—then paused. With careful, tiptoed steps, he crept back down the hallway and pressed his back to the wall just beside the frame, heart pounding. He slowly sank to the floor, careful not to let his wings jut out too far or crumple awkwardly behind him. He hoped they wouldn’t notice.

Of course, his snakes weren’t of much help.

Pretty let out a soft hiss of protest as they were squished between his shoulder blade and the wall. Stripes coiled protectively around his arm, squeezing gently. Boop attempted to nudge the nearby door frame with his snout, then retracted with a playful “boop!” that nearly made Izuku swat him.

One might assume that having eighteen extra heads would make eavesdropping effortless. But hearing wasn’t one of the strengths of snakes. Not really. Snakes had no external ears—and izuku’s were no different. They relied on sensitive inner structures that picked up vibrations through their jawbones. Low-frequency rumbles, footsteps, the pulse of tension in the floorboards—these they could sense, but ordinary speech often slipped past them like wind through tall grass unless the person was right next to them. In the end, it was his human ears doing the heavy lifting.

Still, his Quirk offered other advantages. Bow flicked her tongue once, then twice, sniffing at the air. “Someone’s sweating, ” she muttered. “mom, I think. Real sour. ”

Haz, draped calmly over his collarbone, rumbled a low hum of agreement. “She’s afraid,” he said softly. “She’s trying not to show it.”

The snakes could feel temperature shifts—tiny ones. They could taste chemical changes in the air, read the story of someone’s emotional state in scent and sweat alone. Izuku could feel how his mother’s body was coiling tighter, her scent turning brittle. His father’s tension hit like static across his skin, and Hero, ever the sentinel, raised his head slightly. “Should we intervene?” he whispered, already coiled like a spring.

“No,” Izuku hissed under his breath, barely moving his lips. “Just listen.”

Fear was a tangible thing in his house that day. It slithered through the floorboards and wrapped around his ankles like smoke, tightening in his gut.

He strained to listen.

The voices on the couch were quiet, careful—his mother’s thin with worry, his father’s lower, clipped with restrained anger. The officers spoke with practiced calm. One of them, a woman, explained what they knew: all of the assailants had been apprehended. Two were confirmed dead—venom, fast and final. One in critical condition, likely with permanent neurological damage. The others were in custody.

Haz stayed silent. Stripes coiled tighter around his forearm. Smash muttered, “Damn right they’re in custody.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. He didn’t hear much after that. Rather he sat stiff and still, heart heavy, wings twitching against the narrow hallway—feathers brushing the walls with every breath, too broad for secrecy, too real to hide. His snakes coiled close in silence and scent and thought, sensing his tension through the trembling in his spine.

Haz lifted his head, hood flaring slightly in quiet warning, while Hugsy curled tighter around Izuku’s wrist, pulse-to-pulse. Boop nudged his cheek gently with her snout, trying to draw a smile he didn’t have. Bow said nothing, but his tongue flicked toward the door, as if to taste the unease hanging in the air.

He’d known. He knew the danger his Quirk carried. His parents had been honest from the start—gently so, with age-appropriate words and calm explanations—but the truth had always been there. Certain snakes could kill. Certain bites meant no second chances. He’d been trained not to panic, not to lash out. But that night hadn’t gone by the book. That night had been survival.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.

The officers were quick to clarify that he wouldn’t face charges. He was a child, and it had been a clear case of self-defense. But there would be an incident report—a sealed one, not accessible to the public, but still visible to schools and potential employers.

“A red mark,” one of them said. Common for Quirks with lethality potential.

His mother’s breath hitched, and Izuku could practically feel the way her hand gripped her knees. “But it wasn’t his fault.”

“We understand,” the officer said gently. “And the report will reflect that.”

“But people don’t always read past the first line,” his father added, voice taut.

A pause. Then a sigh. “There will be people like that, yes. I’m sorry. But this is protocol.”

The hallway suddenly felt too small. Izuku pressed himself harder against the wall, trying to disappear into it, but his wing joints snagged on the corners and scraped against the plaster. Squiggles hissed irritably from his collar, tangled half in his hoodie, while Shine tried to soothe him with a soft coil behind his ear. His snakes tightened around his neck and shoulders, an instinctive reaction to his panic—protective, but suffocating.

His chest was too tight. His eyes burned. Everything felt wrong.

He stumbled back into his room, nearly knocking over a lamp with his wingtip. Bub muttered a lazy complaint from his perch atop Izuku’s head, too stubborn to move. His shoulder caught on the doorframe as he stumbled through it. The snakes clung tighter in the dimness, sensing the storm inside him. He fumbled blindly for the nightstand. One hand tugging off the mask as his fingers found the eyedrops—cool, blessed relief—but his hands were shaking too hard to use them properly. The liquid hit his cheeks before it hit his eyes. He tugged the sleeping mask back on, pressing it tightly against his face. Too tightly. It hurt. But the pressure grounded him, gave him something to focus on besides the voice screaming in his head: I killed them. I didn’t mean to, but I did.

His return to his room hadn’t been quiet. The brush of his wings against the hallway walls gave him away with every step—soft thuds and faint scrapes trailing behind like reluctant echoes. He was certain his parents knew he’d been listening in. So he wasn’t surprised when, a few minutes later, his mother knocked softly and asked if he wanted to say goodbye to the officers.

He nodded silently and followed her back to the living room, wings tucked tight but still catching the edges of the doorway. The officers, mid-motion in gathering their things, looked up at his entrance. Their smiles were polite, but their eyes betrayed unease—a flicker of hesitation, quickly buried.

He felt Haz coil tighter behind his neck, a silent warning to stay calm, while Hugsy pressed lightly against his collarbone, a quiet reassurance.

One of the officers crouched to his level, holding out a small bundle wrapped in soft cloth. They extended it slowly, carefully—as if offering something fragile. Several of the snakes stirred, shifting to get closer, tongues flicking as they tried to scent the object. The officer flinched slightly at the movement but didn’t pull back.

Izuku took the bundle with trembling hands and began to unwrap it. Part of him already knew. The weight was familiar. The shape, unmistakable.

But still, he wasn’t ready to see it.

The bird.

The one his Quirk had turned to stone. Its wings were frozen mid-flap, feathers caught in time. Cold. Still. Unmoving.

“Evidence cleared,” the officer said quietly. “It’s yours to keep now. Sometimes… sometimes Quirks like yours don’t leave permanent marks. You never know. It might wear off.”

He couldn’t tell if it was a kind gesture or a cruel one. Maybe both. The officer seemed sincere, offering a sliver of hope. But Izuku didn’t believe them—not fully. A Quirk that turned living things into stone felt final. Cruel. Unforgivable. How could there be hope in something like that?

But still, he wanted to hope. God, he wanted to.

Behind him, Hero muttered, “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure something out” while Shine coiled warmly around his wrist. Even Shins, for once, remained silent.

So, with unsteady hands, Izuku turned and walked back to his room, bumping the doorframe once more with a wing. He ignored it—just as he ignored the soft voices of his parents and the officers behind him.

He set the bird gently on his desk. Hugsy curled tighter beneath his chin. Pod let out a quiet hiss, leaning down to peer at the naked, stone body. Izuku stared at the frozen creature and dared—just for a moment—to hope it might one day fly again.

_____________

The world was muffled.

Izuku sat in bed, legs pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them like they were the only thing holding him together. His mask was still on—more like a shield now than anything else. A way to keep the world out. Or maybe to keep himself in.

Clutched against his heart was the stone bird—its wings frozen mid-flight, its tiny claws curled in a panic that would never ease. Cold. Fragile. A monument to a moment he wanted to forget but couldn’t stop replaying.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath. It wasn’t meant for anyone in particular. Just the walls. The silence. The hollow ache sitting in his ribs.

Around him, the snakes were still. Unnaturally so.

No flick of a tongue. No gentle hiss. No teasing nips or whispered comfort in his ears. Not even a single affectionate boop from Boop.

Just silence.

It pressed in, heavy and suffocating, like the whole world was holding its breath.

At last, Haz stirred. His voice was low, even, and measured as it filled the stillness—not with sound, but thought. “You acted in self-defense. What happened… wasn’t your fault.”

“ It was my fault ,” Izuku croaked, barely audible. “I killed that bird. I… I turned it to stone. And those people… maybe them too. They're gone. Because of me.”

Pretty’s voice followed, soft and soothing, the way you'd speak to a child who just woke from a nightmare. “The bird was an accident, love. You didn’t know that would happen. And… the officers said maybe it’ll wear off, remember?”

Izuku didn’t answer.

“You think they would’ve shown you mercy? ” Bow hissed, sharp and hot like a spark in the dark. “You think they’d hesitate even a second if they had you pinned again?”

“They were villains, Izuku,” Hero said with quiet certainty. “You survived. You fought back. That’s what heroes do. Now they can’t hurt anyone else.”

“But heroes don’t kill!” Izuku’s voice cracked, the words breaking on a sob he tried to keep in. He curled tighter around the statue in his lap. “Heroes save people. I don’t—what if I hurt someone next time? Someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

The silence that followed wasn’t like before. This one was heavier. Grieving. His snakes had no answer.

Then, slowly, Hugsy slithered down from where they’d been nestled atop his head and gently coiled beneath his chin. Their scales were cool, dry, grounding. A silent weight he couldn’t help but find comfort in.

“You didn’t mean to do it,” Hugsy murmured, pressing close. “ You were scared. We all were.”

Another voice came, softer than usual—Boop, hesitant and uncharacteristically quiet. “We were all biting and snapping and yelling… but you ran. You didn’t want to fight.”

“Still wish I’d bitten that last guy harder,” Smash muttered from his corner, more grumble than comment.

“Not the time,” Haz sighed, tone exasperated but familiar.

Izuku exhaled shakily, breath hitching in his chest. “I didn’t even know I could do that… the turning-to-stone thing. What if it happens again? What if I can’t stop it next time?”

“That’s why we train, right?” Smash chimed in again, a little more gently this time. “C’mon, don’t let the whole ‘terrifying gaze of doom’ thing freak you out too much.”

“You’re literally not helping,” Bow muttered.

Izuku laughed—a small, soft sound, barely a puff of air through his nose. But it was something. A fragile crack in the weight pressing on his chest.

Then—a knock.

Gentle. Tentative.

The snakes stirred, lifting their heads like startled cats. Izuku flinched, instinctively shrinking back into the pillows, his arms tightening around the cold, stone bird.

“It’s just me,” came Aizawa’s voice—low, steady, grounding.

The snakes settled, but Izuku didn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t want Aizawa to see him like this—bandaged and bruised, mask still on, hunched around a statue like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Still, the door creaked open.

Aizawa stepped inside, the soft crunch of a brown paper bag in his hands. He paused a few feet from the bed, not crossing the invisible line unless invited.

“I brought something,” he said, voice as calm as ever. “Hizashi thought special lenses might help suppress the effect of your Quirk. We had a few pairs made—different sizes and frames to see what fits you best. We want to test them in a controlled setting first… but I figured you might want to try them on your own time.”

Izuku didn’t move. Not even a nod.

After a beat, Aizawa exhaled softly and sat at the edge of the bed, leaving space between them.

“You’re not the first kid I’ve trained with a Quirk they didn’t fully understand,” he said. “But you are the first who had to figure it out mid-ambush.”

Izuku’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “I’m dangerous.”

A pause.

“Yes,” Aizawa said plainly. “You are.”

The snakes stirred again, uneasy.

“But so is fire. So is ice. So is super strength,” he continued, his tone unwavering. “Hell, most Quirks are dangerous if misused. I dare you to find a hero whose power couldn’t hurt someone if they lost control.”

The bed shifted slightly with Aizawa’s weight. Izuku still didn’t look up, but he could feel the warmth of presence beside him—solid and steady.

“Your Quirk is dangerous,” Aizawa said. “Claws, wings, a head full of snakes... You’re not exactly built for safety. But dangerous doesn’t mean evil. It doesn’t make you a monster.”

“We’re not dangerous,” Shins muttered, barely audible. “We just defended ourselves.”

“Speak for yourself,” Smash snorted. “I bit them on purpose.”

“Yeah, but only ‘cause they deserved it,” Pod chimed in.

“I bit a curtain once,” Nibble added brightly. The rest of the snakes turned to stare.

“…Why?” Sun asked flatly.

“In my defense, it looked shady,” Nibble said, sounding only slightly embarrassed.

“Everything looks shady to you, ” Sun sighed.

“Because it is!” Nibble hissed, indignant.

“Wait—when did that even happen?” another snake cut in. “We’re literally all attached to the same head. How did I miss this?!”

Izuku tried his best to tune out the squabbling in his mind. Aizawa kept speaking, oblivious to the absurd conversation unfolding in the background.

“I know you’re scared,” he said, his voice gentler now. “But you’re not a villain, Izuku. You’re a kid. A good one. And you’re still learning. We’re going to help you learn.”

The room fell quiet again—save for the low bickering of his snakes.

Izuku didn’t answer. Not right away. The silence stretched between them, long and aching. But Aizawa didn’t try to fill it. He just waited, steady and patient, letting the silence say what words couldn’t.

It might’ve been more poignant, Izuku thought, if there weren’t eighteen voices arguing in his brain about the curtain incident.

Eventually, Izuku shifted. His fingers loosened around the bird.

“…What—what should I do with the bird?” he asked, his voice trembling like cracked glass.

There was a pause. Then the bed shifted again.

For a moment, Izuku thought Aizawa had left.

But then—

A hand, warm and calloused, rested gently over his. He flinched, startled by the touch—but didn’t pull away.

His snakes whispered in unison, their voices a flickering chorus in his mind: hand.

Aizawa carefully lifted the tiny stone bird from his grasp.

He studied it for a moment—or at least Izuku assumed he did. He still wasn’t looking. Still couldn’t.

“Keep it safe,” Aizawa said at last. “Put it somewhere it won’t be damaged. Maybe… one day, we’ll find a way to reverse it.”

“Can you use your Quirk?” Izuku asked, eyes flicking up just slightly. There was a sliver of hope in his voice. Fragile. Shaking.

“No,” Aizawa replied, his tone gentle but firm. “If it was that simple, the effect would’ve faded when you wore the suppressors at the hospital. It didn’t.”

Izuku’s shoulders slumped again, the flicker of hope dimming.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s hopeless,” Aizawa added. “Even if there’s no undoing this… we train. We learn control. You won’t have to worry about this happening again.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice lower now.

“Don’t let it become a symbol of guilt. Let it remind you of how strong you were. You survived.”

Izuku sniffed and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. Hugsy nosed gently at his cheek.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Outside, the breeze rattled the window. The trees beyond the glass swayed with the wind—soft, rhythmic, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Waiting.

And somewhere in the quiet, something deep inside Izuku began to untangle. Just a little.

But it was something.

_____________

At night, Izuku couldn’t sleep. Even when exhaustion finally dragged him under, his dreams were heavy with stone. Stone people. Stone animals. Stone friends. Stone family.

Everything frozen. Everything silent.

He saw a snake’s eyes reflected in his own—cold, inhuman. The pupils were slitted and ghostly pale, like marble carved to mimic life. He heard screams—villains turning to stone with expressions twisted in fear. He knew they had died from venom, not petrification, but his mind refused to accept the truth. Worse still were the other faces that appeared: his mother’s. His father’s. Hitoshi’s—etched with terror before turning to cold, gray stillness.

He’d jolt awake sobbing, tears soaking the eye mask he never took off, not even to sleep. He hated that mask. But he hated what was underneath it more.

The rare instances he took off his mask and looked at the bird on his desk—the one frozen mid-flight—he wondered if this was who he was now. Someone dangerous. Someone whose gaze could destroy. A monster born with a Quirk too strong for his own hands to hold.

A walking curse.

His only comfort came from the snakes. Though he feared what he was becoming, he couldn’t bring himself to hate his Quirk—not entirely. Because of the snakes that had always been there with him. His friends. His siblings, Constant companions. Quiet, curious, loud, and protective. Not that they had a choice in wether they went with him or not, being fused to his scalp—but their presence mattered. They mattered.

They helped him walk despite his mask. Watched where he could not. Leaned into him when his breath caught in his throat. Reminded him, even in the silence, that he wasn’t completely alone.

But some nights, when he sat curled up in the dark, curtains drawn tight, lights off, the world outside muffled and far away—those reminders felt too soft to reach him.

And in those moments, he couldn’t help but wonder if someone with such a villainous Quirk could truly become a hero.