Chapter Text
There are vigilantes.
And there's also Tokki.
Nobody knew the origin of the name.
No one knew where the name came from.
No records existed. No fingerprints matched anything in the system. No school files, no family data, no hospital history.
Nothing.
It was as if the girl had simply appeared one day on a rooftop, declared herself a vigilante, and began causing headaches for the entire professional hero community.
For no more than sixteen years—probably, they hope—no one has ever obtained a clear answer, not even the Pro-Heroes.
Actually, especially the Pro-Heroes. Because every time someone tries to ask, she:
1) Throw glitter in their faces.
2) Invent a unique birthday celebration involving lunar cycles and K-pop album releases.
3) Start reciting Sailor Moon's transformation speech with great enthusiasm.
She's short, 5’4 if you don't count the bunny ears on her hood. 6 '1 if you count them— which she always does.
Her costume looked handmade but strangely clever.
A black hoodie with a rabbit hood. The ears were long and slightly bent at the ends. Pink bows decorated them.
The mask covering her entire face was also bunny-shaped, glossy black with stylized pink markings — a mix between frighteningly cute and completely illegible.
No one had ever seen her eyes.
Not once.
Her boots had springs—actual springs—built into the soles. Her gloves had tiny grips that let her cling to surfaces like some sort of caffeinated gecko.
And then there were the gadgets.
The gadgets were… humiliating.
Pink smoke bombs.
But not normal smoke bombs.
No.
These exploded into glittering clouds of pink sparkles that somehow activated whenever someone got close.
The particles clung to hero costumes, hair, skin, and equipment like aggressive fairy dust.
Entire patrol teams had returned to the agency looking like they’d lost a fight with a craft store.
And if you're wondering why rabbits?
“Because they're cute, soft, and literally multiply like powerful little things. Have you ever seen a rabbit kick? Lethal. Deadly. Fabulous.”
— The vigilante, Tokki - 2026
(in a police report.)
For eleven months. Tokki was a problem.
A problem that escaped the cameras, the carefully coordinated covert operations, and a particularly humiliating moment., — a comprehensive tactical containment plan, covering three city blocks, which had been drawn up by people with actual government salaries and years of field experience.
Tokki isn’t a villain… technically.
She stops crimes, disrupts shady deals, and has even saved civilians more than once.
The problem? She also insults heroes mid-battle, escapes every capture attempt, and treats the law like a mild suggestion.
But the law was the law, and vigilantes—especially powerful and anonymous teenagers—were not exactly welcome.
For months, she was an urban legend. A pink and black blur, leaping across rooftops, leaving trails of glitter and unconscious criminals.
The rumors spread faster than she could.
Some claimed she was a former hero turned rebel. Others whispered about a failed government experiment or a TikTok prank.
But the truth?
Nobody knew. Nobody at all.
Except, maybe, Tokki, and she wasn't exactly the type to think, “Let's unload the trauma in therapy.”
But what everyone knew was that, last week, she defeated three villains and prevented a train accident on the same night.
Then, she stole a cake from a high-security government refrigerator. And she left a note that simply said:
“Don’t need to thank me. <3 - Tokki”.
That was the last straw.
Then they caught her. Finally.
After three drones were blown up, a hero was kicked into a vending machine, and a telepath cried for three hours straight trying to read his mind.
They called it success.
She called it a “forced nap with handcuffs.”
Which brings us to the present.
Ი⑅𐑼
Now, she was at Level Three of Hero Rehabilitation— which basically meant: too young for prison, too dangerous for the streets, and too annoying to be ignored.
Ი⑅𐑼
“Eleven months” Tsukauchi said flatly, standing with his arms crossed as he stared through the thick reinforced observation glass. “Eleven months of manpower, sleepless patrols, damaged equipment, property complaints, unofficial civilian fan pages, and one incident involving a stolen police bicycle painted pink.”
Aizawa, who had not asked to be here and had in fact been dragged here under the very fraudulent phrase ‘it’ll only take a minute’, stared into the holding room with the kind of tired expression that suggested his soul had already gone home without him. “I remember the bicycle.”
The rehabilitation center was silent tonight.
Too silent.
Inside the observation room, a thick glass wall separated the team from the person causing the nightly headache.
On the other side of the glass…
The humming was the first thing anyone noticed.
It wasn’t loud, not enough to be disruptive, but steady — a thin thread of sound winding through the sterile observation room.
If one leaned close enough to the glass, they’d recognize it: an anime opening, off-key, complete with little drum taps on the floor with her sneakers as if she were the world’s smallest drummer.
In the middle of the floor, arms spread out like she owned the space, lay her.
Tokki.
The vigilante who’d given pros, police, and half the underground network hell for almost a year.
The “rabbit of the alleys.”
The “pink shadow.”
The teenager with too much audacity and not enough self-preservation.
The one who, somehow, had slipped away from Eraserhead himself more times than he cared to admit.
Now she was here.
Captured. Contained.
Inside the room, Tokki shifted slightly, raising one of her gloved hands in the air as if testing whether gravity was still present.
Apparently satisfied, she dropped it back onto her stomach and resumed doing absolutely nothing.
She had not panicked once.
Not during the chase.
Not during the capture.
Not when they’d finally cornered her after a brutal, exhausting pursuit that had stretched across rooftops, through a drainage canal, two abandoned train cars, and one truly disrespectful detour through the ventilation system of a shopping center.
Not when Snipe had disabled one of her gadgets.
Not when Midnight had nearly gotten close enough to sedate her.
Not even when Aizawa himself had stepped in and erased her quirk long enough for the others to physically restrain her.
She had fought like a cornered animal with a black belt and trust issues, yes, but she had not panicked.
The problem now is figuring out what to do with it.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, the person assigned to deal with her is Shota Aizawa — an exhausted pro hero and teacher at U.A. High School, who already spends his days managing a class full of chaotic future heroes.
Now he has to deal with one more.
Ი⑅𐑼
“She’s your assignment!” Nezu had told him earlier that day, with his too-wide grin and little paws folded neatly.
“Why me?” he had asked.
“Because you have experience with difficult teenagers!” Nezu replied.
“I teach sleep-deprived idiots with savior complexes, not tiny domestic terrorists.”
“She’s not a terrorist.”
“She exploded a vending machine.”
“Accidentally.”
“She left a note that said ‘RIP orange soda.’”
Nezu had only smiled wider.
“No. No chance.” Aizawa responded immediately.
“She is now!” Nezu said “You get along very well with children.”
“She bit Tsukauchi.” Aizawa said this with a serious expression.
“She hasn't bitten you yet!” Nezu said, as if it were a compliment.
That “yet” lingered like a curse.
Ი⑅𐑼
The rehabilitation wing wasn't large.
It wasn't even public knowledge, for obvious reasons.
The heroes didn't like the idea of "rehabilitation" for vigilantes; it seemed too lenient, too risky.
But Nezu had been insisting on this for years — a place to send children who were lost between villainy and survival.
It wasn't a prison.
The walls weren't concrete gray, but painted a sterile white that tried (unsuccessfully) to be welcoming.
There were hidden cameras in the corners, not weapons.
The "cells" were furnished rooms with metal-reinforced walls and furniture bolted to the floor.
And yet, somehow, Tokki made that place seem like her playground.
Ი⑅𐑼
Behind the glass was a man who looked like he hadn't slept properly since 2014.
Shouta Aizawa stood with his arms crossed, his hair disheveled, and his dark eyes half-closed in exhaustion.
His scarf hung loosely around his neck, as if he too had given up on life.
Aizawa opened his eyes again just in time to see her crouch near the bottom corner of the wall and look suspiciously at an air vent.
“…What is she doing?”
Tsukauchi looked deeply tired: “We think she’s checking the exits.”
“Again?”
“She already found two weak points in the room.”
Aizawa turned very slowly.
“There are weak points in the room?”
“There were weak points in the room.”
A beat.
“She found them in under six minutes.”
Aizawa peered through the glass with half-closed eyes, his hair falling like curtains around his face, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“...Is she seriously humming Jujutsu Kaisen’s opening?” Detective Tsukauchi’s voice carried a mixture of disbelief and weariness as he rubbed at his bandaged hand. The crescent-shaped bite marks from earlier were still bright against the gauze.“I swear, she’s mocking us.”
“She is mocking us.” he muttered “She’s a teenager. That’s basically their entire personality.”
Tokki rolled onto her stomach suddenly, propping her chin up with both hands.
Still humming.
Still relaxed.
Still wearing the mask.
That mask had become a problem.
When she was first restrained, someone tried to remove her.
Unfortunately, that someone was Naomasa Tsukauchi.
And Tokki reacted by biting him.
The bite was... surprisingly strong. Like, strong as a wolf.
It was still unclear whether it was part of her individuality or if she simply had all that chaotic anger condensed into a teenage body.
The bite mark was still visible.
After that, everyone unanimously decided that the mask could stay.
Tokki suddenly rolled onto her stomach, supporting her chin with both hands. Her mask gave no clue to her expression. But somehow, her body language screamed arrogance.
She lazily kicked her legs in the air, still humming.
Aizawa rubbed a hand over his face: “How old?”
Tsukauchi exhaled: “Estimate? Fifteen to sixteen.”
“And she’s been doing this for almost a year.”
“Yes.”
“She fights like that?”
“Yes.”
“She built all of that?”
A pause.
“…Probably.”
“Do we know anything more now?” Aizawa asked flatly.
“No.” Tsukauchi admitted, looking about ten years older in that moment “No digital records. No school enrollment. No medical history. No fingerprints in the system. It’s like she doesn’t exist.”
“She exists enough to break my capture weapon.” Aizawa said dryly, sipping his coffee. “Three times.”
“She also exists enough to suplex one of my men into a dumpster.” Tsukauchi grumbled. “And then apologize while still running away.”
As if to prove the point, Tokki sat up suddenly, crossing her legs. She raised a hand toward the glass in an exaggerated wave.
“Hi, feds!” she called cheerfully, her voice muffled by the mask but still filled with irritating glee. “Nice room service you got here, by the way. Ten outta ten. The floor’s so comfy. Totally gonna leave a Yelp review.”
Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose.
He had students.
He had meetings.
He had a stack of papers to grade.
He had — most importantly — sleep to catch up on.
And instead of doing any of that, he was now assigned to deal with a pink-haired gremlin who thought biting law enforcement officers was a personality trait.
He needed more coffee.
Ი⑅𐑼
Tonight was just observation.
Tomorrow would be the first interrogation.
Aizawa’s job would be to break through that mask — literally and figuratively — and figure out who this kid was, what she wanted, and why the hell she’d been playing vigilante in alleys for a year without leaving a single trace of a real identity.
For now, she was sprawled on the floor again, humming, carefree.
Her voice came through the speakers.
“Y’know.” she said casually, still lying on the floor. “if you guys keep staring like that I’m gonna start charging admission.”
The observation room froze.
One of the agents nearly dropped his clipboard.
Tokki tilted her masked face toward the ceiling.
“I can hear you breathing through the speakers, by the way.” she added.
Aizawa did not react.
“Also someone’s stomach growled.”
The agent turned red.
Tokki sat down, tilting her head. The drooping ears under her hood swayed. “This is super fun and all, but when do I get some snacks? This rehab arc is kind of boring without some chips.”
“She simply called it a rehab arc?” someone whispered.
“I think she's serious.”
Tokki continued humming.
Then, without warning—
She turned her back again and lazily waved at the camera on the ceiling.
“Hey, Mr. Emo Scarf Guy!” she suddenly yelled, pointing directly at Aizawa’s shadow through the glass.
“You better get some sleep.” she continued. “Cause tomorrow? You’re gonna need it.”
Aizawa didn’t answer.
He just finished his coffee in one long swallow and muttered: “I hate my job.”
He wanted to go home.
Instead, the door behind them opened with a soft mechanical hiss, and Principal Nezu stepped into the observation room holding a tablet and the expression of someone who had either discovered a fascinating puzzle or was about to hand one to someone else.
With Nezu, it was often both.
“Ah, Shouta.” he said pleasantly. “Good, you’re here.”
Aizawa gave him a flat look: “Against my will.”
“Yes, yes, but you’re here nonetheless.”
“That’s not comforting.”
Nezu ignored him with the polished ease of someone who had long ago stopped being moved by Aizawa’s suffering.
“Tokki has been medically cleared for standard monitored holding. No severe injuries, only superficial bruising and muscle strain. She refused to answer intake questions, attempted to negotiate for strawberry milk, and called one of the attending staff ‘a narc with bad shoes.’”
Tsukauchi muttered: “That was me.”
Nezu nodded sympathetically: “A difficult burden.”
“Why am I doing this?” Aizawa asked again, because perhaps repetition would eventually become legally binding.
Nezu smiled.
Aizawa immediately regretted asking.
“Because,” Nezu said, clasping his paws behind his back, “despite her file being thick enough to bludgeon someone unconscious, Tokki has not once inflicted deliberate lethal harm. Her interference, while illegal, has overwhelmingly targeted criminal activity. She avoids civilian casualties with remarkable consistency. She’s reckless, oppositional, secretive, and clearly distrustful of authority, yes, but she is also highly intelligent, highly capable, and very young.”
Aizawa remained silent.
Nezu’s expression softened, just slightly: “This is not a prison case, Shouta. This is a child who has survived long enough to become dangerous.”
That landed where it was meant to.
Aizawa hated when Nezu did that.
He looked back through the glass.
Tokki had moved to the center of the room and was now balancing on one foot for absolutely no reason, arms stretched out slightly at her sides.
The overhead light caught on the pink detailing of her suit, making her look almost cartoonish at a glance, all sharp edges and impossible energy wrapped in a silhouette designed to look cute enough that people might underestimate her for half a second.
Half a second, in Tokki’s case, was apparently enough to ruin your entire evening.
Still.
Nezu wasn’t wrong.
“She needs structure.” Nezu continued. “Observation. Boundaries. Someone who won’t either provoke her unnecessarily or let her run circles around them.”
Tsukauchi coughed into his fist.
Aizawa glanced at his bandaged hand.
Tsukauchi looked away.
Aizawa exhaled through his nose: “And your brilliant solution was me.”
“My brilliant solution!” Nezu said with infuriating cheer. “was the only person on staff stubborn enough to outlast her.”
That, unfortunately, was also true.
Aizawa hated when people were right.
Aizawa stared at Nezu.
Then he looked at the girl in the room.
And then he looked back at Nezu.
Somehow, he had been assigned to a nighttime surveillance mission.
Excellent.
Truly excellent.
As if driven solely by the force of her irritation, Tokki looked abruptly at the cameraman again, placed both hands on her hips, and said something.
“Old man.”
Aizawa went very still.
Tsukauchi made a strangled sound that was suspiciously close to laughter and immediate regret.
Nezu, the traitor, looked delighted.
“She can’t even see me clearly.” Aizawa said, affronted on principle.
“She guessed.” Tsukauchi said weakly.
“She guessed wrong.”
“You do wear a sleeping bag to work.”
“It’s an erasure capture weapon.”
“It looks like a sleeping bag.”
Tsukauchi folded in half laughing.
Nezu covered his mouth.
Aizawa turned, eyes dead and soul leaving his body in visible increments: “I’m surrounded by clowns.”
“And one rabbit!” Nezu added helpfully.