Chapter 10: It's Called... Reverberate

The chime rang through the classroom—soft and clear. It should’ve brought relief. Instead, Izuku’s hands trembled slightly where they gripped his desk.

This is it.

He didn’t move at first. Not until the scrape of chairs and shuffle of shoes jolted him back to reality. His heart was already racing. After all the times he’d imagined this—her stepping into his world—it was actually happening.

Today, Aiko is meeting Mom.

He sucked in a breath and stood, grabbing his bag with a bit more force than necessary. His legs felt kind of weird. Like walking was a newly acquired skill and he wasn’t sure he had the license for it yet.

Just act normal. Normal people bring girls home all the time. This is fine. Totally fine.

The air outside was thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made your shirt stick to your back. He didn’t mind. The warmth helped mask the nervous flush creeping up his neck.

He kept his pace steady. The route twisted through a quiet residential street, soft with rustling trees and low fences. He knew exactly where he was going. She’d be waiting for him at the top of her street.

His heart thumped louder the closer he got.

There, just ahead, where the sidewalk dipped slightly before climbing the gentle slope to her road. Izuku’s breath caught in his throat for the briefest second.

There she was.

Oh no. She's in another little dress.

White with soft blue flowers scattered across the fabric like ink dropped in water. The hem danced around her thighs in the breeze, and the bodice—fitted just enough to make his brain stop working—showed off her frame in a way he was absolutely not prepared for.

She’s so small. How is she this small? Curves! Why does she have those? Oh god, why are you thinking about this right now, she's about to meet your mom, what is wrong with you—

His eyes bounced from the pattern of her dress to her boots, then to the familiar little bow clipped into her hair—the paperclip one. The same one she wore on their date. And his heart melted.

He stopped walking.

Just stopped. On the sidewalk. Like his operating system needed a minute to reboot.

His hands fumbled for the strap of his backpack, gripping it like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth.

Say something. Go over there. Move, Midoriya. This is not the time to malfunction—

But her head turned.

And her eyes sparkled.

And suddenly, walking felt impossible all over again.

She tilted her head slightly, a curious smile tugging at her lips—like she was trying to figure out why he’d just short-circuited a few feet away.

Then, she laughed. Just a soft, amused sound, but it knocked the wind right out of him.

She stepped toward him, the breeze catching the hem of her dress as she closed the space between them.

“Hey,” she said lightly, eyes bright. “You okay?”

Izuku’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He nodded—too fast—then shook his head—too slow—then finally managed: “I—I’m fine! I just—uh—I mean—hi!”

His voice cracked halfway through the word.

Aiko blinked at him, clearly trying not to laugh again. “Hi.”

Oh no. Oh no no no—she looks incredible. That’s a new dress. And it’s tight. Not tight-tight but—Her legs. Her hair. She’s wearing the bow again.

Should I say something? I always say something. I want to say something. But what if I sound weird? What if I say too much? I don't want to sound too keen. But I am. Keen. Too keen. Oh no. What if I don’t say anything and she thinks I don’t like it? I do like it! Maybe too much. That’s the problem!

Oh god, I’m just standing here. Say something. Say anything. Compliment. Compliment!!

He cleared his throat, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “S-sorry, I just… you look really, um—n-nice. I mean—uh—not nice! No—nice! Nice! Y-you look nice! But... not just nice—s-stunning! You just..."

His hands flailed in a vague gesture before he caught himself and forced them back to his sides like they were misbehaving.

He drew in a breath, eyes dropping to the pavement. His face burned. For a second, he just stood there muttering something under his breath that didn’t even qualify as words.

Then he peeked up at her again—quickly, shyly—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look for too long.

And this time, it came out a little clearer. All at once, like he had to get it out before he chickened out again:

“You look stunning.”

Aiko’s eyes widened just slightly—and then she smiled, a soft pink rising to her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, the little bow in her hair catching the sun.

Izuku nodded, still visibly flustered, but trying his best to pull it together. He shifted his grip on his bag and managed a small, nervous smile.

“Um… Ready?” he asked, voice a little steadier now.

The short walk to his apartment was comfortable. Aiko seemed more nervous than usual, which, for some reason, made Izuku feel a little more confident.

He opened the door and gently gestured for her to step in first.

The hallway was warmly lit, polished wooden floorboards creaking slightly beneath their feet. The cozy scent of simmering miso wafted in from deeper inside the home. Aiko slipped off her boots neatly beside the umbrella stand and followed Izuku in silence.

To her right, she noticed a small sign on a door with his name written in on it, accented by a design of All Might's hair.

“Uh, that’s my room,” Izuku said with a sheepish grin, scratching his cheek as he led her further inside.

“Mom?” he called. “We’re home!”

A head popped around the corner almost immediately—a kind, round face framed by deep green hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her eyes crinkled warmly at the sight of her son.

“Welcome home, Izuku,” she said. Then, her gaze shifted to Aiko—curious, gentle, and instantly fond.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed softly. “Hello, dear. Aren’t you just lovely.”

Her voice was warm and maternal, the kind of gentle tone that wrapped around you like a well-worn cardigan—comforting and familiar. It was something Aiko hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Mom, this is Aiko Ta—”

“I’m Aiko Hoshino,” Aiko cut in quickly, stepping forward and bowing deeply, arms straight at her sides. “Good evening, Midoriya-san. Thank you for having me.”

Izuku’s eyes flicked to her, then dropped to the floor for a second, lips pressing into a thin line—but he said nothing.

Inko blinked in mild surprise at the sudden formality, then smiled even wider, bowing back with a soft, polite dip of her head.

“Oh my, such lovely manners!” she said gently. “It’s a pleasure, dear.”

She stepped a little closer, eyes warm as they scanned Aiko’s face. “You’re adorable. Izuku didn’t tell me he was bringing home someone so elegant.”

Inko stepped back into the kitchen.

“I hope you’re hungry! I made miso soup, simmered nasu, and some tofu—and there’s plenty of rice.”

Aiko straightened. “Would you like some help, Midoriya-san?”

Inko turned, blinking in surprise. Then her smile warmed. “Oh no, sweetheart—you’re the guest! Just relax, I’ve got everything ready.”

Still, Aiko hovered uncertainly for a moment, visibly torn.

Izuku gave her a small, reassuring nod. “She really won’t let you help,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

That earned him a faint smile.

Then he cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh—be right back,” he said, slipping quickly out of the room. His footsteps padded softly down the hall.

“Do you like miso soup, Aiko-chan?” Inko asked gently.

Aiko gave a small nod. “Yes, very much.”

Inko’s smile deepened, eyes bright. “Good—this batch turned out especially well.”

Aiko inhaled softly, the steam curling up from the bowls. “It smells delicious,” she murmured, sincerity in her voice. “Like… home.”

Something softened in Inko’s expression, the kind of quiet tenderness that carried more than words. “I’m glad,” she said warmly.

Before the silence could stretch, footsteps returned. Izuku reappeared in the doorway, now in a plain gray T-shirt and loose shorts, his hair still a little mussed from changing in a rush. He gave Aiko a quick, sheepish smile before sliding into his seat at the table, patting the seat next to him. She sat beside him without hesitation.

The meal was spread out before them—neatly arranged bowls of rice, steaming miso soup, tender simmered eggplant, and lightly seared tofu filling the air with a gentle, savory warmth. Aiko folded her hands neatly in her lap.

Then her gaze dropped to the meal.

For a second, she didn’t move, just stared. Her eyes lingered on the bowl of tofu a moment too long, lips gently pressed together.

Izuku noticed the slight shift in her expression—the way her shoulders settled, the almost imperceptible breath she drew in. She didn’t say anything, but something about her looked different. Like this meant more than she was letting on.

He didn’t ask.

“Itadakimasu,” Aiko said softly, barely above a whisper, her head bowing low.

Izuku glanced at her. Her voice had sounded fragile. Almost like she was holding something back. Inko noticed too, her smile softening as she picked up her own chopsticks.

“You really are a gentle soul,” she said kindly. “So polite… and quiet. It’s refreshing, honestly.”

She gave a little laugh, eyes twinkling as she glanced at her son. “Especially compared to Izuku. This one used to narrate his own diaper changes.”

“M-Mom!” Izuku choked, nearly dropping his chopsticks.

Aiko could barely contained her laughter. “That’s… very impressive,” she said delicately, eyes bright.

Inko beamed. “Oh, he’s always been full of energy, bouncing off the walls.”

Izuku let out a strangled sound and turned bright red.

Inko let the teasing go for now, her attention shifting back to their guest.

“So, Aiko-chan,” she said kindly, setting down her chopsticks for a moment. “Do you live nearby?”

Aiko nodded politely. “Just a short walk, yes. Not far from the beach.”

“Ah, that’s a lovely area,” Inko said with a smile. “And it must be nice this time of year, all that sea breeze.”

“It is,” Aiko agreed, her tone soft. “A little noisy with the seagulls, but… peaceful.”

Inko chuckled. “Better than the neighbors upstairs stomping around like a herd of elephants.”

That drew a small, genuine laugh from Aiko—enough that Izuku glanced sideways at her, relieved to see her easing into it.

Inko reached for her tea. “And do you have any hobbies? Things you enjoy doing?”

Aiko hesitated for just a second. “I like reading,” she said. “And drawing. Mostly for fun.”

“Ohh, a creative type! That’s wonderful,” Inko beamed. “Izuku is the same—always scribbling in those notebooks of his.”

Izuku froze mid-chew, eyes widening at the mention of his notebooks, as his chopsticks hovered in the air.

Inko kept going. “He fills them with All Might doodles and hero stats, page after page—I swear, he must go through a dozen books each year.”

Aiko blinked, then glanced at Izuku—just briefly—her lips twitching like she was fighting back a smile.

Izuku caught the look and immediately turned red, a muffled sound escaping his throat.

Oh no. No no no. She’s definitely thinking about that page.

Inko gave a nostalgic sigh. “And of course, there was that phase where he’d draw All Might with little hearts all around him—”

“Moooom,” Izuku groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Please…”

Aiko looked down at her bowl, her shoulders shaking ever so slightly with silent laughter.

“That’s… really sweet,” she said, her voice laced with amusement.

Izuku shot her a sideways glance—part horrified, part pleading—but she kept her expression innocent, the corners of her mouth betraying her.

She leaned in toward him just a little, voice low and teasing. “So… hearts for All Might, huh?” Her smile widened slightly, voice barely a whisper. “And here I was thinking I was the only one.”

Izuku audibly choked, face now crimson as he covered it with both hands in total defeat.

Then, perhaps sensing his rising panic, she spoke up again, casually:

“So… did Izuku always want to be a hero?”

Inko’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes. Since the moment he could walk!” she said, setting her bowl down with a little laugh. “He used to run around the house with a dish towel tied around his neck, shouting ‘SMASH!’ at the top of his lungs.”

Izuku groaned and covered his face with one hand. “Please… no more stories.”

Aiko smiled as she glanced his way. “That's so cute.”

Inko chuckled again, clearly enjoying herself. But then her voice softened as she looked at Aiko—and then at her son.

“Well, I think it’s lovely he has someone like you. Izuku doesn’t have very many close friends.”

Izuku lowered his gaze, stirring his rice quietly.

Aiko blinked, caught slightly off guard. Not just by the warmth in Inko’s voice, but by what she’d said.

Her smile softened, tinged with a hint of sadness. She dipped her head politely, her voice quiet but sincere.

“I… Thank you.”

Inko reached across the table, placing another small dish beside her. “More tofu, dear?”

Aiko straightened slightly, hands resting neatly in her lap. “Ah, thank you, Midoriya-san, but I don’t have a very big appetite,” she said politely, bowing her head just a little. “Everything is delicious.”

Inko chuckled softly. “You really are such a tiny thing,” she said with fond, motherly warmth. “No need to force yourself, of course. But I hope you’ll let me pack some up for you before you go. We’ve got plenty left.”

Aiko hesitated, then offered a small, grateful smile. “That would be very kind. Thank you.”

Aiko looked over at Izuku, her voice soft. “Um… where’s the bathroom?”

He quickly straightened. “Oh—just through there.”

She nodded with a polite smile and turned to Inko. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course, dear,” Inko said kindly.

As the bathroom door clicked shut, Inko leaned slightly closer, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur.

“Izuku…” she began, eyes still on the door. “Are you sure she’s… you know, a street kid?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? Yeah. I mean, she collects scrap metal at the beach and wears oversized T-shirts as dresses. Why?”

Inko tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “She just carries herself so well. The way she speaks, how she sits… even the way she eats.” She glanced back toward the hallway. “That kind of grace doesn’t usually come from hardship.”

Izuku frowned slightly. “She said she used to live with her parents before… everything happened. And now it’s just her and her granddad.”

Inko nodded slowly but didn’t look entirely convinced. “Hmm… maybe so,” she said gently. “Still, there’s something about her. She’s very refined.”

Izuku shifted in his seat, eyes flicking toward the hallway, where faint water sounds signaled Aiko washing her hands. “She is,” he said, almost to himself. “But she’s been through a lot. I think she’s just… trying her best.”

Inko smiled at him. “You like her.”

He flushed instantly. “M-Mom…!”

She just hummed, lips curved with quiet amusement. "I like her too."

The bathroom door slid open with a quiet click. Aiko stepped back into the room, tucking a loose strand of blue hair behind her ear. She saw Inko and Izuku beginning to clear the table and stepped forward to help.

Izuku watched her move. Smooth. Effortless. Her thick hair, clear skin, perfect posture. She was graceful in a way that almost didn’t make sense.

His mom’s words echoed in his head.

She’s very refined.

He blinked, taken aback by the realization. How had he never noticed it before?

She glanced over and caught his gaze. “What?” she asked, softly amused.

Izuku blinked again, caught red-handed. “N-nothing,” he said quickly, reaching for the teacups.

A little while later, the table had been cleared and more tea was poured.

Izuku sat across from Aiko, still slightly dazed—or maybe just hyper-aware. He watched as she lifted her teacup, fingers delicate around the rim. She brought it to her lips and sipped without a sound, then placed it back down with care, her other hand resting neatly in her lap.

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t performative. It was just… her.

Every movement was composed. Every word she spoke to his mom was perfectly timed—not too quiet, not too bold. She listened attentively, responded thoughtfully, laughed when it was appropriate, never talked over anyone. Her posture didn’t slip once.

He flashed back to the morning they met on the beach: how she’d bowed deeply, offering the very formal ”Midoriya-san, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” And how she’d hesitated when he begged her to drop the honorific—practically choking on the urge to stay polite.

Izuku had always thought she was cool—strong, clever, kind. But now, with the way she seemed to fit so effortlessly into this moment, this space… he realized something else.

She had been raised like this.

As Inko quietly left the room, his mind wandered back to the beach again—her oversized shirts, the scrap metal, the dirt on her palms—and now, sitting here in front of him, was this girl with unshakable poise and polish. He didn’t understand how both things could be true. But they were.

Aiko looked up suddenly and met his eyes again. Her gaze held for a moment, then softened.

Izuku snapped upright, a little flustered. “Tea’s good, right?” he blurted.

Aiko smiled. “Mm,” she nodded gently. “Very.”

Just then, Inko reentered the room with something small and pink held delicately in her hand.

She sat down beside Aiko again.

“These were mine, a long time ago,” she said with a smile, opening her palms to reveal two matching hair clips—soft pink bows, simple but pretty, the kind that carried sentiment in their seams. “One for each side. My mother always said good things travel in pairs, and, well… I thought they might suit you.”

Aiko blinked, visibly touched. She accepted them with both hands, bowing her head respectfully. “Thank you, Midoriya-san. They’re… beautiful.”

Inko’s eyes crinkled warmly. Then she gestured gently to the paperclip bow still tucked in Aiko’s hair. “May I?”

Aiko hesitated—not out of discomfort, but from the sudden weight of the moment—then gave a small nod.

With quiet care, Inko slipped off the makeshift bow and set it aside. She smoothed Aiko’s hair once, then gently fastened one of the pink bows in place. The second she pressed into Aiko’s palm.

“Keep the spare,” she whispered, closing Aiko’s fingers around it. “So you’re always balanced.”

“There,” she said aloud, sitting back with a proud little smile. “Perfect.”

Izuku watched the exchange silently, his chest tightening. There was something so natural in the way his mom’s hands moved, so tender in the way Aiko leaned forward without flinching. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his mom like that with anyone outside of him.

And Aiko… She looked different now. Not just because of the new bow—but because of the way she held herself afterward. A quiet kind of gratitude. Like this moment would stay with her.

Izuku watched her for a second longer, then cleared his throat and stood.

“We should probably get going,” he said, voice softer than usual.

Inko nodded and rose as well, disappearing briefly into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a bag filled with food and held it out to Izuku.

“Here—for Aiko-chan,” she said gently. “Make sure she gets it home.”

Izuku accepted the bag. “Right. Thanks, Mom.”

Aiko bowed low. “Thank you very much for dinner, Midoriya-san. Everything was so good.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” Inko replied with a kind smile. “And please—come by again anytime.”

Aiko slipped on her boots while Izuku opened the door. She gave one last bow before they stepped outside, the warm night air wrapping gently around them as the door closed behind.

The sun was still clinging to the edges of the sky, casting everything in that soft, golden haze that only summer evenings knew how to hold. Izuku walked beside her, the food bag in one hand, his free hand shoved deep into his pocket. Aiko walked with the same gentle rhythm she always did, the new pink bow a soft contrast against her dark hair.

Izuku glanced sideways at her, hesitated… then finally spoke.

“Um… hey.”

A pause.

“So, uh… back there. When you introduced yourself to my mom… you used a different last name.”

Aiko stopped walking. Just briefly. It was subtle, barely a pause in her step, but Izuku felt it.

She didn’t answer right away.

“I was just wondering…” he added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just—”

“Oi.”

The word cracked the air, then lingered. Izuku turned slowly, pulse hammering in his ears, dread already rising in his throat.

Behind them stood a boy with spiky ash-blond hair, a little taller and more solidly built than Izuku, radiating heat and intensity like a barely contained explosion.

Katsuki Bakugo.

Hands jammed in his pockets. Scowl already locked in place. His sharp red eyes zeroed in on Izuku like a heat-seeking missile.

“Well, well,” Bakugo drawled, lip curling. “Didn’t know nerds like you got to walk girls home now.”

Aiko’s brows lifted slightly.

Izuku groaned. “Kacchan…”

Aiko glanced between them. “That’s Kacchan?”

Bakugo’s eyes flicked to her for the first time—sizing her up in a flash—then dismissing her just as fast.

He snorted. “What, you finally found some random girl to pity you, Deku?”

Aiko’s fingers curled slightly, as if reaching for something small that wasn’t there.

Izuku hesitated—then took a shaky step forward. “D-don’t… j-just don’t talk like that, okay?”

Bakugo’s mouth twisted. “Oh, look at you. Getting brave all of a sudden.”

“B-Back off, Kacchan.”

“Tch. The hell’s your deal?” Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. “You used to trip over your own shadow when I looked at you. Now you’re mouthing off with some girl hangin’ off your side like you’re not still useless.”

Aiko’s eyes hardened, but she didn’t move. She watched the exchange quietly, calculating.

Izuku’s fingers twitched, curling halfway into fists.

Bakugo scoffed and took a step closer. “What, you gonna throw hands now? Gonna try and be a hero in front of your girlfriend?”

Izuku’s jaw tightened. “Sh-She’s—That’s… just leave us alone, okay?”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Bakugo snapped, sparks starting to crackle faintly around his palm. “You think walkin’ around with some pretty girl makes you somebody?”

Aiko’s eyes flicked to his hand. The subtle change in the air—the way the light jumped across his skin—it wasn’t just bravado. He was building charge. Testing distance.

“That’s it?” She cut in. “Your quirk maxes out at cute little party sparklers?”

Bakugo blinked—eyes locked on her.

“The hell did you say?”

Aiko tipped her head, gaze on the fizzing palm. “I said they’re adorable. Like the sparklers kids wave on New Year’s.”

Bakugo’s face twisted, lips peeling into a snarl.

“Keep yappin’, princess. Next thing you hear’ll be your own eardrums rupturing.”

Izuku stepped forward before he could stop himself—voice thin but firm.

“Leave her alone, Kacchan. I-It’s me you’re mad at, right? Then just… just blast me.”

Aiko’s fingers brushed the small of his back—a quiet reassurance. Her voice stayed level, almost bored. “He won’t. He’d rather bark than bite.”

Bakugo’s eyebrow twitched; sparks crawled brighter across his palm, peppering the pavement with tiny burn-holes.

“Bark…?” he echoed, low.

She didn’t blink. “So far I’m seeing sparkles—faulty-microwave grade.”

A dry, too-sharp laugh ripped out of him. “You want the full demo? Fine—watch close.”

Heat pulsed off him like a forge about to bloom.

His hand snapped forward—

Crackle, flash—

BOOM.

Izuku instinctively stepped in front of Aiko, arms half raised, bracing himself.

But before it could hit—

Aiko’s hand snapped out, grabbing the back of Izuku’s shirt.

She yanked him backward. Hard.

Harder than someone her size should’ve been able to.

He stumbled, off balance—just in time to see her step forward.

Her arm stretched out, palm open, straight toward the blast.

The explosion connected—a surge of light and heat—but it didn’t send her flying.

Izuku shouted, “Aiko!” and grabbed her wrist, panic surging through him.

He looked down at her hand—expecting burns, blood, blistered skin.

But there was nothing. No marks. No burns. No blood.

Only… Crackling.

Fine, glowing fissures dancing harmlessly across her palm, like glass under pressure.

Izuku’s breath caught. “What…?”

Aiko didn’t answer.

She turned her eyes on Bakugo, whose face had gone pale with disbelief.

He took a small step back. “What the—?!”

Her gaze was razor sharp—deadly—as she raised her palm and pointed it straight at him. The exact same explosive crackle surged through her fingertips—his quirk, unmistakably.

For half a second, the air seemed to ripple.

And then—

BOOM.

A mirrored blast surged from her hands—identical to his—raw, explosive force slamming Bakugo backward. He flew through the air and crashed into a pile of trash bags with a heavy, stunned grunt.

Smoke curled from the edge of Aiko’s fingers.

Bakugo groaned, dazed. “What the hell was that?!”

Izuku stared at her in stunned silence, heart pounding, eyes wide with disbelief.

She stood perfectly still—hair swaying gently in the fading ripples of air.

Bakugo staggered upright, fists clenched at his sides, eyes locked on Aiko with a look of raw fury. He stepped closer.

She tilted her head slightly, arms loose at her sides. “You okay there, Sparkles?”

He froze—like he couldn’t quite believe she’d just said that.

“You think that was funny, huh?!” he barked, voice hoarse. “What the hell even are you?!”

Aiko didn’t speak. She didn’t flinch. Her expression was cold, distant. Like she was evaluating something beneath him.

Izuku found himself beside her, heart pounding, not entirely sure when he’d moved. “Leave her alone.”

Bakugo’s breath came fast, his chest heaving like his pride had taken the hit instead of his body.

“You copy quirks or something? Is that it?! Some kind of knockoff?!”

He jabbed a finger at her. “You think you’re tough?! You think you’re special?!”

Aiko tilted her head, just slightly—eyes half-lidded, bored, like he wasn’t even worth the oxygen.

“Guess you’re not that special if I can use it too,” she said flatly.

That only made him snap harder.

He turned on Izuku, lip curling. “This what you’ve been hiding, Deku?! This your secret weapon? Some little brat who plays hero with borrowed power?”

He flinched as Bakugo’s attention snapped back to him, heat crawling up his neck. But his feet stayed planted—barely.

His jaw tensed. “S-Stop it.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Aiko said, drawing the spotlight back to herself. “So you can throw your little tantrum or walk away. I don’t care which.”

She gave a faint shrug.

“Pick one, Kacchan.”

Bakugo blinked—the name hitting him like a slap.

“Why the hell are you calling me that?!”

Aiko’s brows lifted, finally raising her voice a notch.

“What the hell else am I supposed to call you?!”

Bakugo’s eyes locked on to hers, but he said nothing.

She took a step closer, eyes narrowing.

“Well? Or should I just call you Sparkles then?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. He just bristled harder, ignoring the question entirely.

“You better watch yourself,” he snarled at her. “I don’t know what kind of freak show you’re running—but I don’t like it.”

Aiko rolled her eyes, unbothered.

That pissed him off even more.

“I hate you,” he spat. “I don’t even know you and I already hate you.”

Izuku opened his mouth, a dozen things ready to spill out—but Aiko gave the slightest shake of her head, and the words died on his tongue.

“Freaks! Both of you!”

Bakugo stalked away, curses fading down the alley. Still… the set of his shoulders, the snap in his steps—it didn’t look like victory. The alley rang with the fading rasp of his shoes, then fell brutally still.

Izuku stood frozen. His breath came shallow, heart thudding in his ears. He didn’t know what to make of what he had just seen.

Aiko turned to him casually, brushing her hair behind one ear like the encounter hadn’t just turned surreal.

“Ugh,” she muttered, looking in the direction Bakugo had gone. “That was Kacchan? What an awful boy.”

Izuku barely registered her voice. His gaze was still locked on the scorched pavement, where smoke still curled faintly in the fading light. His eyes were wide, stunned.

“What…” he whispered. “What was that?”

No answer.

Slowly, he turned toward her—the movement stiff, almost mechanical. His expression had shifted completely.

Gone was the nervous smile. Gone was the flustered boy who tripped over compliments and panicked at pretty dresses. What remained was someone dead serious. Someone who had just seen something impossible and needed answers.

“Aiko,” he said, voice low and even—the kind of quiet that came after something life-altering.

“What is your quirk?”

Aiko stilled.

Something in his voice must’ve chilled her—he could see it in the way she shifted back, just slightly.

“I… uh…”

Izuku didn’t move. “Is it explosions?” he asked quietly. “Or is it like Kacchan said… a copy quirk?”

She took a breath. His eyes narrowed just enough to make her pause.

“No,” she said finally. “It… it’s not explosions.”

She hesitated, then met his eyes.

“It’s called… Reverberate.”

Izuku felt the word strike like a weight in his chest. His expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed sharper—charged. He studied her with an intensity she wasn’t used to, his silence heavier than words.

Aiko drew in a small breath, her voice steadier this time though still measured. “My quirk… it’s a combination of my parents’. My dad—he had a true copy quirk. He could mimic another person’s quirk just by making physical contact.”

Izuku said nothing, eyes focused, reading every shift in her tone, her breath.

“My mom…” Aiko paused. Her hands tensed at her sides. “She was a healer. A really powerful one. She could heal anyone—even herself. She could recover from… almost anything.”

That caught something in him. His expression shifted, softening.

His voice came gently now. “And… you?”

Aiko hesitated, her eyes on the ground in front of her.

“I… I can… it’s complicated…”

Izuku nodded, his voice much softer now. “It’s okay.”

He hadn’t meant to scare her. But he had. And now he could see it.

“Hey…” he said softly. “I’m not mad. And… you can trust me.”

She drew in a shaky breath, nodded once—then finally spoke.

“My quirk…” she began, voice low, “it’s…”

She paused, as if working up the courage to continue.

“It makes me… immune. To quirks.”

Her eyes lifted, searching his face.

”All of them.”

She let the words settle, then went on.

“If someone uses a quirk on me—like, directly—it doesn’t hurt me. It doesn’t affect me. I… absorb it.”

His brows rose, clearly stunned, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I can take in the energy of the attack… and for a short time, I can use it myself. Not forever. Just long enough to throw it back.”

Izuku’s heart thudded hard. He’d never heard of anything like it. Immunity. Absorption. Temporary use.

“You turned Kacchan’s explosion into your own,” he murmured.

She nodded. “It’s not perfect. It doesn’t work if I don’t get hit directly or if the person isn't actively using their quirk.”

A pause.

“But if Kacchan had just punched me really hard…” she added, with a small, breathy laugh, “I probably would’ve been comatose.”

Izuku let out a quiet laugh of his own—not because it was funny, but because the heaviness between them was suddenly unbearable.

“Kacchan wouldn’t hit a girl like that,” he said softly, offering the smallest smile. “He’s a hothead, but… he’s not a total monster.”

Aiko gave a faint nod, her gaze dropping again.

Izuku watched her for a moment, then his brow furrowed—something in him twisting.

“Aiko…” His voice was quieter now. “Your parents… they weren’t killed because of their quirks, were they?”

She looked up at him slowly—not startled. Just sad.

He swallowed, the truth already forming in his chest.

“They were killed… because of yours.”

Aiko held his gaze. No tears. Just a solemn, aching silence.

“Yes.”

Then, suddenly, she began walking. He blinked and quickly followed, still holding the bag of food his mom had packed.

“That night…” she said, her voice low, steady but distant. “We were having dinner. Just the three of us. I think it was katsudon, grilled mackerel, and some lotus root. I wasn't a vegetarian back then. My dad liked miso with pork and clams. He always made too much.”

A small breath escaped her, like she was still seeing it.

“Someone knocked at the door. My dad said it was probably Sato-san dropping off paperwork. He went to answer it. But then, my mom and I heard… something. A struggle.”

Her steps slowed. Her arms folded across her stomach as though holding herself together.

“She hid me in the closet. Under the stairs. It had this little crawlspace that led out back. My dad built it, just in case.”

Izuku’s stomach turned, but he stayed quiet.

“She tried to get to the passage too. But… they were already inside.”

Aiko stopped walking.

“I watched from the crack in the door. They—”

Her throat closed. She forced the words out anyway.

“They tortured her. Right there. On the floor. They wanted to know where I was. And I…” Her shoulders trembled. “I just crouched there like a coward. In that stupid closet. Watching.”

Izuku opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“When she wouldn’t talk…”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“They decapitated her.”

Silence.

A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing her jaw.

Izuku stood frozen. His breath caught halfway in his throat.

Aiko wiped her face quickly, her fingers trembling.

“They knew it was the only way to kill her. Her quirk—it would’ve healed her otherwise. Even fatal injuries.”

She kept walking. Izuku caught up again, still too shocked to speak.

“They burned the house down. Every room, trying to flush me out. They waited at the exits. But I got out through the crawlspace. It led under the shed and into the next street.”

Finally, Izuku found his voice.

“…And your granddad?”

She shook her head.

“He’s not my granddad,” she said quietly. “He was the local blacksmith. My parents were regular customers. He was kind. Quiet. He heard the commotion… saw me running. He pulled me inside and hid me in his workshop.”

Izuku stared at her, stunned.

“It was only supposed to be for a couple of days,” she went on. “Until the police caught them. But that never happened. The first two officers on the scene were killed. And the bad guys kept coming back. Searching. Every few days. We had to move to a village two towns over.”

She glanced sideways, voice soft.

“But people talk. Especially in small places.”

Izuku felt his chest tightening again.

“So we came here. To the city. Where it's easier to blend in.”

A long silence followed.

Izuku’s grip on the bag had gone rigid. His knuckles were white.

His voice finally came—quiet, but thick with emotion. “They… murdered your parents… because you were born strong.”

Aiko looked at him. “Because I was born dangerous.”

Izuku stopped walking. She paused too.

“No,” he said—firm this time. “Not dangerous. Strong.”

She turned to face him. His green eyes burned with something fierce now—the weight of truth.

Aiko blinked—slowly. Like she didn’t quite believe it yet. Like she wasn’t used to being seen that way.

Then, Izuku’s eyes widened slightly in realization.

“They’re still after you.”

Not a question. A statement.

Aiko met his gaze.

“That’s why…” he continued, the pieces clicking into place. “That’s why you don’t stay long past sunrise at the beach. Why you don’t go out much during the day.”

She gave a small nod.

“Yes.”

Izuku exhaled, like the air had been knocked out of him.

They rounded the corner in silence, the streetlights casting soft pools of light across the pavement.

A moment later, they reached the top of her street. Aiko slowed to a stop as Izuku handed her the bag of food.

She hesitated, then looked up at him. “Hey… umm… why did Kacchan call you Deku?”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard.

“It’s… kind of a long story,” he said quietly. “Kacchan came up with it back when we were kids. Because I'm quirkless. Useless. Weak. Like a wooden puppet—just… dead weight.”

Aiko froze.

Her eyes sharpened, and she stepped in front of him. “Wait—what?!”

Izuku looked mildly alarmed at the sudden fire in her voice.

“My granddad’s quirkless,” she said firmly. “And he saved my life.”

She didn’t blink.

“A hero isn’t someone who wins the genetic lottery. A hero is someone who steps in anyway—power or no power—because someone needs saving.”

Izuku opened his mouth—then closed again. He didn’t know what to say.

“And those wooden dolls? They’re not useless.” Her tone softened a little, but the conviction in her voice didn't waver.

She reached into the small purse at her side and drew out a tiny wooden deku ningyō. One edge was darkened, char sunk into the grain. Reaching toward him, her fingers brushed his wrist, gently turning it. His palm opened instinctively, and she placed the doll in it, letting her touch fall away.

“When I was little, I used to get these awful nightmares. The kind that made me too scared to fall asleep. My mom would place this deku ningyō by my bedside and he would stand guard. That night… he was the only thing I grabbed.”

She gave a quiet smile, her eyes steady on his.

“This doll was the one who stood between me and the dark—my first hero. His name is Deku.”

Izuku stared at her. Like she’d just placed a piece of her soul in his hands. Like she’d given him a name worth carrying. The weight of it sank into him, warm and unshakable.

Deku is the name of her hero.

He blinked once, then again—his breath catching like it didn’t quite know how to move through his chest.

Aiko held his gaze, steady and unapologetic.

He looked down at the doll in his hand, and when he looked back up, something had shifted. Not just in his expression, but in his whole posture.

His voice, when it came, was quiet—but full. Fierce in its own way.

“…Thank you.”

Aiko smiled, and took a small step back, the shadows falling softly across her face.

“Goodnight, Izuku,” she said gently.

“Goodnight,” he replied. Then, just before she turned to go, his voice caught softly on the air—

“Aiko… you have no idea what you’ve just given me.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Izuku closed the door behind him with a soft click. He slipped off his shoes and made his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. His eyes drifted across the room.

Aiko’s paperclip bow still sat on the table, forgotten after his mom had gently replaced it with her own. It looked oddly fragile now, slouched to one side, its makeshift twist a little crooked.

Izuku stared at it for a long second. Then, carefully, he reached out and picked it up. He held it in one hand, his water in the other, and turned back toward his room.

He set the glass down beside his laptop. Then the bow. Then the wooden doll Aiko had given him. The glow of the screen lit his face as he began to type.

Takara Aiko.

He hit Enter.

The results loaded.

Articles. Photos. Reports. Headlines. There were official statements. A hero registry listing. A handful of grainy news images—blurred shots of a blazing house.

The first article was from a local outlet. The headline read:

TRAGEDY IN KANEGAWA: Prominent Couple Killed in Suspected Targeted Attack

Izuku clicked.

A girl stood smiling outside what looked like a hospital building—petite, graceful, her white coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. Her hair was long, black at the roots, fading into deep blue from below her shoulders, catching the light like ripples in water. Not quite the same as Aiko’s, but unmistakably connected somehow. She was radiant. Not just beautiful—though she was that too—but the kind of radiant that came from within. Elegant. Poised. Kind.

Izuku stared at the screen, unmoving. His throat tightened. Aiko said she was an only child. So who was this?

Takara Emi, age 39.
Izuku blinked. Thirty-nine? This was Aiko’s mom. She didn’t look a day past twenty-five.

A highly regarded specialist at Kanegawa General Hospital, known for her breakthrough work in regenerative treatment and long-term care. Her quirk, Purity, allowed her to accelerate healing in others—including herself—restoring wounds and injuries that should have taken weeks in a fraction of the time. Not just surface cuts, either. Deep tissue. Nerve damage. Disease. Internal trauma. Recovery time reduced by 95–98%. In skilled hands, it was a miracle. In the wrong hands, it could make someone virtually unkillable. She was invaluable to her patients—irreplaceable in her field.

Izuku leaned back slightly, his breath shallow. A quirk like that… it wasn’t just rare, it was priceless. And she hadn’t used it for glory or profit—she’d used it to save people.

Below her photo was another—a man, tall and composed, in a dark suit exiting what looked like a government facility. No smile. No expression. Just… shadowed. His hair was brown, neatly styled, but what stood out most were the two distinct streaks of blonde on either side of his temples—subtle, but unmistakable. Almost the same as Aiko’s.

Takara Kaito, age 42.
Izuku’s brows lifted slightly. He didn’t look much older than Emi-san—thirty at most.

Government official. Role unspecified. No quirk listed on public record—but another article just below offered more detail.

Izuku clicked into it, then followed a related link. Then another. The information was scattered—deliberately so, it seemed—but he kept digging. Finally, buried in an older article archived from a quirk regulation database, he found it.

Quirk—Relay: An extremely rare copy-type quirk with high-level retention. He could temporarily absorb the quirk of anyone he physically touched and retain it until he made contact with someone else—at which point the previous quirk was replaced. Unlike other copy quirks, there was no limit to the power while he held it. No weakening. No half-measures. No side-effects. If he copied a quirk, he wielded it at full strength until it was replaced. Considered highly dangerous, especially in the wrong hands—because in the right scenario, he could be unstoppable.

Izuku stared at the screen, breath caught in his throat. His pulse was thudding in his ears.

These weren’t just quirks. These were targets. This was the kind of strength people would kill to possess.

His hands trembled slightly.

He kept scrolling.

There were photos—two, in particular, that caught his eye.

The first was taken at night, in front of the Eiffel Tower, its golden lights glowing in the distance. A younger Aiko stood between her parents, bundled in a pale pink coat with gold buttons and a matching beret tilted just so. Her shoes were polished, her scarf neatly tucked. Her cheeks looked fuller then—rounder, healthy. Her dimples showed more when she smiled, which she did here. She looked like a child untouched by grief. Her mother’s hand rested on her back, fingers curved protectively, while her father stood tall beside them, one hand in his pocket, the other lightly on Aiko’s shoulder. There was a quiet dignity in their posture—a family of means, and of closeness.

The second photo was more candid—the three of them dressed in coordinated ski suits, standing on a snowy mountain slope. Aiko was mid-laugh, her head thrown slightly back, snowflakes caught in her lashes. Her father had goggles resting atop his head, one arm loosely slung over Aiko’s shoulders. Her mother leaned in close, smiling wide. It was a moment of joy, frozen in time.

They looked… whole.

And now, they were gone.

Further down, a row of smaller photos caught his eye. Less formal. Blurry in places. But unmistakably her.

One showed Aiko inside a dojo with a bamboo sword.
Another, outdoors—katana in hand, snow at her feet, the blade catching the sun.
The next photo, Aiko stepping out of a sleek black Jaguar dressed in a polished private school uniform.
In the last photo, she stood beneath hanging lanterns at a garden party, a flute of fizzy juice in her hand, head turned in a laugh.

It was like observing a parallel universe.

Izuku’s chest tightened. He scrolled down and clicked on another article.

Victims found dead inside their family home following a fire that destroyed much of the structure.

The father’s body was discovered with multiple stab wounds to the chest, laced with a fast-acting poison.

The mother had been decapitated.

Izuku recoiled—literally flinched back from the screen. His hands tightened on the edge of the desk.

It got worse.

In a brief autopsy report excerpted from an archived medical source, it was noted that several of the couple’s internal organs had been removed. No explanation was given publicly. Just a vague line about “post-mortem tampering,” followed by a redacted block of text.

His stomach turned.

Someone hadn’t just wanted them dead. They wanted what was inside them. Their quirks. Their DNA. Maybe even to replicate what they had.

One daughter, Takara Aiko, age 14, presumed dead.

Body not recovered. Likely perished in the fire.

Another report beneath it, dated days later, raised further speculation:

Sources suggest the girl may have inherited a rare fusion of both parents’ abilities—granting her full immunity to quirks and temporary retaliatory control over them. Official notes describe the quirk as still underdeveloped, with potential to reach unprecedented levels of power if fully trained.

If alive, she would be considered extremely dangerous. Or extremely valuable.

Izuku’s heart clenched in his chest.

Her quirk… it’s… incredible.

But there would be people out there—villains, even governments—who’d stop at nothing to find her.

Aiko…

His hands slipped from the keyboard, falling limply to his sides. His head dropped forward, shoulders curling in, as if the weight of everything he’d just learned had physically crushed him.

Without thinking, he reached for the paperclip bow.

It lay in his palm, light as air. So small. So fragile. So her.

A breath escaped him—shaky, broken—and then his throat closed entirely.

Images of her flashed behind his eyes. Her sweet voice when she said his name. The softness in her expression when she looked at him. The pain hidden behind her beautiful smile.

His vision blurred. A tear slid down, then another, until the room itself seemed to swim. He curled forward even more, folding himself over the bow as if by shielding it from the world, from the people who would hurt her—he could protect her as well.

Harsh, ragged sobs tore through his chest, raw and aching. He staggered toward the bed, pressing the bow to his heart as though it could somehow anchor her presence there.

Sleep offered no escape. He tossed and turned helplessly, haunted by the images on the screen. Each time he woke, his cheeks were damp with fresh tears, and her name hovered desperately on his lips.

Hours passed like that—crying, drifting, waking again—until at last, with trembling hands, Izuku reached for the wooden doll.

He held it for a long moment, feeling the tiny ridges in the charred wood brushing against his skin. Deku. Her first hero. The one who kept her safe when nothing else could.

And now… it was in his hands.

He set it carefully on the pillow beside him, as if it could stand guard over him too.

Only then, with swollen eyes and the faintest trace of warmth beside him, did sleep finally come.