Chapter Text
You know his story, don’t you?
Or maybe you don’t.
Maybe it was all just a dream?
Or maybe it was something else.
The tale of Izuku Midoriya is a tale told billions of different ways.
A boy born quirkless in a world of superpowers.
A boy who reaches, again and again, for something more.
Maybe it’s the one where he earns a great power through tears and sheer will.
Or the one where he finds it within himself—buried deep beneath fear and failure.
Or perhaps… the version where he takes it, through blood and broken promises.
In every tale, he becomes something. A hero. A villain. A ghost. A father. A survivor alone in the wilderness. The owner of a coffee shop. The spark in someone else’s fire. A survivor of things impossible, and the child of things improbable.
You’ve heard them all, haven’t you? Countless fables of his rise, his fall, his redemption. All orbiting one singular star that started as nothing more than dust in solar winds: Izuku Midoriya, son of Inko and Hisashi. Sometimes of All Might, sometimes of Eraserhead, sometimes—strangely—of Midnight. Sometimes quirkless. Sometimes divine.
Sometimes... nothing at all.
It always begins the same.
Or maybe it doesn’t.
Was it the office building?
The roof?
The words of an ex-friend too blind to see the breaking point?
Or a hero too brittle to care?
Was it his mother’s silence that cracked him first?
Or a father’s absence that hollowed him?
Which moment killed the dream?
Killed the boy.
Killed the man to be.
Stomped out a fire predestined to grow until it burned itself out.
Did he ever deserve joy?
Was it ever his to have?
Or did he drop it somewhere between childhood and the edge of the roof? Did Bakugo steal it from him, wrapped in the smoke of superiority? Did his parents fail to keep it safe? Did he never truly chase it?
Or did he always have it, in some tiny forgotten corner of himself? Did a little girl offer it back to him, hand outstretched in the dark? Was it whispered upon the blood-scented air of a world not his own? Was it a hell crafted by his hands, and then trudged through by his feet that forged him into something more?
I don’t know.
Those are other stories.
Or are they all the same story?
Other lives.
Or are they all the same life?
Other Izuku’s.
Or are all Izuku’s the same in the end?
I don’t know, I only know what I know.
But I can tell you this story.
From here on, you can call me Number 2. And this story, well.
This one begins, like many of them do, on the edge of a building.
Or, was it the day after?
()~~~~~()
[Monday, April 2nd XX46, Rooftop]
“A-All Might. I really need to know. Can… Can I be a hero? Without a quirk?”
His voice cracked, brittle and scared, barely able to carry the unbearable weight of those tiny sparks of hope.
“C-Can I be like you? I—” He swallowed hard. It hurt; his throat was raw, scratchy, and dry. But never getting this chance to speak with his hero would hurt more.
“I’ve always wanted to be a hero. Like you. Always saving people… w-with that fearless smile.”
It all came tumbling out—fear, desperation, the pain of years spent clutching at a dream no one believed in. They twisted together in his throat, every word trembling on the edge of a sob he refused to let fall. He needed an answer. Even if… deep down, he already knew what it was going to be.
His eyes dropped to the floor, unable to look at the shining beacon of his childhood dreams. Unable to bring himself to look the man he had always aspired to be like in the eyes.
He was a coward.
“I’ve been told all my life that I couldn’t be a hero. That I wasn’t enough. I just—” He couldn’t finish.
Because All Might vanished.
A sudden bloom of smoke burst outward, swallowing the rooftop and the hero alike. Izuku staggered back, coughing, eyes watering from the thick and almost hot fog. Somewhere within the haze, he heard a sound—wet, hacking, and painfully horse. It was a sound he never would have expected from the symbol of peace.
And when the smoke finally cleared, Izuku stared dumbfounded.
The figure was the same height, if not a little hunched from coughing, and still dressed in All Might’s clothes. But the bulk was gone—his frame sunken, skeletal, draped in the now loose clothing like a scarecrow trying to stand proud. And failing.
His golden hair slumped down, as tired as the man beneath it. Dark eyes, more hollow than the heroes that once stood there, all but glared at him, then the sharpness faded, but only slightly.
“What?! An… imposter!?” Izuku gasped, taking a few steps back as a newfound fear began to build. Someone could mimic All Might? It seemed impossible…
The figure turned toward him fully now, gaze turning sharp once more within his sunken sockets at the word “Imposter.”
“Imposter?” the man rasped. The voice was familiar, still All Might’s, but rougher now. Raw, like it had been dragged across gravel.
“I assure you, young man, I’m no imposter.”
He slowly lowered himself onto the rough concrete with a wheeze, coughing hard into his hand. “Though, lately… I’ve started to feel like one.”
There was a bitter chuckle, then he continued. “You know how guys hold in their stomachs at the pool? Flex a little, pretend they’ve still got it? It’s kind of like that. Except… I hold it all in.”
He lifted his shirt.
Izuku flinched.
Where the Symbol of Peace once stood within Izuku’s mind, strong and untouchable, now there was only a ruin of a man. The sight of the deep, grotesque crater carved into his side, puckered and pink with old scarring. It looked like something had taken a bite out of him. And it made Izuku feel sick. What could have done that?
“I got this five years ago,” the man said calmly. “A fight with a villain. A nasty one.”
Izuku’s mind reeled, dredging up information like a quarry does stone. “Five years ago? The only villain that gave you trouble then was... Toxic Chainsaw? But that wound was to your arm, not... Not this.”
His thoughts spun faster. “A wound that deep—how are you even alive? Let alone standing? What kind of damage would it take to destroy muscle mass like that? Starvation? No. No, this is something else.”
The man watched him silently, letting Izuku stew in his muttered theories. After a moment, he answered the question.
“You’re not wrong about Toxic Chainsaw,” he spoke softly, a sigh barely passing through him before he continued. “That bastard gave me a scar, sure. But this?”
He gestured to the hole in his side. “This wasn’t his doing.”
He lowered the shirt, as if it mattered. The damaged flesh was burned into Izuku’s psyche. He doubted he would ever see anything as grotesque for the rest of his life.
“More than half my stomach, a lung… gone. We kept it from the public. Imagine what the media would’ve done if they knew the Symbol of Peace was held together by grit and tape. Or worse—imagine what the villains would do.” He let out a slow, tired breath. It sounded like defeat. Then, his eyes shifted to meet Izuku’s.
“Look, kid. There’s a lot of fear behind that smile you idolise.” He stood, looming again, but not proud—just tired.
“Do I think you could be a hero without a quirk?” he asked. Then, without hesitation: “No.”
The word cracked something inside Izuku.
“No, no, I don't think so. Even with a quirk, it’s dangerous. Brutal. And being quirkless… Well, it’s not impossible, but it’s close. Villains get stronger every day, just like heroes. Some people wander this earth with the power to crush you with the air you breathe.” His voice softened—just slightly.
“You should consider other paths. Police work. Emergency response. You could still help people.”
Izuku didn’t listen to the rest. The world blurred around him.
“Wanting to help people is an admirable trait, but hero work is work that could get you killed—”
Izuku didn't raise his head; he just let the man continue to speak, feeling a tremor in his chest begin to pick up. He tried to hold it in. Tried to keep his face numb, neutral, not showing how hurt those words had made him.
The first hiccup forced its way out just as the wind picked up; it was only the soft tap of tears against concrete that broke the forced silence completely.
All Might was gone.
And Izuku was alone.
Low thunder rolled across the cityscape, a gentle tremor that rattled the rooftop beneath the young teen's feet. He stared out across the skyline with hollow, glassy eyes as thick rivulets of tears traced down his cheeks, carving hot paths through the cold of the whipping air.
His fingers trembled as he dropped his bag beside him, curling up on the dirty concrete like a child seeking shelter from a catastrophe that had already broken out inside him.
Rain began to fall—cold, indifferent, and earnest—softly at first, like the world was apologizing for what had just happened. But there was no comfort in the pitter-patter of droplets on stone. Soon the downpour soaked into his clothes, clinging to his skin, leeching warmth, until he could no longer tell where his shivers ended and his tears began.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, curled into himself like a dead thing waiting to be fossilized by the world. Time had stopped meaning anything. At some point he rose, feet moving on autopilot, and stepped toward the rooftop railing.
The wind slapped rain across his face. His mop of green hair—darkened to near black and plastered to his skull—flung cold droplets as he shook his head. A tiny gesture of refusal. Of restraint.
His gaze dragged down the length of the fall beneath him, hungry. Not for the leap—but for the quiet at the bottom.
For the idea of silence, inside and out.
Everything was too loud.
The city.
The night.
His own mind worst of all.
He wanted a world that didn’t hurt simply to exist in.
The voices—his voice, split and warped into dozens—crowded his skull. Ten, twenty, forty versions of himself all screaming the same thing: Jump. End it. Let it stop. The numbers didn’t matter. The pressure did. It pressed on his ribs, on his spine, on the back of his teeth until the ache felt physical.
But he didn’t jump.
Not even as the screaming voices in his head begged him to, he refused. He had plans tomorrow; he could hold out until after those; he needed to. He would need to at least write a note, for the only people who seemed to still care. He turned away, his mind's eye reliving the scenario again, and again, his heart cracking into thousands of more shards with each step he took.
He wished he had said something, anything to the man All Might instead of the hero. He wished, within that deepest pit within his gut, that he had asked a different question, had gotten a different answer.
Step by step, he descended the stairwell.
Every echo of his footsteps as he descended the cold concrete stairs felt like another piece of him was being mummified by the thing clinging within his chest.
People in the building turned to look as he passed, dripping a steady trail of water with every step, a ghost haunting the mundane world they lived in. A weird child with weird hobbies like all the rest.
The stares didn’t stop on the train. He sat in silence on the bright green seats, trembling, soaked to the bone. The neon color that once mirrored his vibrant hair now mocked him. His signature green dulled to a lifeless hue by the rain, by everything that had happened.
When he stepped off the train, the city swallowed him whole. The cold streets stretched on endlessly, empty except for him and the quiet jeers of strangers’ gazes from high up apartments. Not one of them saw him—really saw him—but their eyes still burned with judgment.
When he reached his apartment, home, hell, the silence greeted him like an old friend. The kind you hate but can’t get rid of. Some codependent force that made you keep returning in hopes of it getting better.
It hadn’t always been like this.
When he was younger, the walls had echoed with laughter and warmth. He remembered the joy, the family dinners, the feeling of belonging. Then came the doctor’s words. The quiet visit. The shaking of heads. The crack in the world.
His father left soon after the diagnosis.
Packed in minutes, screamed in frustration, then slammed the door and never came back. Izuku’s memories of that week after his father's leaving were foggy.
The fog was like water being spilled onto the pages of his mind, ruining the ink of the week with a thick miasma of sorrow and pain. No part of him wished to rewrite that week's page, so he left those memories foggy and muted, forgotten in the margins. Repressed and locked in its cage.
But the weeks, the months, the years after hadn’t been so bad, not at first.
He still had his mom.
They still had each other.
That counted for something.
It should have counted for something.
At least he thought so.
Sure, once he was back home—a part of him remembered not being home for a week after his father left—his mom was distant. Her eyes never looked at him the same. She had been distant, so distant that every attempt he made to bridge that gap of quiet stares felt like an impossible task.
He had hoped it would pass.
It never did.
Four and a half years later, she got her medical doctorate. Started working longer days. Started coming home later and later. Smiled at him even less than before. Hugged less. Spoke less. And Izuku began to understand: she was still there, but her heart had packed up and left with his father's final words.
He thought it would hurt.
He thought it would feel like knives in his chest or a raw, open wound.
But it didn’t.
It was just numb.
As he grew older, she grew even more estranged. Even farther away from him.
Izuku didn’t bother calling out when he entered the house. If she wasn’t home, she wouldn’t answer. And if she were, she wouldn’t care.
The stench of the sludge villain still clung to him, mixing with the cold in his bones. Stripping off his rancid clothing, he stepped into the bathroom and turned the shower as hot as it would go.
Scalding water poured over him, but it wasn’t enough to burn away the memory of All Might’s words.
“Do I think you could be a hero without a quirk?”
“No, no, I don't think so. Even with a quirk, it’s dangerous. Brutal. And being quirkless… Well, it’s not impossible, but it’s close.”
“You should consider other paths. Police work. Emergency response. You could still help people.”
The words echoed in his skull like a cruel joke as he filled his mouth with hot water and spat out the remnants of the Slime Villain that had worked its way between his teeth. The itching burn in his throat throbbed at the motion, but he ignored it.
He was used to jokes at his expense, but nothing had prepared him for the whole world to finally show him that he truly was the joke the whole time. Izuku gripped his hair; somehow, he had curled up in a ball in the steaming hot water, his skin red and irritated from the heat as small clumps of green hair washed down the drain in slow circles.
Izuku watched the swirl of water going down the drain as more hair joined in. A part of him wondered if he stayed in there long enough, would he melt and circle the drain as well?
A part of him wished yes.
The heated water rained down without end as he sat there for a few more minutes, using the expired shampoo to attempt to clean the gunk from his hair. The sliver of body soap left was used in its entirety, desperately used to get the smell that still burned his nose off of him.
When he finally emerged, steam flooded out into the cluttered and dusty apartment—the storm outside had grown worse, it was like the world itself was mimicking his emotions as they churned inside of him. He stepped into his room, and the walls stared back at him—mocking, filled with the face of a man who had broken his dream completely and totally.
All Might’s posters grinned at him with that familiar smile.
A fake smile.
A smile full of fear.
A smile that was a lie.
That man—the man he saw behind the smoke—wasn’t a hero. He was just another adult who couldn’t help him. Just another lie wrapped in muscle, laughter, and the title hero. A man who couldn’t even lie to him and let him fail and regret trying.
Maybe… Maybe All Might being blunt had been a gift; maybe it had been a mercy from someone who had gone through the horrors of heroism and didn't want someone who couldn't help themself throw their life away.
But Izuku didn't care.
Something snapped as he looked out over the dozens of collectables he had skipped meals to buy, some even stolen. Fewer still were the few gifts from the two friends he had, and yet, he couldn't find even the smallest joy in the mocking smiles around him.
He didn’t remember when he started, only that his knuckles hurt and blood smeared across his fingertips. The posters were shredded, the figurines shattered, the merch torn apart in his fury. The carefully built shrine to the man he had admired his entire life lay in ruins, pieces scattered like ash after a fire.
Only when his breathing slowed did he realize what he had done. Chest heaving, fingers shaking, he sank to the floor and stared at the destruction.
There was nothing left.
No warmth.
No dreams.
No hero.
Just silence and holes in a wall that had listened to his pain.
He crawled into bed, the thin mattress barely afforded him comfort as his arms hugged his pillow like a lifeline. His eyes closed, but sleep didn’t come easily.
He would deal with it in the morning, and parts of him wished that the Slime Villain would return and finish him off in his room so he wouldn't have to.
[The Next Day, Tuesday, April 3rd XX46]
The morning came slowly with pale light that filtered into the dusty, rubble-filled room.
Izuku rose from his bed with the stiffness of someone who hadn't truly slept, but had tried their best and lost. He dressed in silence, pulling on his last surviving uniform—the only one without burn marks, rips, or tears. Yet it smelled faintly of mildew, like it had spent too long crumpled in a drawer, which it had.
Grabbing his bag and a soft, slightly moldy apple from the back of the fridge, he slipped on his shoes and left the house without a word. Only pausing to take a bite of the apple in his hand, brushing the mold off of his lips as he closed the door.
As fate would have it, Inko was just returning from the night shift. She met him at the top of the stairs, groceries in one hand, keys in the other. He noticed the contents without meaning to—enough for a single person’s dinner and a bottle of cheap wine.
The usual.
She paused when she saw him.
Her eyes swept over her son the way someone might examine a disappointing thrift-store find. His hair was long again—unkempt curls flattened against his scalp, clearly untouched by a comb.
Haircuts were expensive. She wasn’t buying him one.
The look she gave him was accusing, as if his appearance was a personal offense. And honestly? Part of him agreed. He could already hear the thoughts she’d throw at him later, once the door was closed.
“The least you could do is try to look presentable.”
“Your shirt was wrinkled. The knees of your pants were scuffed. Fix it.”
And then the thoughts she wouldn’t say—the ones he still heard anyway.
How he looked too thin.
How the spark that used to linger stubbornly in his eyes—the pathetic scrap of hope she resented—was finally gone.
She would notice that. She’d have to.
And a small, quiet part of her would feel relieved.
Maybe he’s finally growing up, she’d think.
Maybe he’ll become something now.
He brushed past her without meeting her eyes.
She didn’t stop him. Neither of them said a word.
Inko sighed as she reached the door.
She’d talk to him when he got home.
Maybe. If her mood allowed.
Maybe.
Izuku kept walking, settling into the familiar rhythm of his morning routine—a gauntlet of cruelty, humiliation, and doing his best to stay silent.
Familiar students were stationed like vultures along the way, waiting to pick at him with taunts and mockery. But today, Izuku didn’t react. When they threatened him, he didn’t flinch. When they laughed, he didn’t look up. When a battle between two pro heroes and a villain erupted just a few blocks away—a normal event in Musutafu—he walked right past it, not sparing a glance.
Not even reaching for his scorched notebook.
Not even daring to look at who was in the fight.
The city was alive, loud, and colorful.
But to Izuku, it might as well have been dead.
A shadow of its former self, an echo chamber of heroes and villains, and a world that didn't need him.
When he arrived at school, the usual wave of sneers and muttered insults hit him at the gates and followed him all the way to his seat. The moment he sat down, silence fell—a vacuum before the storm.
“What the fuck?!” Bakugou’s voice tore through the air like a whip.
Izuku blinked, startled, then realized. He hadn’t said hello.
That's fine.
It's not like he ever got one back.
So why did the blond care?
He didn’t bow, didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge his childhood tormentor with even a slight glance.
And for someone like Bakugou, that was enough.
With all the fury of a thunderstorm denied its lightning, Bakugou erupted into a tirade—words laced with venom, meant to draw blood. But Izuku only stared down at his desk. Listening. Enduring. Something in him didn’t register the pain this time. The insults were old. Overused. They didn’t sting like they used to.
“You’ll never be a hero.”
All Might said that, too.
So what could Bakugou possibly say that would matter anymore?
That would matter to him.
Change anything.
Do anything.
The words were like Izuku, useless. Weak. Tired.
Eventually, the teacher arrived, cutting the tantrum short. The lesson began. The day dragged on. Izuku kept to himself, eating lunch on the roof to avoid more trouble.
The quiet was welcome.
Then, when the final bell rang, he didn’t hesitate.
His bag was already zipped, and he slipped out the door before the chime even finished echoing. Past Bakugou’s desk. Down the stairs two at a time. Through the front gates with the single-minded desperation of someone fleeing a fate they knew far too well.
But you can’t outrun the scribe of fate.
A quill like that always knows where to write your name—
And Izuku Midoriya was its favorite tragedy to draft.
So even now, no matter how fast he ran, he could never truly lose the explosive beast who made a hobby of ruining his days.
He threaded through alley after alley, weaving the familiar backstreets of Musutafu until he dropped behind a run-down convenience store. The alley reeked of sour water and old trash, but at least he couldn’t hear Bakugou’s footsteps anymore.
His lungs seized in protest as he hit the pavement. Breath came in ragged pulls, hands shaking so hard he had to press them against the wet ground. Last night’s rain clung to the edges of his shoes and soaked into his pants, the cold sinking straight through him.
Losing Bakugou was one thing.
Escaping fate’s eyes was another.
He was always going to end up here—
always going to be the boy gasping on cold concrete while, somewhere nearby, Bakugou chose to turn right.
Fate adored left turns.
And the smell hit him before his next breath even reached his lungs.
Rot. Slime. Sewage and bile. A scent that had clung to him even slightly after his shower.
His blood ran cold.
Before he could even scramble to his feet, it was on him.
The sludge villain struck like a wave of filth—grabbing him, enveloping him, suffocating him. The ooze forced its way into his nose, his throat, his lungs. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe. It burned like acid.
His mind screamed, he wanted to go home, it echoed again and again.
The villain laughed—a horrible, gurgling sound of victory—as Izuku’s vision blurred. His limbs thrashed weakly. The world shrank to pain and pressure and the echo of his own heartbeat in his ears.
He could taste words on his lips he would never get to say, to tell his mom, even after everything, that he still loved her. But even that… even that felt too far away now.
Drowning, he was drowning in thick slime, and in those final moments, he accepted it.
Relaxed.
Accepted his fate, as the only one written for him alone.
Yet, just as his mind flicked to dark, movement took his hands, pulling them close, reaching for… for something.
He would never know what.
[Central Yharnam: Iosefka's Clinic, Night of the Long Hunt]
Izuku’s consciousness returned slowly—like breathing oil.
The first thing he noticed was the faint clatter of glass that danced through the air, similar to chimes. But not just glass, not just the vials clinking in a hand. Metal tools were shifted on a tray, paper shuffling beside him, then tapped together to straighten them up. A low hum filled the air, the kind that sank into the bones, like someone working contentedly in the corner of a library.
But he wasn’t in a library; he couldn’t be.
He had died.
He knew he had died.
He could still feel the sharp pain of something inside rupturing as his mind fell.
Was he in a bed? No, not a bed. A table? Cold. Hard. Old. It could be.
Then—hot breath, far too close.
“Ah, yes…” The voice was gentle, even warm. Male, aged, and slightly rimed with a cracking sanity.
“While we don’t have a record for your condition, you’ve come to the right place. Yharnam is the home of the blood ministration. It's just, you only need to unravel its mystery.”
Yharnam? The name meant nothing to Izuku, but the tone made his stomach tighten.
The man chuckled softly to himself. “But where’s an outsider like you to begin? Easy... Why, with a little Yharnam blood of your own.”
Izuku’s fingers twitched. He didn’t understand what was happening.
The voice sounded kind.
Kind like a hospice worker.
Kind like someone smiling while preparing a needle.
“You’ve suffered quite a long journey to reach this great city. At such a young age, too…” There was something almost wistful in the way the man spoke. “And you should be glad you did.”
Then pain—a sharp jab in his arm.
A needle.
Izuku’s eyes fluttered open, struggling against the heaviness weighing them down. The room was dim, flickering with candlelight. Wood—old, groaning, Victorian—made up the walls, the floors, the furniture. A medical gurney lay beneath him. His arm had an Intravenous needle pushed into it.
“The blood used in ministration,” the man continued, voice still chipper, “the blood soon entering your veins, is the trade of Yharnam.” Then, a laugh. Not cruel—just wrong. “It is a special thing indeed… The only thing that can cure your sickness. Your ailment.”
Izuku's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Cure? What sickness? What ailment? The only thing he’d ever had was the flu. Unless…
Was being quirkless a sickness here, too?
His breath hitched, his mind raced, repeating a mantra of;
“This isn’t real.”
“I died.”
“I had to have died.”
“Why am I not dead?”
Each repeated in repetition, everything was wrong.
He felt wrong, the air tasted wrong, the world was a shade too dark, yet far too bright.
The man leaned closer, face finally visible beneath the wide brim of a battered top hat. He wore torn, grimy Victorian clothes. His beard was long and unkempt. Fabric covered his eyes—or maybe there were no eyes beneath it at all. He sat in an old, wheeled chair like some forgotten monument.
Izuku’s voice finally broke free—hoarse, panicked, barely above a whisper. “W-What is this?”
“Now,” the man said with finality, ignoring Izuku’s words, reaching for something just out of sight. “Let’s begin the transfusion.”
With a singular motion, the man grabbed and unveiled a large vial of liquid. The fluid within was dark red with a sickly yellow tint, sloshing as it was placed into the IV rack.
It didn’t look like medicine.
It looked alive.
The glass housing had to of been over an inch thick, with thin etchings along the outside. Izuku barely caught the number forty-one branded on its metal cap as it was screwed into place.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” the man whispered. “You’ll be as good as new. Like it was all just… a bad dream.” He giggled, soft at first. Then louder, spliced with scattered, lunatic rambling, almost all too broken to understand except for the final, “Heh… heh, heheheh… and if you ever wake up, do come find me. Hehe heh.”
Izuku watched in frozen horror as the blood, the sickly, oversaturated blood, began to move down the tube, mixing with the IV fluid that had been within it moments before.
He tried to struggle.
Tried to scream.
But his limbs were stone, his throat raw and useless. The remnants of the sludge villain still clung to him, weighing him down. His fingers barely twitched.
His vision swam.
Then the blood reached his veins.
He didn't even have time to realise that he wasn't in his clothes, nor did any slime still cling, yet he still felt it, like a phantom sensation clinging to his being.
The pain hit instantly—blazing, like his entire bloodstream had caught fire. It burned into his muscles, his bones, his mind. Every nerve screamed as his body convulsed against the restraints.
Whatever was in that blood, it wasn’t human in nature. His mind screamed at him, words he had never heard, echoes of voices not his own.
It wasn’t healing him.
It was killing him.
Cells ignited, torn apart. His entire body was breaking and being stitched together by the blood over and over. His bones felt like steel in a cursed forge. He couldn’t even think—only feel. The pain was so vast, so total, it swallowed everything else.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to claw his way out of his own skin.
And through it all, the man in the chair simply laughed. Laughed his sick, twisted, and endless laugh.
Time passed in a crawl.
Seconds were minutes.
Minutes were hours.
And every hour was forever.
Regularly, the elderly blood minister returned to check on his patient.
The Blood Minister, Henry, didn’t know what the disease “Quirkless” truly was; it fought the good blood with a stubborn, almost violent resilience. The boy had been coughing up blood for nearly three hours. And the only option left to the minister was to wash out as much of the old human quirkless blood as possible.
He’d done this before.
He’d saved many sick by flooding them with more than three times the standard transfusion dose. But there was always a pattern in his patients—a grim consistency.
The younger the recipient, the less likely they were to survive the ministration.
Still, he had eight hours left before the Hunt began.
He might as well try to keep this one from dying.
Time passed, and as the pale moon rose and the Hunt was called, the boy had stabilized.
Barely.
Eighteen vials of old blood—dilution level three.
A sewing needle.
Two buckets: one for vomiting, one for bloodletting.
And finally, silence.
The boy had stopped coughing.
Whether he would live through the night was another matter entirely.
Minister Henry reached for the nineteenth vial, turning it in his hand. The glass caught the moonlight, thin and trembling. This was the last of its kind—old blood sourced from a contact deep within the Church’s upper echelons. They’d sworn it was of the purest quality.
Which might have been why the boy reacted so violently to it.
He wasn’t going to question the Choir, or Iosefka, about why this specific blood had been required for this specific child. It wasn’t his product. It wasn’t his business. It hadn’t been for years.
Henry was far too tired for questions.
Far too tired for Yharnam’s nightmares.
With a weary prayer to the Healing Church, he adjusted the slow-drip rig, holstered his pistol, and wheeled himself into the dark.
The Hunt had begun.
And with any luck… the boy would never have to join it.
In the other room, Iosefka—owner of the clinic, a woman of quiet precision—had feared the worst the moment the green-haired child arrived on her doorstep.
He was gaunt.
Starved.
Barely breathing.
His bloodwork showed catastrophic deficiencies in nutrients, hydration, oxygen—
and unmistakable signs of prolonged asphyxiation.
With Henry’s help, she’d dragged the boy inside and onto a gurney. From there, she’d left his treatment to the minister while she tended to patients who were at least stable—patients who were, for the moment, still human.
She hadn’t planned to use the old blood on him.
But the man from the Choir insisted.
Said the decision wasn’t his, dropped off a locked case of vials, and went straight to speak with Henry.
She’d never seen a child this far gone and still alive.
Never seen one abandoned on her doorstep and ordered to be infused with Yharnam blood as if he were some experiment delivered on schedule.
Her patients were usually middle-aged. Elderly. People whose bodies had spent decades soaking in the city’s horrors.
She despised working with children.
This boy wasn’t even half the age of her youngest patient.
She did not watch the bloodletting.
She did not ask what Henry had done.
When he left for the Hunt, she only noted the absence of coughing and assumed the child had been sedated.
Stable.
Alive—at least for now.
In truth, she should have checked on him more often. But with twenty other patients—all of whom hadn’t shown signs of the beast plague—she was forced to make a choice:
Risk them all for one unstable child.
Or lock the door and pray he didn’t change before she returned.
Three hours passed in a blur of injections, stitching, and whispered prayers. When she finally found time to check on him…
He was gone.
Blood pooled next to the table from a knocked-over bucket; it was stretched in a way no liquid could do on its own. Instead of pooling around the bucket, it crept along the floor and to the table where the child had been. The wooden floor was cracked in places. Medical tools were scattered around in disarray.
Yet, she couldn’t find a corpse.
Only a single letter, left on the table where he had once lain.
It was addressed to someone named Izuku.