Chapter Text
The pain was the first thing he remembered.
Not the fire itself, though his skin still carried the memory in twisted, angry scars, but the aftermath. The way his body had screamed even after the flames had died, the way his lungs had burned with every shallow breath.
Dad had found him.
That was the cruelest part.
Touya had wanted to die there, on that mountain, but his father had dragged him back, like something worth saving, as if he wasn’t a complete failure of a son, of a creation.
After that, there was silence.
No hospital, no reporters, no tearful reunions with his siblings, just the Himura estate, tucked away in the mountains.
His grandparents had taken him in without question. They were stern, quiet people, their faces lined with age and disappointment, or grief. They had never liked Enji, despite needing his dowry to secure their own future. They’d never really celebrated the marriage that had produced Touya and his siblings. However, here he was, dumped on their doorstep like damaged goods.
The estate was beautiful in the way old, wealthy homes were—polished wood, immaculate gardens, a stillness that felt more like a tomb than a house.
Touya hated it.
He wasn’t allowed outside much. His skin was too sensitive now, prone to infection, prone to splitting if he moved too suddenly. The doctors had been clear—his body would never fully recover. His quirk had ruined him.
So he sat, and he healed. His grandparents weren’t cruel, but their kindness was suffocating to Touya, who hadn’t experienced much kindness from anyone, not even himself, really.
"You must rest, Touya," his grandmother would say, her voice firm but not unkind.
"Patience," his grandfather would murmur when Touya’s hands shook with frustration.
But patience for what?
There were no letters from home, no phone calls or news from his siblings.
The world had moved on without him. His own family, too. Endeavor was still a hero. The Todoroki name was still untarnished.
And Touya?
He was a memory to them now.
It was raining the night he ran.
Not a storm, just a quiet, relentless drizzle, the kind that seeped into bones and made the world feel heavier.
He didn’t plan it. Not really.
But the walls of the estate had started to feel like a prison, the absence of everything he had once been felt worse than the pain.
He took only what he could carry: a bag with some spare clothes and the cash he’d stolen from his grandfather’s desk.
He didn’t leave a note.
What would he even say?
They wouldn’t miss him anyways.
The neon lights of Kabukicho pulsed like a heartbeat as Touya stepped off the train, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The hostel was a cramped, dingy building tucked between a pachinko parlor and a love hotel. The man at the front desk barely glanced up when Touya slid cash across the counter.
"Room 304. No noise after midnight."
The room was exactly what ¥4000 a night bought you: barely bigger than a closet, with a narrow bed, a flickering overhead light, a window that overlooked the alley below. The mattress sagged in the middle, the sheets thin and smelling faintly of bleach.
He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the raised scars along his collarbone. The city’s chaos should’ve felt overwhelming after years of mountain silence, but the noise was… freeing. Here, no one cared about Todoroki Touya. No one even knew he existed.
He had no plan, b ut for the first time in years, he wasn’t alone, not really.
That first couple weeks, he wandered Shinjuku’s backstreets like a ghost, learning where the conbini clerks wouldn’t chase him out for loitering and which alleys the cops rarely patrolled. He stole when he had to, protein bars from convenience stores, a hoodie left unattended at a laundromat.
He found himself in a dimly lit izakaya, tucked into a corner booth with a cheap beer in front of him. He wasn’t old enough to drink, but the bartender hadn’t asked for ID.
That was when he showed up.
"Mind if I sit here?"
Touya glanced up. The man was in his mid-twenties, with sharp features and dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail.
Touya shrugged.
The man slid into the booth across from him. "Name’s Ryou."
"Touya."
"First time in Shinjuku?"
"Something like that."
Ryou chuckled, flagging down the bartender for another beer. "You’ve got the look. Wide-eyed and lost."
Touya scowled. "I’m not lost."
"Sure you’re not." Ryou took a swig of his drink. "So what’s your deal? Runaway?"
Touya’s fingers tightened around his glass.
Ryou’s smirk softened. "Relax. I’m not judging. I was one too."
Ryou became a fixture after that.
He wasn’t a good person, Touya could tell that much. But he was there, in a way no one had been in years. He showed Touya the city, the hidden ramen shops, the back-alley arcades, the places where no one asked questions. Most importantly, though, he didn’t treat Touya like he was broken.
"Those scars hurt?" Ryou asked one night, nodding at the warped skin peeking out from under Touya’s sleeve.
Touya stiffened. "Sometimes."
"Yeah, burns are a bitch." Ryou rolled up his own sleeve, revealing a twisted patch of skin along his forearm. "Got this from some asshole with an electricity quirk a while back. Took months to stop feeling like my arm was on fire."
Touya stared.
It happened two weeks later.
Touya’s scars had been worse than usual with the changing seasons, throbbing, tight, like his skin was trying to split apart. He’d been gritting his teeth all day, his hands shaking as he lit cigarette after cigarette with the tip of his finger, the nicotine doing nothing to dull the pain.
Ryou noticed.
"You look like shit."
"Feel like it," Touya muttered.
Ryou studied him for a long moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orange bottle. "Here."
Touya eyed it warily. "What is it?"
"Painkillers. The good shit." Ryou shook out a single white pill. "See if it helps."
Touya hesitated, but the pain was bad, so he took it. The relief was instant.
The tension in his shoulders melted away. The ache in his scars dulled to a distant hum. For the first time in months, he could breathe.
"Better?" Ryou asked.
Touya exhaled. "Yeah."
Ryou grinned. "Told you."
It didn’t stop at one pill.
Soon, Touya was taking them daily. Then twice a day. Then three times.
And when the pills stopped working-
"Try this," Ryou said, pressing a small bag of powder into his hand.
Touya knew what it was.
He took it anyway. He needed it.
On the second-to-last day of his childhood, the world had been narrowing for hours.
Touya wasn’t sure when the coughing had turned wet, when each breath had started feeling like dragging broken glass through his ribs. His skin burned, not the clean, sharp pain of fresh burns, but the deep, sick heat of infection. The heroin had taken the edge off at first, but now his body was fighting back, shaking violently even as his mind floated somewhere far away.
The first hit had barely taken the edge off.
The second made the world tilt.
By the third, his vision was swimming, his pulse sluggish in his ears. He slumped against the brick wall, the cold seeping through his jacket.
Shit.
His lungs spasmed. A cough tore through him, wet and ragged, leaving his mouth tasting like iron. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand—streaks of red smeared across his knuckles.
Not good.
He’d taken too much.
He knew that.
But the alternative, sobering up, and feeling everything, was worse.
The alley behind the bar was dim, the only light a flickering neon sign casting sickly pink shadows over the damp concrete. He’d slumped against the wall at some point, his legs numb beneath him. His fingers fumbled with the lighter, sparks catching but no flame staying. His quirk flickered uselessly under his skin, his body too wrecked to even summon a wisp of blue.
Pathetic.
A wet cough tore through him, and this time, something warm and metallic filled his mouth. He spat, and the splatter on the ground was too dark to just be spit.
His vision pulsed.
The last thing he registered was the sound of footsteps, someone swearing, a voice shouting for help.
The world tilted. Bright lights flashed behind his eyelids.
"Kid, can you hear me?"
"—pulse is thready—"
"—respiratory distress, probable pneumonia—"
"—track marks on his arms, possible OD—"
Cold plastic under his back. Straps across his chest. Something sharp in his arm.
Touya tried to open his eyes, but the light was a knife. A hand pressed against his forehead, then jerked back.
"Shit, he’s burning up—"
Something clamped over his nose and mouth, forcing air into his lungs. He gagged, tried to twist away, but his body wasn’t his anymore.
"Hold him still—"
He woke in stages.
First, the ache. His whole body felt like it had been run over by a truck. His throat was raw, his lungs heavy, his skin fever-hot even under the thin hospital gown.
Second, the beeping: steady, insistent, the heart monitor keeping time with his pulse.
Third, the woman sitting beside his bed.
She was in her late twenties, maybe, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun and a clipboard balanced on her lap. Her expression was unreadable.
Touya tried to speak, but his throat was sandpaper.
She handed him a cup of water without a word. He drank greedily, the cool liquid a relief against the fire in his chest.
"Do you know where you are?" she asked.
"Hospital," he croaked.
"Good." She set the clipboard aside. "I’m Akane Mori. I’m a social worker assigned to your case."
Touya closed his eyes. Of course.
"What’s your name?"
He almost said Todoroki. Almost.
But that name was ashes now.
"Himura," he rasped. "Himura Touya."
Akane nodded, jotting something down. "How old are you, Himura-san?"
The question caught him off guard. He had to think.
"Seventeen," he muttered.
Her pen paused. "Your birthday?"
“What’s today?”
“January seventeenth.”
"It’s tomorrow."
A beat of silence.
Akane exhaled, long and slow. "So you turn eighteen tomorrow."
"Yeah."
Something in her voice made his stomach twist.
He knew what that meant.
Adults didn’t get the same resources. Adults could walk out of here with no one stopping them.
Adults were on their own.
Akane studied him for a long moment, then sighed, setting the clipboard aside. "You’re in bad shape, Himura-san. Your lungs are infected. You’re malnourished. And whatever you took last night nearly stopped your heart."
Touya didn’t answer.
"Do you have anywhere to go?"
No.
"Family?"
No.
"Friends?"
No.
The silence stretched.
Akane leaned forward slightly, her voice quieter now. "You’re technically an adult tomorrow. But that doesn’t mean you have to do this alone."
Touya’s chest ached.
Not from the pneumonia.
"I can help you," she said. "If you let me."
He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or something.
But he was so tired.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t want to die.
His fingers curled weakly into the thin hospital blanket.
"Okay," he whispered.
Akane’s expression softened.
"Okay," she echoed.
One more day, and he’d be eighteen.
Two years since he left the Himura’s.
Five years since Sekoto Peak.
And now, maybe, something else.
He closed his eyes.
And breathed.