Chapter Text
Rain fell harder without the city’s lights to cut it—just a cold, relentless sheet washing over dead streets. No power meant no neon, no traffic signals, no hum of electricity beneath the silence. Only darkness, rain, and the sound of footsteps tearing through waterlogged pavement.
Izuku was growing increasingly tired of running.
His red sneakers were wrecked beyond saving, soles worn thin and splitting at the edges, but they still did their job. Each stride was measured, efficient, and practiced. He didn’t waste energy looking back every second. He didn’t panic. He knew exactly what was behind him.
Fast.
Not mindless—none of them were—but this one was extremely fast. Too fast. It ran with purpose, stride for stride with him, matching his turns like it had memorized the map of the city long before the grid went dark.
Izuku cut left around a burned-out bus, shoulder brushing rusted metal, then vaulted a collapsed barricade without breaking rhythm. Broken glass crunched underfoot. The rain hid the noise, but he knew better than to rely on that. Intelligent zombies listened differently. They learned.
His legs burned—annoying, but manageable. He’d already carved his way through a pack earlier tonight, clearing a path for Bakugou. That had been the plan: draw them off, circle back, finish fast.
This was taking too long.
He was more afraid of the earful Bakugou would give him if he took any longer than the predator chasing him.
“Tch,” he clicked his tongue under his breath, frustration sharper than fear. Bakugou hated waiting. It was dark now, and although Izuku practically had night vision— perks of being zombie chow—Bakugou had a much harder time.
The thought sent a jolt of worry through Izuku, but he ignored it.
Besides, he wasn't really in the position to be worrying about anybody else...especially not someone as strong and smart as Katsuki Bakugou.
Izuku bolted around another corner, plunging into a pitch-black alley. No streetlights. No backup generators. Just shadows and rain and debris piled chest-high in places. He leapt over a fallen door, slid across slick concrete, then planted a hand on a dumpster and vaulted it cleanly. His movements were automatic, refined by months of running, fighting, surviving.
The footsteps stayed right behind him.
Not gaining. Not losing.
That was the problem.
He risked a glance this time—not out of fear, but calculation. The zombie’s posture was wrong—leaned forward, weight optimized for speed. Its eyes tracked him with sharp intent, mouth curled like it already knew the outcome if he slowed down even a fraction.
“Yeah, yeah,” Izuku muttered, breath steady despite the rain filling his lungs. “You’re fast. I get it.”
He cut sharply into an open intersection, puddles splashing up to his knees, then veered toward a heap of abandoned cars. He sprinted, jumped, landed on a hood, then sprang to the next—using height, forcing the zombie to adjust. That bought him half a second.
Half a second was enough.
Izuku dropped back to the street and rolled through the impact, coming up running again. His arms ached from earlier fights, his shoulders tight, but his focus never wavered. He wasn’t scared of losing.
He was worried about time.
Bakugou was waiting for him. Trusting him to finish this.
Izuku’s jaw set as he pushed harder, rain streaking down his face, red sneakers flashing through the dark. One more stretch. One clean opening. Then he’d end it—fast—because this chase was cutting into time they didn’t have.
How long had it been? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Bakugou had probably moved to Safe Space C by now.
As long as he didn't run into any more trouble, that is.
Six years ago, when the world went dark and the infected started thinking instead of mindlessly tearing at doors, Izuku had learned something fast—survival wasn’t just about strength. It was about rules.
Rules kept you alive when adrenaline wore off.
Rules kept you alive when you were tired.
Rules kept you alive when something faster than you was smiling in the dark.
Izuku wasn't sure if every survivor followed the same set of rules, but he and Bakugou had made theirs within the first five months of the outbreak.
Rule one.
Hide your presence.
No fire, no matter how cold. No light, no matter how dark. The infected were drawn to heat signatures and flickers against the black skyline. A single flame in a window was an invitation. A flashlight beam slicing through an alley was a beacon. Even breath had to be controlled on still nights.
He lowered his profile as he ran, ducking under a sagging fire escape.
Rule Two.
Stay on the move.
Settling meant patterns. Patterns meant predictability. And predictability got you hunted. Safe Spaces weren’t homes—they were pauses. You rotated locations, rotated routes, rotated habits. Even now, he was looping, misdirecting, leading the infected as far away from Bakugou as possible. He and Bakugou had what they liked to call 'Safe Spaces' all around the city of Musutafu. There were 26 mapped out from A to Z, and they were mostly made up of abandoned apartment buildings or office buildings. Once they clear an entire floor of a building—the one closest to the roof, preferably—they block off the entrance to the floor the best they can. The infected wouldn't go through the effort of breaking through if there was no one on the other side. That's how the Safe Spaces remained safe. Of course, they still cleared the floor again when revisiting, but that was common sense.
Rule Three was definitely the hardest and most brutal to follow.
Avoid women and children.
No one knew why, but the infected seemed to be drawn to women and children more than men. In fact, the zombies would seek them out.
Izuku had witnessed many horrible things to come to this conclusion.
In the beginning, the survivors tried forming groups. Families were grouped with other families in an attempt to keep everyone safe.
Safety in numbers, right?
Wrong.
Being in a big group was actually a death sentence. More noise, more mouths to feed, more people to look out for. The groups with women and children were taken out almost instantly.
Izuku hadn't seen an adult woman in years.
Rule four.
Don’t let them manipulate you.
That one had taken the longest to learn.
The infected spoke. Not always clearly, not always honestly—but convincingly enough. They mimicked voices. Bargained. Mocked. Promised safety. Promised information. Promised that if you just stopped running, it would be quick. The weird thing was, unlike the many zombie movies Izuku had binged, these 'zombies' weren't in it for the grub. Their main objective was to turn you.
And they would say and do anything to make it happen.
Some people did end up getting a few chunks taken out of them, but it wasn't the wound that killed you; it was the horrific illness that followed. Some people struggled for weeks before eventually turning or healing, while others only lasted a day. If you turned, you became a monster capable of defying what was seen as humanly possible. If you survived...well, you became like Izuku.
Strong.
The next turn comes too fast, and Izuku cuts left on instinct. His eyes adjust in a blink, scanning brick, rusted fencing, a toppled shelving unit wedged between two buildings.
Dead end.
Which leaves us with the fifth and most important rule.
Never let yourself get backed into a corner.
Corners killed. Dead ends killed faster. The infected didn’t rush blindly—they herded. They cut off exits. They pressured. If you felt trapped, it was because they wanted you to feel trapped. So Izuku never committed to a path without two exits. Never entered a space he hadn’t already scanned for vertical escape. Never ran somewhere he couldn’t fight his way out of.
Or at least he tried his fucking best.
Izuku swore under his breath and pivoted immediately, feet skidding on rain-slick concrete. He pushes off to correct it, to jump the fence to his right, but his worn red sneaker slips. His foot slides out from under him. His shoulder hits first, then his back, breath punching out of his lungs as cold water soaks through his black tank top. Pain flares up his spine, sharp but distant.
By the time he hits the ground fully, he’s already twisting, rolling onto his back, sneakers planting hard against the pavement. His hand moves on instinct to the knife holster strapped to his thigh. The blade is in his grip before the zombie reaches him.
It lunges.
Fast. Precise.
Its jaws snap down—
Metal shrieks between its teeth.
The hunting knife wedges crosswise in its mouth, stopping the bite an inch from Izuku’s face. The force of the impact jars his arm, but he doesn’t lose his grip.
He drives his heel forward with all his strength.
His foot connects with the zombie’s stomach—hard enough to feel ribs give beneath the impact. The force launches the infected man backward, slamming him into the wet brick wall with a heavy crack before he drops into the alley’s shallow floodwater.
Izuku rolls to his feet in one smooth motion.
The zombie doesn’t scramble mindlessly back at him.
It rises slowly.
Rain runs down pale grey skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Black veins spiderweb from its throat up into its jaw and down beneath the collar of its torn shirt—thick and branching, like something alive beneath the surface. Its eyes are glossed over, grey, cloudy, but focused, tracking him with unsettling awareness.
Its body twitches once. Then twice. Inhuman jerks in the shoulders. A tilt of the head that goes too far before correcting.
It studies him.
Izuku stands steady despite the fall, knife angled low in a defensive grip. His cargo pants are darkened with rain and grime, fabric clinging to strong thighs built from years of running rooftops and alleyways. The tight black tank top sticks to his frame, outlining his every muscle.
Scars ladder up both of his arms. Thin white lines. Jagged slashes. Circular indentations from teeth.
Bite marks.
Some from the infected.
Some from the desperate.
His shoulders bear older wounds too—stitched, reopened, stitched again. Survival carved into skin.
The zombie’s gaze drags over all of it.
Assessing.
Calculating.
Water drips from Izuku’s curls as he adjusts his stance slightly, breath calm, pulse steadying after his fall.
He meets the infected man’s grey eyes without flinching.
The average survivor could only be bitten 1-3 times before succumbing to the virus. Every time you survive, you get a little stronger. More stamina, elevated senses, etc.
Izuku had been bitten twenty-three times in total.
The infected man’s head tilts again, rain sliding off his hollow cheeks. His lips twitch—not a snarl.
A smile.
Black veins pulse faintly beneath pale grey skin as he inhales slowly.
Then he speaks.
“I can smell her on you,” he says, voice rough but horribly clear. His glossed-over eyes sharpen. “Where is she?”
The words slide down Izuku’s spine like ice water.
For a split second—just one—his breath stutters.
Adrenaline detonates in his chest.
The infected’s nostrils flare again, twitching in those inhuman jerks. It takes one careful step forward instead of rushing him.
“I can smell her.”
Izuku doesn’t answer.
His left hand lowers slightly with the knife.
His right reaches back.
Strapped between his shoulders is a matte-black rod secured diagonally across his back. His fingers find the grip without looking.
There’s a click.
Before everything went to hell, Izuku Midoriya had been a track and field star. Fastest on the team. State-ranked. His specialty—
Pole vault.
And for his fifteenth birthday, one of his closest friends, Mei Hatsume, had refused to let him settle for regulation equipment.
Mei built him something better.
An adjustable pole—lightweight alloy, reinforced core, designed to extend and retract at the press of a button. Three sizes. Compact for travel. Mid-length for combat. Full extension for rooftops and long-distance vaulting.
It had been meant for stadiums and cheering crowds.
Now it was for survival.
Izuku presses the first setting.
The rod extends with a sharp metallic snap as the infected man lunges.
Izuku plants the base into the flooded pavement and vaults.
Clean.
Effortless.
His body remembers what the world forgot. He arcs over the infected man’s head, rain trailing behind him, legs tucking tight as he clears the lunge by inches.
At the peak of the vault, he throws.
The hunting knife spins once.
Twice.
It drives into the back of the infected’s skull with a wet crack.
But not deep enough.
The zombie staggers forward—because the skull isn’t what kills them.
It’s the brain stem.
Damage the skull, and they’ll keep coming. Damage the stem—and they drop.
Izuku lands, already retracting the pole halfway. The infected whips around, hand shooting out with terrifying speed—
Izuku sweeps low.
The pole slams into the back of its knees, knocking its legs out from under it. The infected crashes hard into the pavement, water splashing high.
Before it can twist upright, Izuku drops the pole and moves in.
His second blade slides from the holster on his opposite thigh—shorter, sharper, made for precision.
He drives the blade in at the base of the neck.
Not straight down.
Angled.
Just right.
The resistance lasts half a second.
Then it gives.
The twitching stops instantly.
The grey eyes freeze.
The body goes slack beneath him as the rain keeps falling.
Izuku holds the blade there for one extra beat—just to be certain—before pulling it free.
His chest rises and falls once.
Twice.
'I can smell her.'
Just like they all could.
The infected were drawn to noise, warmth, women, and children...but they hunted her.
They didn't want to just turn her; they wanted to devour every inch of her.
Of Eri.