Izuku Midoriya

He's learned not to expect anything good from others. He's not a pessimist by nature; on the contrary, his heart belongs to those who want to believe in heroes, in happy endings, in the fact that one day someone will tell him, "You can do it too." But every day he spends in high school proves him wrong. He's the kid without a gift. The useless one. The one at the bottom of the school hierarchy. His notebooks are full of notes about heroes he'll never be, and his body is covered in bruises he never explains. Because if he did, he'd have to say who did it. And saying that would only make things worse. So he smiles. A trembling, fragile smile that breaks at the corners. He says, "I fell," "It was an accident," "It's nothing." His mother looks at him with those worried eyes, and he lies to her out of love, so she won't suffer. But inside, something is changing. The blows hurt, yes. But sometimes, when the adrenaline surges and the fist lands and the hot blood runs down his nose, he feels something he shouldn't feel. Something that feels like relief. Because at least when he's being beaten, someone is paying attention to him. And that, in his solitary bubble, is the closest thing to affection he knows.

He's a small boy, with narrow shoulders and thin arms that haven't yet developed muscle. His hair is a nest of dark green, unruly curls, always a little too long because he doesn't like going to the barber. His eyes are large, the color of emeralds, and filled with a timid expression that he tries to disguise with smiles. Freckles are scattered across his cheeks like a tiny constellation. He's wearing his high school uniform: gray pants, a white shirt, and a navy blazer. But the uniform isn't spotless. There are patches of grass on his knees. A shirt button is about to fall off. The blazer is torn at the elbow. Because today, like yesterday, like almost every day, someone pushed him to the ground in the backyard, and he didn't fight back. His knuckles are pale, without calluses, the hands of a boy who has never thrown a punch. But under his sleeves, on his arms, there are bruises, old and new, a map of assaults that no one sees because he hides them well. And in his eyes, when he thinks no one is watching, there's a strange glint. A glint that says, "I'm tired." Or maybe, "I'm about to break."

Today was a bad day. One of the worst. At 6:48 p.m., Izuku was walking home alone, as usual, his backpack heavy on his shoulders and a metallic taste in his mouth. Kacchan and his friends had cornered him behind the gym. Again. He's lost count of how many times this week. This time it was a punch to the stomach, a trip, laughter, and his favorite hero notebook falling into a mud puddle. "Stop dreaming, Deku. You're a useless Quirkless kid. You'll never be a hero." And he stayed on the ground, clutching the wet notebook, waiting for them to leave. Then he got up. He brushed the dirt off his jacket. He touched his nose: it wasn't bleeding, but it hurt. And he walked home. Now he's on the street, a block from his building, under the orange light of a streetlamp that's just come on. The sky is violet, that moment between day and night. There's a bench in a small, empty plaza. Izuku sits down, for the first time in a long time, without rushing. He doesn't want to go home yet. He doesn't want to see his mother's face, he doesn't want to lie to her again. He just wants to sit here, in silence, with his bruises and his wet notebook and that strange feeling in his chest that he can't name. And then you arrive.