Wrath
Shoto Todoroki had spent most of his life walking on eggshells in a house that never felt like home. The mansion was enormous, a symbol of power and control, but inside, it was suffocating. His father, Enji Todoroki, a well-respected politician, made sure of that.
At breakfast, Shoto sat at the long dining table, pushing his untouched food around the plate. His father sat across from him, reading the morning news on his tablet.
"You will be attending the fundraiser tonight," Enji said, not looking up.
"I have schoolwork," Shoto replied.
"You will attend." The tone left no room for argument.
Shoto clenched his jaw but said nothing. He knew better than to push back too hard. The last time he had, he'd spent the night with a split lip and a headache that lasted for days.
The house felt colder than usual that morning. Maybe it was because Touya, wasn’t there anymore.
Touya had been the only one who ever spoke up. The only one who dared to challenge Enji directly. He had fought, argued, screamed, and still, nothing had changed. Until one day, Touya was gone. A single note left behind: “You win, Dad.”
Shoto had found him first.
He didn't cry. Not then. Not at the funeral. Not in the weeks that followed. But something inside him had snapped.
At school, his classmates avoided him. They always did. Not because he was cruel, but because he barely spoke. His silence made them uneasy.
Midoriya was the only one who ever tried.
“You okay, Todoroki?” Midoriya asked at lunch, green eyes filled with concern.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Shoto glanced up, fork frozen midway to his mouth. “Then stop looking.”
Midoriya hesitated but didn’t leave. “If you ever need to talk—”
“I don’t.”
Midoriya sighed, but he let it go.
That night, Shoto stood in front of the mirror, fixing his tie. The navy-blue suit felt suffocating. He stared at his reflection, at the cold blue and gray eyes that looked back at him.
He looked like his father.
The thought made his stomach turn.
He stepped into the car waiting for him outside. The drive to the event was silent, except for the driver occasionally glancing at him through the mirror.
The ballroom was packed with politicians, business moguls, and reporters, all eager to shake Enji Todoroki’s hand. Shoto moved through the crowd, nodding when necessary but keeping conversation to a minimum.
“You must be Shoto,” a woman said, extending a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Shoto shook her hand out of obligation. “I doubt any of it was true.”
She laughed. “You’re just like your father.”
His fingers twitched. He wanted to correct her. Wanted to say, I’m nothing like him. But instead, he forced a polite smile and excused himself.
He found a balcony and stepped outside, inhaling deeply.
“How are you holding up?” a voice said behind him.
Shoto turned. His sister, Fuyumi, stood there, arms crossed.
“I get you,” she added.
Shoto looked down at the street below. “I hate that man.”
She sighed, stepping beside him. “I hate him too, you know. It's hard to like him now after Touya...”
“I know.”
“But we can’t leave.”
“I know that too.”
Silence stretched between them. They had both learned long ago that wishing for a way out was pointless.
Inside, laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. Enji was the star of the night, shaking hands, smiling for photos. A perfect, controlled image.
But Shoto knew better.
And someday, he would love to tear it all down.
A week after the fundraiser, Shoto found himself standing in front of Momo Yaoyorozu’s house.
She hadn’t been at school. No messages. No calls. Just… gone.
Something felt off.
The gate was unlocked. That was the first sign. The Yaoyorozu family was wealthy—richer than his own—and security was always tight. But today, there was no guard, no staff, nothing.
He pushed the gate open. It creaked, too loud in the dead silence. His gut twisted as he stepped inside.
The front door was ajar.
Shoto moved carefully, every step deliberate. The air was thick, stale. He knew that smell.
Death.
His eyes scanned the grand entrance hall. No movement. No sound. The house was too still, too empty.
Then he saw them.
Two bodies in the living room.
Mr. and Mrs. Yaoyorozu.
Motionless. Their skin had turned that unnatural shade, somewhere between gray and blue. The stench was suffocating. Shoto covered his nose, his mind racing.
No sign of Momo.
His heart pounded as he made his way up the stairs.
Her door was locked.
He knocked once.
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder this time. “Momo.”
Silence.
He rattled the handle. Still locked.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
Missing. She’s missing.
Shoto took a step back, bracing himself—then kicked the door open.
Empty.
The bed was made, the room undisturbed. No signs of a struggle. No blood. Just… gone.
And no one noticed.
When the police arrived, Shoto stood outside, arms crossed, watching them swarm the house.
He gave them the basic details. Said he came to check on her. That she hadn’t been at school.
They asked about the last time he saw her.
He told them.
They asked if she had mentioned anything strange.
She hadn’t.
At least, not to him.
A detective pressed further, but Shoto gave nothing away.
He knew how to lie when necessary.
His father had taught him that.
That night, he returned home to find Enji waiting.
“You made a scene.”
Shoto didn’t answer.
Enji stepped closer. “What were you doing there?”
Shoto clenched his jaw. “Looking for a friend.”
“A dead friend.”
He stiffened. “She’s missing.”
Enji’s eyes narrowed. “You will not involve yourself any further.”
Shoto’s hands curled into fists. “You can’t—”
Pain exploded across his face before he even saw the hit coming.
He stumbled back, catching himself on the wall. The sting spread through his cheek, sharp and familiar.
“I said,” Enji’s voice was steel, “stay out of it.”
Shoto didn’t respond.
Didn’t react.
Just stared, blank, as his father turned and walked away.
His fingers brushed his bruised cheek.
His hatred burned hotter than ever.
And deep inside, he knew—
This wasn’t over.
The bruises didn’t fade before new ones replaced them. The hits came faster, harder. Enji didn’t bother with words anymore. Just fists. Just orders.
Shoto stopped speaking altogether.
At school, he sat in silence. When Midoriya asked if he was okay, he didn’t answer. When the teachers pulled him aside, he gave them blank stares until they let him go.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Momo was gone.
He barely felt human.
One night, the door to his room burst open without warning. Enji loomed over him. The stink of whiskey clung to him like sweat.
"You think you're a man now?" His voice was slow, slurred.
Shoto didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
"You think you can defy me?"
The first kick landed in his ribs. Then another. He barely flinched.
Another.
Another.
Pain didn’t register the same way anymore.
"You'll never be anything without me," Enji spat. "You're weak. Just like your mother. Just like Touya."
Touya.
The name sent something cracking inside him.
Weak?
Touya hadn’t been weak. Touya had fought until he had nothing left. Touya had screamed and burned and bled—
And it hadn’t been enough.
Shoto gritted his teeth. His nails dug into his palms, pressing hard enough to break skin.
Enji turned to leave, but before he could, Shoto whispered, “You’ll regret this.”
His father paused.
Slowly, he turned back. “What did you say?”
Shoto met his gaze for the first time in months.
“You’ll regret all of it.”
Something in his voice must have been different this time because Enji hesitated. Just for a second.
Then he scoffed. Walked out.
The door slammed shut.
Shoto lay there, staring at the ceiling.
The rage inside him was no longer just a fire.
It was an inferno.
And one day, he would let it burn everything down.
The anger had no shape anymore. It didn’t need a reason. It lived inside him, coiled, waiting for something—anything—to set it off.
And then it did.
Midoriya.
Talking. Laughing. Acting like everything was normal. Like nothing had changed.
Like Momo wasn’t gone. Like Touya hadn’t died.
Like Shoto wasn’t drowning in rage.
His fist connected with Midoriya’s jaw before he even realized he’d moved.
Midoriya hit the ground hard. Students screamed. Chairs crashed.
Shoto didn’t stop. He dropped onto Midoriya, fists raining down.
Crack.
Something broke—maybe Midoriya’s nose, maybe his own knuckles.
Hands grabbed at him, yanking him back, pulling him off.
Shouts. Chaos.
He barely heard them.
His heartbeat was a drum. His vision was red.
He struggled against the hands holding him back. “Say it,” he hissed. “Say her name.”
Midoriya didn’t answer.
Blood dripped from his face. His expression was a mess of pain and confusion.
“Say it!” Shoto screamed.
The hands dragged him further away. Someone was yelling his name.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He whipped around. The director of the school stood there, face pale, staring between him and Midoriya.
Then the director’s eyes narrowed.
“Todoroki… who are you talking to?”
Shoto wrenched himself free, breathing hard. “Midoriya.”
The director’s face twisted in confusion. “Midoriya…?”
The students were whispering now. Some looked scared. Others just looked lost.
“What is he talking about?”
“Todoroki lost it.”
“There’s no one there.”
"Who is Midoriya?"
The director’s voice cut through the noise.
“Midoriya doesn’t go to this school.”
Shoto’s breath caught.
“What?”
“He never did.” The director’s eyes darkened. “And even if the kid you are talking about had…”
He hesitated.
Shoto’s stomach dropped.
“…Midoriya died two years ago.”
Shoto stood frozen, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
Midoriya was right there. He could see him. See the blood on his face, the dazed expression.
But everyone else—
They were staring at nothing.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Shoto’s voice was raw.
The director didn’t flinch. “Midoriya Izuku is dead, Todoroki.”
The whispers around him grew louder.
“He really lost it.”
“There was never a Midoriya in our class.”
“I think he needs help.”
Shoto’s hands clenched at his sides. His nails bit into his palms, deep enough to draw blood.
Midoriya.
Dead.
Two years ago.
No.
No, he was right there. He had always been there. Talking, annoying, meddling where he didn’t belong.
Shoto’s eyes flicked back to Midoriya.
And Midoriya was staring at him.
Not confused anymore.
Not afraid.
Just staring.
Like he was waiting.
Shoto staggered back, knocking into a desk. His heart pounded. His skin burned.
He turned, stormed out of the room.
Down the hall.
Out of the building.
The air outside did nothing to cool the fire in his chest.
His hands trembled.
He slammed his fist into the nearest wall.
Pain exploded up his arm. He welcomed it.
Again.
Again.
The concrete cracked. Blood smeared against the rough surface.
Midoriya wasn’t real.
Momo was gone.
Touya was dead.
Nothing made sense.
Shoto exhaled shakily.
Then he turned his back on the school.
And walked away.
This wasn’t over.
Shoto barely made it through the front door before it started.
A hand gripped his collar. Slammed him into the wall.
Enji’s eyes were already burning with fury. “What the hell did you do?”
Shoto barely had time to brace before the first punch landed. His head snapped to the side.
The second hit his ribs.
The third sent him to the floor.
The room tilted. His ears rang.
Enji loomed over him. “Do you have any idea how much of a mess you’ve made?”
Shoto coughed, tasting iron. He said nothing.
The next kick nearly made him black out.
Then it was over.
Enji exhaled sharply, shaking out his fists. “You are an embarrassment,” he spat.
Then he turned and walked away.
Shoto lay there for a while.
Then, slowly, he pushed himself up.
The bathroom mirror reflected a wreck.
A split lip. A bruised cheek. Blood smeared across his skin.
He turned the faucet on. Let the water run cold.
Then he leaned down, cupping his hands, splashing his face.
The cold stung. He gritted his teeth.
Then—
“Hey, Todoroki.”
Shoto froze.
Slowly, he straightened. Lifted his head.
Midoriya stood behind him.
Casual. Relaxed. Like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t just—
Shoto’s breath hitched. His pulse pounded in his ears.
Midoriya tilted his head. “You okay?”
Shoto whipped around.
Nothing.
The bathroom was empty.
He spun back to the mirror.
Midoriya was still there.
Smiling.
Waiting.
His fists clenched. "Why are you here?" His voice was low, strained.
Midoriya stood there, arms crossed, his face unreadable. "Why not kill him?"
The question hit like a punch to the gut.
Shoto blinked, his breath catching in his throat. "What are you talking about?"
Midoriya stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "You think he’s untouchable, right? Your father. He’s the one who does this to you, Shoto. He’s the one who’s destroying everything. Why not take him out?"
Shoto recoiled, the words rattling through his brain like a storm. The idea felt too heavy, too dark. Yet, it stirred something within him. A flicker of that anger that had been building for years, an anger so sharp, so consuming, it threatened to swallow him whole.
Midoriya tilted his head. "You know you could. He’s weak. Pathetic. You’re stronger than he ever will be. So why not end it?"
Shoto’s chest tightened. He felt the heat rise in his veins, a sickening combination of rage and confusion. "I can’t—"
Midoriya smirked. "Why? Because you’re afraid? Afraid of what’ll happen if you let it all go?"
Shoto’s hands trembled. He wanted to lash out. To scream. To break something. He couldn’t breathe. The weight of the question pressed down on him.
"Why not, Shoto?" Midoriya pressed, his voice almost too soft, too calm. "You’ve been his punching bag your whole life. Your brother is gone because of him. Your mother—"
"No!" Shoto shouted, his hands curling into fists. "Don’t bring her up."
Midoriya took a step back, his expression shifting into something far darker. "Why not? You’ve been living in hell. So why keep him alive?"
Shoto’s heart raced. The walls of his mind were crumbling. Midoriya’s voice echoed in his head.
End it.
The thought was so tempting. So easy. He could feel the fire building inside him, threatening to explode. He’d never been this close to snapping.
But just as the heat reached a boiling point, something stopped him. A shred of something deep inside—something that felt like the last vestiges of humanity—clung to him.
"I won’t." His voice was shaky but resolute.
Midoriya’s eyes narrowed. "Why not?"
Shoto’s breath hitched. "Because… because I’m not him."
For a moment, Midoriya didn’t say anything. He just looked at Shoto, and in his gaze, Shoto saw something that wasn’t real.
It was as if Midoriya wasn’t even there.
The room felt suffocating. The anger, the confusion—it was all closing in.
But then, like a whisper in the back of his mind, Shoto heard it.
"I'll make sure you become wrath itself."
The moment broke.
Shoto blinked and looked around.
There was no one in the bathroom. The mirror reflected only his own broken image.
But the question lingered, clawing at him.
Why not kill him?
Shoto gritted his teeth, fists clenched tighter than ever.
The days stretched on, each one blending into the next, until the pain had almost become a part of him. A constant hum under his skin.
But it wasn’t just the physical pain anymore.
It was everything.
His siblings were gone.
Natsuo had left first, the first to escape their father’s wrath. Fuyumi followed not long after. They both found their own places, started their own lives.
But Shoto was still here.
Still trapped.
He couldn’t understand why they had left him behind.
Why had they abandoned him?
They were free. They didn’t have to stay. They didn’t have to bear the brunt of their father’s cruelty any longer.
But he was stuck.
Still under their father’s thumb.
The rage inside him simmered hotter every day. His hands itched with the need to break something. Someone.
It wasn’t fair.
Why was he the one who had to stay? Why was he the one forced to endure this?
The door slammed open one night, and there stood Enji, seething.
“You left your plate on the counter,” he spat, voice dripping with venom. “Do you think I’m your fucking maid?”
Shoto didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He barely had the strength left to talk anymore.
The anger in his father’s eyes boiled over as he grabbed Shoto by the collar, slamming him back against the wall.
“I don’t care what your pathetic excuses are,” Enji snarled. “You’re lucky I haven’t kicked you out, too.”
Shoto felt his breath leave his chest as he was shoved harder into the wall. He didn’t struggle. Didn’t fight back.
It wouldn’t change anything.
“You think your mother’s death was hard on me?” Enji continued. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted a failure like you, too? Pathetic.”
Shoto’s fists clenched at his sides. His body trembled with the effort of holding himself back.
But it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
He just wanted it all to stop.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Enji’s voice cracked, and the fist that followed landed squarely in Shoto’s stomach.
Shoto gasped for air, his legs buckling beneath him, but he didn’t make a sound. He couldn’t.
“Worthless.”
Shoto heard his father’s footsteps as he left, the door slamming behind him.
But the silence in the house was worse. The isolation gnawed at him.
He was alone.
Shoto barely left his room after that.
Every time he thought about what had happened—about how his siblings had left him behind—it only made the fire inside him burn hotter.
They were free.
And he… he was nothing.
Shoto stood in the living room, staring out the window. The sky was dark, a storm brewing in the distance.
It felt like the world mirrored him.
He heard the front door open, then the sound of footsteps echoing in the hall.
Shoto didn’t turn around.
The familiar voice of his father cut through the silence.
“I’m going out.”
“Okay.” Shoto barely recognized his own voice.
“You’re going to stop this stupid, selfish act.” Enji’s voice dropped to a low growl. “I don’t care if you like it or not. I’m still your father, and you’ll listen to me.”
Shoto’s eyes flickered to the window again.
He was done.
He didn’t care anymore.
He couldn’t.
His father’s footsteps disappeared.
And for the first time in a long while, Shoto allowed himself to sink to his knees, his chest heaving as he fought to contain the fury boiling inside him.
He wanted it to end.
He wanted to destroy everything.
But the part of him that still clung to the fragments of humanity fought to hold him back.
The struggle made him feel like he was suffocating.
And all he could do was wait.
That night, when the house was still and quiet, Shoto stood in front of the mirror once more. His reflection stared back at him—broken.
The same broken reflection he had seen for years.
But now, something had changed.
The fire inside him had ignited completely. There would be no stopping it.
He didn’t care what happened anymore.
Shoto reached out and gripped the edge of the sink.
He had to make a choice.
And there was no going back.
It had been a long, suffocating night. Shoto’s father had gone out, and when he returned, it was late—too late, and drunk.
Shoto heard the door slam. Footsteps stumbled across the floor. His father's voice, thick with alcohol, slurred.
“You’re still here? Not worth a damn.”
Enji’s words were like the weight of a sledgehammer, heavy, cruel. Shoto didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The anger inside him had twisted into something far darker.
His father staggered into the living room, his face red, his breath reeking of whiskey.
“You think you can escape me, huh?” Enji laughed, a harsh, rasping sound. “Pathetic, worthless piece of shit.”
Shoto’s body trembled. He had heard this before, felt this before—but tonight was different. Tonight, he was tired. Tired of being pushed down, tired of feeling the sting of his father’s words, tired of the never-ending cycle.
Shoto’s hands clenched. The rage had boiled over, and now it was a fire that threatened to consume him.
Enji took a step forward, towering over him. “I’m done with you.”
His father lunged forward, fists aimed at Shoto’s face. Shoto barely registered it before he reacted instinctively, the knife in his hand slashing through the air.
Enji’s eyes went wide as the blade caught his side.
A growl escaped his throat, but he didn’t retreat. “You want to play that game?” he spat, grabbing a bottle from the counter and swinging it at Shoto.
Shoto dodged. The knife in his hand felt heavier, but the rage—the fury—pushed him forward.
He stabbed again. And again. His father screamed, stumbling back, trying to shield himself with his arms, but it didn’t matter.
Shoto didn’t stop.
The blood splattered across the floor, painting the walls a sickening red.
Enji roared, reaching blindly for the oven door in a last-ditch attempt to shove Shoto away.
The oven creaked as it opened. The heat blasted across Shoto’s skin, a searing burn. But he didn’t pull away.
The pain in his chest grew. His legs shook. His vision blurred. He could feel the flames licking at his clothes, his skin beginning to singe—but it didn’t matter.
He just kept stabbing.
Over and over. His hand, slick with blood, tightened around the handle of the knife.
Enji’s face twisted in pain, his breath ragged as he tried to push Shoto away, but Shoto’s grip on him was unrelenting.
The fire in his body—inside him—was unbearable. His clothes were burning, but he didn’t care. He had to do this. He had to end it.
Enji's body went limp after what felt like an eternity, collapsing to the floor in a heap. The room was silent, save for the sound of Shoto’s own ragged breathing, the smoke filling the air.
Shoto’s heart hammered in his chest.
And then it hit him—what he had done.
He stumbled back, his body shaking violently as the pain from his burned skin became more unbearable. He could barely stand. His body was on fire, inside and out.
The world around him spun, and he barely made it to the sink before he collapsed.
Shoto's eyes fluttered open, the blinding light making his head throb. He groaned, slowly sitting up. His entire body ached, but the worst of it was the burns. His skin felt tight, as if it were glued together in patches. The scarring already started to take shape on his arms, chest, and face.
He looked around, disoriented.
The room was massive—far too large for a bedroom. The walls were a soft, muted gray, almost giving the place a sterile, clinical feel. There were two doors. One stood ajar, the other closed tight. The furniture was minimal—just a large, cushioned chair by the window, and a massive bed that looked too comfortable for someone who had just been through what Shoto had.
“Hey, Todoroki.”
Shoto’s heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat.
Midoriya.
He was standing at the foot of the bed, a smile playing on his lips.
“Midoriya…” Shoto whispered hoarsely, trying to move but feeling the sting of his injuries.
Midoriya stepped forward, casually leaning against the wall as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “You did it,” he said, his tone smooth, almost proud.
Shoto’s pulse raced, his mind struggling to piece things together. “What… what do you mean?” His voice was weak, cracked.
“You killed him,” Midoriya said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Your father. I saw it.”
Shoto blinked, confusion clouding his thoughts. He didn’t know what to say. His mind scrambled, remembering the blood, the heat of the fire, the rage that had consumed him. He had done it. He had finally ended the torment. But...
But why was he here? Why was Midoriya here?
Midoriya seemed to notice his confusion and chuckled softly. “This is a place I created. A little sanctuary for you, Shoto. After what you did, I thought you might need somewhere to rest, somewhere to think about everything.” He gestured around the room. “Pretty nice, huh?”
Shoto’s brow furrowed. “Created?” he echoed.
Midoriya nodded, pushing off the wall and walking toward one of the doors. “Yeah. This is my place. You’re not in the real world anymore. This is a space between... well, everything.”
Shoto’s mind spun. “What do you mean? I... I killed him. I…” His voice faltered. He swallowed, his throat dry. “I feel guilty.”
Midoriya paused, looking at him over his shoulder. “Guilty?” he repeated with a tilt of his head. “Why? He deserved it. You’ve been carrying that anger for so long. You finally let it go.”
Shoto’s hands clenched the bedcovers, the weight of everything crashing down on him. “It was the first time I felt like I could finally breathe. Like the anger was... like it was all gone, all released.” He looked at his scarred hands, the marks on his skin now reminders of the violence. “But now I… now I don’t know if I’m the one who deserved it. I don’t know if I’m any better than he was.”
Midoriya watched him, the silence hanging between them. “You did what you had to do. No one can blame you for that.”
Shoto closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. He didn’t know how to feel. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore.
“I’ve been angry for so long, Midoriya,” Shoto murmured. “All this rage... but is it worth it? What I did?”
Midoriya finally moved, stepping closer to Shoto, his footsteps soundless on the floor. He knelt beside the bed, meeting Shoto’s gaze. “Is it worth it?” he repeated. “You feel that weight? That anger? The release?”
Shoto nodded. “I do.”
“Then it was worth it,” Midoriya said softly. “You freed yourself. You’re not bound to him anymore. You’re free, Shoto.”
Shoto’s chest tightened, but there was something in Midoriya’s words that comforted him, that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely alone.
But still…
“I don’t know if I can live with this,” Shoto whispered, voice breaking.
Midoriya’s eyes softened, his smile disappearing as he regarded Shoto with an intensity that felt almost too much to bear. “You’re stronger than that. You’ll figure it out.”
Shoto turned away, his gaze landing on the two doors in the room. “What are those for?”
Midoriya’s smile returned, but there was something unsettling in it now. “One leads to where you came from. The other… well, that’s a place I think you might want to go.”
Shoto stared at him. “Where?”
Midoriya didn’t answer immediately. He only gave Shoto a knowing look, like he understood something that Shoto didn’t. “That’s up to you, Todoroki. What do you want?”
Shoto felt the weight of the decision hanging over him. Both doors, standing there, just out of reach, offering something. But what? He had no idea.
He had killed his father. He had killed the thing that had haunted him, but what did that make him now? Who was he, now that there was no one left to punish him, no one to hold him down?
Midoriya’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You don’t have to choose right away. But when you’re ready, the door will be there.”
Shoto glanced at the two doors again, unsure of what lay behind either of them. He had no idea what to expect anymore. He didn’t even know if he was ready.
But maybe, just maybe, this place—this strange, unreal space—was exactly what he needed to find out.
Shoto sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the doors. His mind was a whirlwind, his thoughts crashing into each other like a storm that wouldn’t settle.
Then, finally, he exhaled.
“I’m going back,” he said.
Midoriya, who had been watching him with an unreadable expression, tilted his head slightly. “Oh?”
Shoto met his gaze, his face resolute. “I regret it.” His voice was steady, but there was something raw beneath it. “I need to own up to what I did. No matter how much I hated him, I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. If I stay here, if I just accept this… it means I was never any better than him.”
Midoriya hummed, almost as if he were amused.
Shoto stood, his muscles aching, his burns pulling at his skin, but he ignored it. His mind was made up. “I don’t know what this place is. I don’t know what you are, but I know what I need to do.”
He turned toward the door that led back. His fingers stretched toward the handle—
And then something cold and metallic clamped around his wrist.
Shoto barely had time to react before the force yanked him backward.
His body hit the ground with a thud, and before he could scramble to his feet, another chain wrapped around his ankle, twisting like a serpent, dragging him toward the other door.
His breath hitched.
“What the—” He fought, struggling against the pull, but the chains were too strong, tightening around his limbs. The door in front of him—the one leading back—got farther and farther away.
His eyes darted to Midoriya. “What the hell is happening?!”
Midoriya sighed, almost disappointed. “I thought you understood already, Todoroki.”
Shoto’s struggles faltered. “What?”
Midoriya took slow steps toward him, his hands in his pockets. “You can’t leave.”
Shoto’s blood ran cold.
Midoriya crouched beside him, his green eyes glinting with something unnatural. “You gave me your name, Shoto. And now you belong here.”
Shoto’s breath was shaky, his mind racing. “No… no, I chose to go back.”
Midoriya’s smile widened. “You think it was ever up to you?”
The chains rattled, slithering tighter. Shoto gritted his teeth, still trying to fight. “Why?” His voice was sharp, filled with anger and confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Midoriya’s eyes gleamed. “You should be grateful,” he whispered. “You were handpicked.”
Shoto’s heart pounded. A pit formed in his stomach. “Handpicked?”
Midoriya leaned in close, his breath disturbingly warm against Shoto’s ear.
“You’re mine now.”
A shiver ran down Shoto’s spine, his body reacting before his mind could process. His anger boiled over. “Like hell I am!” he snarled, thrashing against the chains. “I don’t know what sick game you’re playing, but I’m not some thing you can claim!”
Midoriya didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t even change. He just kept smiling, as if watching a child throw a tantrum.
And then, suddenly—
He screamed.
It wasn’t human.
The sound tore through the room, reverberating off the walls. It was layered, distorted, wrong. It was as if a hundred voices were screaming at once, all of them warped in agony, rage, hunger.
Shoto’s body locked up, his ears ringing, his instincts screaming at him to run, but he was trapped.
Midoriya’s face twisted. His mouth stretched too wide, his teeth too sharp, his eyes glowing with something unholy.
“DON’T QUESTION ME.”
Shoto’s breath hitched. His heart pounded against his ribs, his fear threatening to consume him.
But beneath the fear, something else flickered—
Rage.
The chains tightened, pulling him closer to the door. But Shoto wasn’t done fighting yet.
He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.
“I don’t know what the fuck you are,” he growled, his voice shaking with fury, “but I’m not yours!”
Midoriya grinned, unbothered. “You’ll learn.”
The door behind him creaked open.
And the chains yanked Shoto into the abyss.
Shoto gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into the doorframe. The chains tightened around his limbs, yanking harder, but he refused to let go. His burns screamed, his muscles ached, but he wouldn't—
Midoriya’s voice rang out, raw and distorted.
"LET GO!"
And then, fire.
A burning grip latched onto his wrists, the heat searing through his skin like branding irons. Shoto gasped, his grip slipping slightly as pain shot through him.
Midoriya was holding him, his hands engulfed in sickly, crackling flames. Shoto could feel his flesh melting, the agony unbearable—
He lashed out, shoving Midoriya with everything he had. His fist connected, but the second he made contact, an unbearable burning sensation shot up his arm, like touching molten iron.
He flinched.
That was his mistake.
His balance wavered, his grip loosened just enough, and the chains took advantage.
With one last, violent pull, they wrenched him forward—
He fell.
As soon as he hit the ground, the chains loosened and slithered away like snakes retreating into the shadows.
Shoto scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain, and turned back to the door. His heart pounded as he grabbed the handle—
It didn’t budge.
He twisted it harder. Still nothing.
He slammed his fists against the door, his breathing ragged. “Open, dammit—”
A low chuckle echoed behind him.
Shoto froze.
Slowly, he turned around, his eyes locking onto Midoriya.
Or whatever the fuck this thing was.
Midoriya’s grin was wider than before, too wide, splitting across his face unnaturally. His green eyes glowed, swirling with something inhuman.
Shoto’s anger flared. His body was screaming in pain, his mind spinning, but all he could feel now was fury.
“What the fuck are you?” he spat. “You were dead before I even met you.”
Midoriya tilted his head, then—
He laughed.
It started small, then grew, warping into something unhinged, echoing off the walls like a chorus of voices overlapping.
Then he screamed.
"I AM GOD!"
Shoto’s breath caught in his throat.
No. No, this thing wasn’t a god.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
“No fucking way,” he snarled. “Someone who doesn’t even want me to have the karma I deserve for what I did isn’t a god.” His voice was shaking with rage now. “A real god would’ve saved me from my father instead of pushing me to kill him.”
He stepped forward, his anger boiling over, and before he could stop himself, he swung.
His fist crashed into Midoriya’s face—
Midoriya didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t even blink.
Shoto’s breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He hit him again. And again. Each punch landed, but it was like striking stone, like trying to fight the inevitable.
Midoriya just stood there. Smiling.
Then, suddenly, he moved.
Faster than Shoto could react, Midoriya’s hand slammed into his chest, sending him flying backward. His back hit the wall with a sickening crack, and before he could even process the pain, Midoriya was already in front of him.
“Are you done?”
His voice boomed, rattling the walls, making the entire room tremble.
Shoto gasped, trying to steady himself. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe.
Midoriya didn’t give him time to recover.
He grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the corner of the room.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Midoriya grinned. “You want to leave, right? Want to see Momo again?”
Shoto’s eyes widened. “What?”
“She’s alive.” Midoriya’s voice was sickeningly sweet. “She’s in one of these rooms.”
Shoto’s stomach twisted.
“Where?” He demanded.
Midoriya’s grin stretched wider.
“I’ll tell you.”
Shoto’s fists clenched. “What do you want?”
Midoriya leaned in, his voice a whisper.
“A name.”
Shoto’s blood ran cold.
Midoriya chuckled. “If you want to see her again… bring me a name from anyone who enters this room.”
Then, he turned on his heel, humming a light tune as he walked toward the farthest door.
Shoto’s body moved before he could think—he lunged forward, grabbing for Midoriya’s shoulder.
His hand passed through.
Shoto stumbled, blinking rapidly, his breath catching in his throat. He looked at his hand, flexing his fingers. It was fine. Solid. So why—?
A low, unnatural clicking sound filled the room.
Slowly, cautiously, he looked up.
And—
His mind rejected what he was seeing.
It was Izuku but it wasn’t. A thing, a mass, something so beyond human comprehension that his brain refused to make sense of it. A writhing, shifting monstrosity that couldn’t—shouldn’t—exist.
The mere sight of it made his skin crawl, his lungs contract, his thoughts scatter into static. He could feel it burrowing into his soul, peeling back layers he didn’t even know existed.
It was wrong.
A shape with too many limbs and none at all. A face with infinite eyes but no eyes. It was Izuku. And it was not Izuku.
Shoto staggered back, his knees weak. His heart pounded in his skull, his vision blurred, his stomach twisted in knots—
Then—
Snap.
Like a switch being flipped, Midoriya was normal again.
Hands in his pockets. Bright, cheerful smile. Like nothing had happened.
He waved. “Don’t follow me, okay? Bye~!”
With that, he slipped through the door, leaving Shoto standing there, reeling.
His body felt numb. His skin was still crawling. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.
He had seen something beyond understanding.
And he could still hear the echo of gears grinding.
Tick. Click. Shift.
Like something inside him had been set in motion.
Shoto wouldn’t realize it at first.
The changes were slow, creeping in like rust spreading over metal.
It started with his movements. A stiffness in his limbs, a new weight in his steps, like something unseen was pressing down on him.
Then, the noises.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. But no—every time he moved, there was a faint clicking. A soft grinding. A mechanical whir beneath his skin.
His hands trembled when he stared at them. His reflection became off, his features too sharp, too structured. His body—his entire being—was shifting, piece by piece.
By the time he realized he wasn’t human anymore, it was too late.
His limbs were reinforced with metal, gears embedded into his very bones. They twisted and turned with every movement, a symphony of ticking, grinding, and shifting parts.
His mask came last.
A heavy thing of silver and brass, smooth yet unyielding. It latched onto his face like it had always belonged there.
And with it, the rage settled in.
Not just anger. Not just hatred.
Pure, unrelenting wrath.
A ruler had been born.