Kaito's Point of View
⸻
The city breathed around me as I walked.
The afternoon sun, the soft wind people laughing, living, moving around, it was so Normal. It was Peaceful.
It should have been comforting.
But my mind kept circling back to him.
The student behind the screen.
midori27.
A name without a name.
A presence without a face.
A mind that felt like it was listening while you typed.
I had seen geniuses before—true ones.
Gifted quirk strategists. Information manipulators. Analysts who could track a hundred shifting variables in real time. I had worked beside them. Killed beside them.
But this one...
This one was wrong.
Not flawed—no—wrong in the way that made your instincts step back and ask:
How many steps ahead is he already?
I tried everything to find him.
School records—nothing.
Government registry—blank.
Bank traces—scrubbed.
IP logs—redirected into recursive loops.
Even the usual back channels that only ex–commission agents knew how to use...
Nothing.
If someone of my experience couldn't find him, that meant the defenses were handcrafted—designed, built, and deployed intentionally.
I remembered the day I sent the test.
An intelligence suite disguised as a standard placement exam.
Linguistics, mathematics, engineering logic, quirk theory, applied reasoning, strategy recognition.
He didn't just pass.
He finished every answer chain.
Correctly.
And then improved two of the questions which stoped others in their tracks.
As if he saw the flaws in the logic of the test itself and decided to repair them.
I had never seen that in anyone before.
Not even from operatives trained from birth.
And intelligence quirks—true genetic ones—left patterns.
Tells.
Behavioral shortcuts.
But this student showed none.
His reasoning pattern was natural. It was Learned.
A Genius without mutation that gave him intelligence.
Something the Commission would kill to possess.
My jaw tightened.
The Commission.
The metal taste of that word lived under my tongue.
Lady Nagant.
Her laugh.
Her steady hands.
Her exhaustion.
The day they broke her.
The day they gave her the order that shattered her soul and called it justice.
I had slit my handler's throat two hours later and walked away Never looked back and hoping for a better tomorrow.
It has been Ten years in the dark.
Yet somehow...
this student found his way to me as if given to me in a silver platter.
I exhaled slowly.
No use drowning in old ghosts.
I had reached the building.
⸻
The stairwell creaked beneath my steps.
Old paint. Clean floor. The kind of place where people tried their best.
I reached the door.
Raised my hand to knock—
Then stopped just as I was about to knock it was an old habit of mine. I glanced around, listen to my su
No scent of gun oil.
No sharp tang of explosives.
No recent adrenaline spike in the air.
No displaced dust from hidden bodies.
The home smelled of detergent.
Light lemon cleaner.
And something soft—like simmered miso and ginger.
It smelled Lived in and cared for.
It even felt Safe.
I knocked.
Footsteps.
Light ones.
Soft pace.
Then—
The door opened.
And I forgot how to breathe for a second.
She stood there with a gentle, welcoming smile—green hair draped down her shoulders like silk, warm emerald eyes shaped softly with kindness, dressed in a light pink sweater and navy skirt. She looked delicate at first glance—but her presence was not weak.
A woman who had learned how to carry love and struggle at the same time.
(Image here)
I felt heat crawl up my neck before I could stop it.
For a moment—just a second—my assassin's mask slipped.
Someone this cute, this warm, this effortlessly beautiful—
should not exist in the same world that made someone like me.
I forced my expression back to neutral so fast it almost hurt.
"Ah—My apologies." I bowed lightly. "My name is Hikaru Ishida. I'm the instructor for a student known online as midori27. I was given this address to discuss a potential academic opportunity with both the student and their guardian."
Her eyes softened with recognition—and relief.
"Oh! Yes—that would be us."
She smiled brighter, and for some reason that made my chest tighten.
"I'm Inko Midoriya. Please, come in. We've been waiting for you."
I removed my shoes and stepped inside.
The space was modest but warm.
A clean home—not for guests, but because care lived here daily.
I scanned subtly.
Corners.
Ceilings.
Shadow lines.
Entry points.
No traps.
No false walls.
No surveillance signatures that I could see.
If there was a threat here—it was expertly buried.
She gestured to the seating area, and we sat across from one another at a low table.
Her posture was polite.
But her eyes...
They watched me not with fear but with a kindness that seemed to always be aware and I could tell she had known hard times.
She simply learned to keep living anyway.
"I'm glad you came," she said. "Izuku will be here in just a moment. He was finishing something in his room."
Izuku.
Finally a name not just a username anymore now let's wait until I have a face for the name.
Izuku's Point of View
⸻
Silk sat on my head, the soft tickle of her legs combing through my hair like she owned the place. I didn't stop her; I liked it. It was a weird kind of comfort—an anchor while my mind chewed on everything else.
Three monitors glowed across my desk. One window showed the stairwell camera feed I'd patched into. Another tracked heart rate, gait rhythm, facial micro-tension. The third ran behavioral pattern predictions based on the man's walk.
My supposed teacher.
(Image here)
He moved like a man pretending to be ordinary. Steps just heavy enough to sound human, pauses just long enough to mimic indecision. But the shoulders told the truth: weight distribution that belonged to a fighter, the silent rhythm of someone who had memorized how to kill without noise.
Predator wearing prey's skin.
I leaned closer to the screen, studying the way his hand hesitated before knocking. Even that small act was controlled—pulse drop, muscle tension in the forearm relaxing fractionally. Military. No, not regular army—too quiet, too clean. Commission? Maybe black-ops. Maybe assassin.
The idea made me smile.
"Someone dangerous," I murmured. "Finally, something interesting."
Silk chirped, unimpressed, and tugged at a strand of my hair until it sprang free. I snorted and flicked the strand out of my eyes.
Then the feed showed his expression the moment the door opened.
The second his eyes landed on Mama.
He froze. Just slightly—but enough. A flicker across his face that wasn't tactical or cautious. It was the kind of pause men made when they saw something that disarmed them.
My stomach tightened.
I frowned, exhaling through my nose. "Of course."
I couldn't blame him. Mama was... radiant. Not like in the anime, where stress and guilt had worn her down and sadly fattened her up. In this world, she'd found a rhythm again—lean muscle from our workouts, brighter eyes, a laugh that came easier. She was strong, soft, and alive.
And it was my fault she'd become beautiful enough to make strangers forget to breathe.
I rubbed a hand down my face, muttering, "I Didn't exactly plan for this specific variable."
The man's cheeks flushed slightly on camera. My jaw flexed before I could stop it, a quiet growl building in my throat. I bit it back, clenching my teeth until the sound died.
"Im acting way too overly protective," I muttered.
But the thought didn't go away. If she was ever going to fall for someone again, that someone would need to be exceptional—physically, mentally, emotionally. A man who could protect her, challenge her, make her laugh, and never, ever make her cry.
Unlike my sperm donor.
The conversation where Mama had told me hesitantly and as gently as she could that he'd left when she got pregnant. No accident, no tragedy. Just absence dressed as cowardice.
The growl returned, low and rough.
Silk dropped from my head onto my shoulder, tapping the side of my neck twice—her way of saying breathe. She nudged my cheek with her tiny body, optics flickering in warm blue pulses.
I sighed, tension bleeding out of me. "You're getting too smart for your own good," I said, smiling despite myself. "Pretty sure I didn't program emotional regulation subroutines."
She chirped proudly and did a little spin before curling against my jaw, her legs brushing my skin like a heartbeat.
"Yeah, yeah. You win," I whispered, reaching up to stroke her tiny frame with one finger.
The feed still showed the man—my teacher—now seated inside, speaking politely with Mama.
"Alright, Silk," I said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Let's go meet this new predator in my territory."
She chirped from her perch on my head, her small metallic legs combing playfully through my hair. It tickled, and despite myself, I smiled.
"Don't get too comfortable," I murmured. "We're stepping into the unknown."
Another chirp—defiant this time. She was ready.
Together, we left the safety of the monitors behind.
I crossed the room to the far wall—plain drywall to anyone else, but the sharp whine of an electromagnetic sensor followed my touch. A thin seam appeared, vertical and faintly glowing. My personal vault.
I placed my hand against the panel.
"Code authorization: Delta-7, Iron Protocol."
A quiet chime.
Mechanical clicks.
The safe hissed open, as its reinforced door gliding back to reveal the heart of my work.
And there they were.
Two perfect instruments resting on black foam—sleek, matte, and alive in the low light.
The Widow Stingers, Mark VII.
I couldn't help it—I smiled. Slowly. The kind that starts in your chest and burns its way up to your eyes.
"I've come a long way," I whispered. "Hard to believe I started with the old prototype."
That first version had been crude. Exposed wiring, cracked insulation, and a tendency to shock me as often as its targets. It had been functional—barely—but ugly. Heavy. A child's first gun cobbled together in a garage.
But this...
This was art.
I reached for the first bracer, my fingers tracing its seamless surface. Smooth black plating, weight balanced perfectly to my forearm. Crimson circuit veins ran beneath the outer layer, their glow pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. No exposed wires. No fragile coils. Every system—power distribution, ammo rotation, stabilizer gyro—internalized and precise.
(Images here )
"The old one screamed its presence," I said softly. "This one doesn't need to announce itself at all."
I slid my left arm into the housing. The metal embraced me with a quiet magnetic click, locking into place against the neural relays embedded in my glove.
The reactor node at my wrist hummed once—low, steady.
Red light blossomed, then pulsed outward in a soft ripple before fading back into calm readiness.
The weapon was alive.
Silk chirped excitedly, jumping from my hair onto my shoulder to watch. Her optics gleamed red in sync with the bracer's glow, her tiny frame vibrating with anticipation.
I chuckled. "You like it, huh?"
She chirped again—rapid and delighted.
I picked up the second stinger, fitting it onto my right arm. Another click. Another hum. The air around my hands began to vibrate faintly with static. I flexed my fingers, and both bracers responded—power lines flashing bright red before dimming again as the capacitors stabilized.
The revolver chambers beneath the armor spun once, the motion smooth and quiet. The darts inside caught the dim light, glinting like venomous teeth.
Silk tapped at my jaw with one delicate leg.
"Alright, alright," I laughed, scratching under her head plating. "You're acting like I just handed you candy."
She leaned into the touch, emitting a sound halfway between a chirp and a purr.
"I swear," I said, amused, "I didn't program you to purr."
She tilted her head at me, optics blinking.
"Yeah, yeah," I sighed, strapping down the secondary latch on the left bracer. "Let's go, shall we?"
Silk hopped back up to my hair, nestling down among the strands until only her faint blue optics peeked out like tiny stars.
As I turned toward the door, the bracers adjusted their balance to my gait, perfectly weighted. Every movement felt right.
I looked down at them once more, and a strange warmth stirred in my chest.
"My first child," I said quietly. "I'm proud of you."
Silk froze. Then she made the saddest, most pitiful chirp I'd ever heard.
I blinked. "What? Don't give me that look—"
She sulked, slumping into my hair dramatically.
I sighed, smiling despite myself. "You don't count. I built you, sure. But you're not a project like my bracers. You're... my companion."
She let out a pleased trill.
"Yeah, I thought that'd cheer you up," I said, shaking my head as she resumed her smug little purring noises. "Still, I really need to check your code later. I don't remember programming you with this much sass."
She chirped again—something that definitely sounded like you love it.
I rolled my eyes. "Smartass spider."
The red lines on my bracers pulsed once, synchronizing with my heartbeat.
Everything was ready.
Time to meet the visitor.