Kaito's Point of View
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Inko Midoriya poured me another cup of tea, her smile soft and steady as steam curled between us. Our conversation drifted easily — neighbors, groceries, the quirks of the building's old elevator. Mundane things. Normal things.
It was... unexpectedly pleasant.
My eyes wandered for a moment, drawn by a picture frame on a nearby counter. A tiny green-haired boy grinned through missing baby teeth, cheeks round, eyes bright with the kind of joy only small children can manage.
"He seemed like a cute kid," I said before thinking.
Her eyes warmed instantly. "He still is. I feel like just yesterday I could carry him everywhere." She puffed out her cheeks, shoulders lifting in an adorable huff. "Now I have to force him to cuddle with me. He wriggles away too much. It's so annoying."
My spine straightened on instinct.
Too cute.
Far too cute.
Civilians aren't supposed to have that much power, I thought, heat creeping up my neck.
I cleared my throat. "It has been nice speaking with you, Ms. Inko. Truly. But now that I've gotten a feel for the environment your son's been raised in — the support, the encouragement — I believe I'm ready to meet him."
She nodded brightly. "Of course."
Finally.
The real reason I came here.
A student showing potential beyond anything I'd ever witnessed.
A mind sharp enough to cut through my tests. A potential heir.
But then Inko's lips curved into a playful grin.
"Though I have to admit, I should probably feel a little used... I've really been enjoying our conversation."
I blinked. "I—"
"And now you're just asking to meet my son when we were having such a nice time," she continued, puffing her cheeks again as she looked away with a pout.
It was devastatingly cute.
Heat slammed into my face. I stared down at my tea for stability.
"You really shouldn't be that cute," I muttered before my sanity caught up with me.
Her eyes flickered back to me — amused, and surprised.
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Alright, alright, I'll stop teasing." She set her cup aside and pushed herself up with smooth grace. "Let's not keep you waiting. I'll go call him."
She moved toward the hall and called warmly, "Izuku! Sweetie, come to the living room!"
A soft click of a door opening answered her.
Then footsteps — steady, confident, far too controlled for a civilian.
I straightened unconsciously, instincts shifting.
And then he entered.
A boy — six, maybe seven years old at most — walked into the room with the innocent ease only children possess. Small frame, round cheeks, soft baby fat still lingering around the jawline. He wore a simple forest-green long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled comfortably down to his wrists, paired with plain gray pants. The kind of everyday outfit any mother would pick for her son.
His hair was a messy bundle of soft green curls, sticking out at odd angles in that charming, unbothered way kids' hair often does. And his eyes—
Large, bright, expressive.
Just a child's eyes.
Kind. Curious. Open.
Nothing strange.
Nothing threatening.
Nothing out of place.
He looked like any normal little boy stepping into the living room because his mother called him.
But that was precisely what made the impact hit me like a bullet.
This — this tiny child —
this was midori27?
My brain tripped.
Hard.
He stood politely in front of me, bowed with flawless form, and spoke clearly:
"My name is Midoriya Izuku. I'm six years old. It's an honor to meet my sensei for the first time."
I exploded.
"WHAT?!"
Inko flinched.
Izuku blinked.
I stared at him like I'd been stabbed.
A child.
A child.
This genius — this ghost in the machine who corrected my own test questions — was six?!
My thoughts roared like a storm.
This is monstrous potential.
Impossible potential.
If the Hero Commission ever learned what this boy could do, they would tear the world apart to claim him. They'd break laws, governments, moral boundaries. They'd chain him, dissect him, weaponize him — anything to own that level of brilliance.
A six-year-old with this much cognitive firepower was the kind of thing entire agencies were built around controlling.
I was staring at a future that could change the world — or burn it.
Izuku burst out laughing.
"Told you he'd be shocked, Mama!"
Inko laughed too, covering her mouth, eyes sparkling with pure mischief.
They looked like they had rehearsed this moment.
Then — absolutely deadpan — my voice slipped out of me before I could stop it:
"I'm going to die young... from a cuteness-induced heart attack."
Both of them froze for a beat.
Then they dissolved into laughter again, this time even harder.
I coughed into my fist, dying inside. "Ahem. Yes. Well. Let's... let's begin again."
I stood, bowed. "My name is Hikaru Ishida. I am... your instructor."
Even to my own ears that sounded ridiculous, but I continued. "It is an honor to finally meet you, Midoriya Izuku."
We moved to the sitting area. Inko sat close to her son, proud, calm, and utterly unaware of the political nightmare he represented.
"How have you been enjoying online education so far?" I asked, desperate to change the topic.
They both clearly caught the attempt — and decided not to comment on it.
Izuku folded his small hands neatly in his lap. "I've enjoyed it very much, Sensei. Especially the tests you give me from time to time to evaluate my intelligence and processing speed."
My breath hitched.
So he knew.
"I liked how you disguised them," he continued with a cheerful smile. "It was subtle. Very impressive. But out of all my teachers, you're the one who pushes me the most — which I quite enjoy."
I stared.
Speechless.
"As long as I understand the material, we move on," he added. "I get to learn more than any other program could offer. There's a reason I dropped my other instructors and had you handle all my courses."
My jaw tightened.
My pulse quickened.
This boy had dissected my methods, my pacing, my tests — and absorbed them.
He wasn't just gifted.
He was perfect for what I intended.
And for the first time in ten years...
I felt the spark of something I thought I'd lost forever.
Hope.
Maybe... just maybe...
I had possibly just found what I was looking for.
I settled deeper into my seat, posture relaxed, expression composed, even as the gears behind my eyes spun at full speed.
We talked for a while, easing into conversation the way teachers always do when they meet a student in person for the first time. Soft questions. Familiar, harmless things.
"How do you handle pacing?"
"What subjects do you enjoy most?"
"Do you find independent study comfortable?"
Izuku answered each question with clarity beyond his years—polite, articulate, frighteningly self-aware.
Inko added small comments between his explanations, glowing with quiet pride.
Eventually, curiosity tugged at me harder than caution.
I folded my hands. "I know this may be private," I said carefully, "and there is no pressure to answer... but would either of you mind telling me what your quirk is, Izuku?"
The effect was immediate.
Inko flinched.
Subtle, but sharp.
Her fingers curled in her lap as pain flickered across her expression like a wound reopening.
I felt something inside me crack in a way I did not expect.
Guilt.
Real guilt.
"I—I apologize," I said quickly. "That was insensitive of me. I didn't mean to cause distress."
My heartbeat stuttered uncomfortably.
Why did it bother me so much to see her hurt?
Izuku let out a small sigh and leaned against her side, looping one tiny arm around her waist in an easy, natural hug.
"Ma," he murmured gently, "we talked about this. I don't care."
He looked up at her with a soft smile. "I'm quirkless. And proud to be quirkless. Why should I feel shame for how I was born?"
Her breath trembled. She managed a small, grateful smile and brushed his hair fondly.
Then Izuku's gaze turned to me.
"Would that be a problem, Sensei?"
His tone was kind.
Warm.
But something in the air beneath it shifted — a pressure, a weight, a warning wrapped in politeness.
It wasn't said aloud, but I felt it clearly.
Choose your next words very carefully.
I hid my surprise behind a slow, steady blink before answering.
"No," I said, voice firm. "Not at all."
I hesitated only a second before continuing, because for once, I felt that honesty was necessary in order for him to trust me and the look in his eyes tells me he would know if I lie.
"For my intrusion... allow me to be personal in return."
Both mother and son looked at me attentively.
"I once had a little brother," I said quietly. "He was quirkless too."
The memories came like crushed glass — sharp, and unwelcome pain.
"I tried to protect him from the darker parts of this world. I tried so hard."
My jaw tightened.
"But I failed. And this society — obsessed with quirks and power and labels — took him from me."
Inko gasped softly.
Izuku's face gentled, the sharpness fading, replaced with something that looked like respect.
"After that," I continued, "I began to despise how this world measures worth. How it discards those who don't fit. So believe me when I say this, Midoriya Izuku."
I met his eyes fully, letting him see that there was no lie beneath the words.
"I don't care whether you have a quirk or not. Strength is not defined by genetics or flash. A quirk never made a person great."
For a moment, silence settled between us.
Not empty — heavy.
I felt my jaw tighten, the muscles pulling taut as I forced my expression to stay steady. It had been years — years — since I'd let myself say my brother's name, even in my mind. Let alone speak about him. The ache behind my ribs pulsed, slow and familiar, and I kept my breath controlled so it wouldn't show in my voice.
Don't break.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
But my eyes, traitorous things, drifted downward on their own.
And there he was.
In memory.
My brother's smile — lopsided, gap-toothed, too soft for the world that swallowed him whole.
Warmth that never dimmed, even when everything else around us did.
It hit like a punch to the sternum.
The teacup blurred.
The room muffled.
For one awful second I was somewhere else entirely—
Then a hand wrapped around mine.
Warm.
Soft.
Steady.
Inko Midoriya leaned forward and pulled me into a hug before my instincts could process what was happening.
I froze.
Her arms were gentle but firm — the kind of embrace only someone who has healed a thousand hurts knows how to give. Her cheek brushed my shoulder, and suddenly her scent filled my senses before I could stop it:
Warm miso.
Fresh laundry.
The faint sweetness of green tea.
And something soft and familiar — like comfort on a cold night.
Her presence was overwhelming in a way I wasn't prepared for, and every heightened sense I'd spent years honing betrayed me at once.
I swallowed hard, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
Izuku let out a tiny sigh from were he was sitting in front of us— the unimpressed, exasperated kind that only kids and old men can pull off.
He gave me a flat look.
A very clear: Seriously?
Then, with all the gravity of a tiny diplomat, he rolled his eyes, stood and moved closer, and wrapped his arms around both of us — one arm over his mother's shoulders, the other clinging lightly to my sleeve.
And suddenly we were a knot of warmth on the living room floor.
We stayed like that.
Longer than I expected.
Longer than I should've allowed.
Long enough that I felt my guard — my armor — slip just a fraction.
Eventually, Inko loosened her hold.
Izuku pulled back too, smiling softly.
I inhaled sharply as the distance returned — grateful and disappointed all at once.
My face felt hot. Too hot.
I cleared my throat and straightened my posture with practiced speed.
"Ahem. As... as much as I enjoyed that—"
My voice cracked. I hated that.
"I do, um, have a job to do."
Inko giggled behind her hand.
Izuku smirked — a knowing, absolutely infuriating little smirk — like he'd just caught me with my hand in a cookie jar.
I shot him a stern look.
A real one.
The kind of look that made grown men freeze, made handlers swallow hard, made targets confess before the interrogation even began.
Izuku did not freeze.
He smirked wider.
I stared.
He stared back.
Challenge accepted.
This was Interesting.
Very interesting.
And still embarrassing on my end but I am trying real hard to hide it from the kid.
I exhaled slowly, letting professionalism smooth out the last traces of my embarrassment.
"We've covered a great deal of material in our lessons so far," I said smoothly. "But I want to know something important." I leaned forward slightly. "What is something that interests you? Something you find yourself doing for hours without realizing time has passed?"
Izuku's entire face lit up.
Inko's expression melted instantly into pure maternal softness, her eyes warming as she watched him come alive.
"Well," Izuku said, practically vibrating in his seat, "for that question... I have two answers."
He lifted a finger.
"First — business. I had to teach myself everything from scratch. Market patterns, asset behavior, multi-tiered projection models... I enjoy it. It's like solving a living puzzle that's growing every day."
The second finger came up even faster.
"But what I love—"
His voice jumped an octave.
"—is quirk analysis and gear engineering!"
His entire body leaned forward, eyes huge, hands gesturing wildly.
"I mean, quirks are so fascinating — the biology, the mechanics, the exceptions to the rule sets! And gear engineering is even better because there are so many ways to compensate for weaknesses or amplify strengths and— and if you combine the two, you can create entire new fighting styles or support systems or— or—!"
He stopped.
Mid-sentence.
Because he finally realized he had been full-on nerding out.
Inko burst into laughter — warm, bright, loving.
Izuku's face went crimson.
He ducked his head and tried to hide behind his hands. "M-Mamaaa..."
I couldn't help myself.
A low laugh escaped me.
A chuckle I hadn't heard from my own mouth in years.
And as I watched this quirkless, brilliant, earnest child try to shrink into his own shirt while his mother teased him...
I've finally found my heir.
Someone I could teach — truly teach — without repeating the mistakes the Commission carved into my past.
A quirkless child.
With a clean slate and limitless potential.