Inko looked up the moment the door clicked shut.
"How are you holding up?" she asked gently.
Izuku nodded as he slipped his shoes off and slung his bag onto the hook by the wall. The motion was smooth, automatic—like he'd practiced it to avoid thinking too hard.
"I'm doing alright," he said.
Then his voice faltered.
"I just…" He swallowed. "Three people died, Mom. I could've stopped that. I could've even saved them in the hospital—but I didn't know. I could've done more… so much more."
Inko didn't speak right away.
She walked over and pulled him into a hug, firm and warm, like she was anchoring him in place. Izuku stood stiffly for a second before the tension drained out of him, his forehead pressing lightly into her shoulder.
"You're thinking backwards," she said softly.
Izuku's hands clenched at her sleeves. "I'm thinking realistically. I had the power. I had the speed. If I'd been smarter—if I'd known what else I could do—"
"Stop," Inko said, not sharply, but with a quiet certainty that cut through him.
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
"You didn't know," she repeated. "And that matters."
"But now I do," Izuku said, voice tight. "And that means next time, if someone dies, it'll really be my fault."
Inko shook her head slowly.
"No," she said. "That means next time, you'll save more. Not all. More."
She lifted a hand and brushed his hair back from his face, the way she had when he was small and scraped his knees.
"If you carry every life you couldn't reach," she continued, "you'll freeze. Or you'll break. And then you won't be able to save anyone."
Izuku's eyes burned. "I don't want to accept loss like it's normal."
"You shouldn't," Inko said immediately. "But you also can't pretend you're omniscient. You're not a god, Izuku."
He gave a hollow laugh. "Everyone keeps acting like I'm becoming one."
Inko's expression softened, but her grip tightened.
"Then let me be the one who reminds you you're not," she said. "You're my son. A good one. A kind one. And you went out there and chose to protect people instead of yourself."
She rested her forehead against his.
"That's enough for today."
Izuku closed his eyes, breathing in slowly.
"…I hate that I didn't know," he admitted.
"That just means you'll learn," Inko replied. "And when you do, you'll still come home and tell me when it hurts."
He nodded faintly.
"I promise," he said.
Inko smiled, pulling him into another hug.
"Good. Now sit down," she added gently. "Dinner's almost ready. Even heroes who save cities need to eat."
A small, tired smile tugged at Izuku's lips.
...
Hoopa hovered in front of him, unusually still, golden rings dimmer than usual.
"Your mother is correct, you know that, right, master?" Hoopa said seriously.
Izuku let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he lay on his bed.
"I know, Hoopa," he replied quietly. "But you're probably the only one who knows how I truly feel."
He paused, fingers curling slightly at his side.
"…Does it not feel like I'm slowly outgrowing this world?"
Hoopa didn't answer right away.
When it finally spoke, its voice was softer, older than it ever sounded when it joked or teased.
"It does," Hoopa admitted. "But not in the way you fear."
Izuku turned his head toward it.
"You aren't outgrowing it because it's small," Hoopa continued. "You're outgrowing it because you keep choosing to carry more than anyone else here was meant to."
Izuku frowned faintly. "That doesn't change the result."
"No," Hoopa agreed. "But it changes what it means."
Hoopa drifted closer, hovering at eye level.
"Worlds are not homes because they are big enough," it said. "They are homes because someone chooses to stay. And you…" It hesitated, "…you've stayed longer than most in your position would have."
(A/N: multiverse stories where MCs stay for like 4-5 chapters xd)
Izuku swallowed. "And if I stay too long?"
Hoopa's rings spun once, slow and deliberate.
"Then you will stop growing," it said plainly. "And that would be worse."
Silence settled between them.
Izuku stared ahead, jaw tight. "I don't want to abandon them."
"You won't," Hoopa said immediately. "You're not leaving because you don't care. You're not leaving anytime soon anyway; there's still a lot to do. But it's because you care too much to let yourself become a ceiling."
Izuku closed his eyes.
"…It feels lonely," he admitted.
Hoopa smiled gently. "Growth always is."
It floated back slightly, tone lightening just a little.
"But you won't be alone," it added. "You're terrible at that. You keep dragging people with you—on purpose or not."
That earned a quiet huff of a laugh from Izuku.
"Guess that's true."
Hoopa tilted its head. "Outgrowing a world doesn't mean rejecting it, master."
Izuku opened his eyes again, steadier now.
"…It just means it's time to carry what it gave me somewhere else."
Hoopa nodded.
"Yes," it said softly. "Exactly that."
"Let's finish our business here first, then," Izuku nodded.
.....
Nezu looked up from the stack of papers on his desk, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Ah, yes, Midoriya," he said pleasantly. "What did you want to talk about?"
Izuku stood straight, hands at his sides. No nerves. Just intent.
"I wanted to ask if I could take the hero license exam," he said.
Nezu's ears twitched.
"…I see."
The principal leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying Izuku with an expression that was far too thoughtful to be casual.
"You're aware," Nezu continued, "that the actual hero license exam is not offered to first-years. Even exceptional ones. It hasn't ever been. Even for All Might, that didn't happen."
"I know," Izuku replied calmly. "But I'm already operating in live combat environments, I've defeated countless Nomu and villains. I think it would be irresponsible not to formalize that."
Nezu smiled faintly.
"Responsible," he repeated. "That's an interesting word choice."
Izuku met his gaze evenly. "If I'm going to keep intervening at that scale, I should be accountable for it."
Silence hung between them.
Then Nezu chuckled softly.
"Do you know," he said, "how many students come into this office asking for permission to do something reckless?"
Izuku didn't answer.
"Very few," Nezu continued, "frame it as a request to be held responsible."
Nezu stood, walking over to the window that overlooked the campus.
"You understand," he said lightly, "that once you hold a license, the expectations placed on you will not lessen. They will increase. Scrutiny. Oversight. Consequences. That's what comes with holding a pro hero ranking."
"I'm fine with that," Izuku said without hesitation.
Nezu turned back to him, eyes sharp now.
"…Are you planning to remain at U.A. long-term, Midoriya?"
Izuku paused.
Not long.
"I'm planning to finish what needs finishing," he answered truthfully.
Nezu laughed—once, quietly.
"Well," he said, tapping a claw against his desk, "I suppose it would be foolish to pretend you're a normal student at this point."
He picked up a form and slid it across the desk.
"I'll authorize your participation in the next available license examination," Nezu said. "On one condition."
Izuku looked down at the paper, then back up. "Which is?"
Nezu smiled, sharp and knowing.
"That when the world inevitably starts asking why you were allowed to do this… You give them results."
Izuku nodded once.
"I always do."
Nezu's smile widened.
"…Yes," he murmured. "That's exactly what concerns me, don't let the world rely on you."
The meeting ended there—but as Izuku stepped out into the hallway, Nezu remained by the window, watching the sky.
Some students grew into heroes.
Others… passed straight through them.
And Nezu had just opened a door for one of the latter.
.....
"Young Midoriya…" he said slowly. "Is this truly something you wish to be doing?"
Izuku nodded without hesitation.
"Yeah," he replied. "I just wanted to know if you had any tips for it. I've memorised all of the necessary legislation and theory I'd need for the written portion."
All Might froze.
"…The Pro Hero License?" he clarified.
"Yes," Izuku said simply.
There was a long pause.
All Might turned away, staring out the window, hands resting on the sill. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, heavier.
"That exam isn't meant for students," he said. "It's meant for third years and above who have already decided what kind of burden they're willing to carry."
Izuku met his reflection in the glass. "I've already decided."
All Might exhaled slowly.
"…I thought you might say that."
He turned back, arms crossing, gaze sharp but not disapproving.
"Then listen carefully," All Might said. "The Pro Hero License exam isn't about combat ability. They already assume you're strong. What they're testing is whether they can trust you."
Izuku nodded.
"You will be evaluated on judgment under pressure," All Might continued. "On restraint. On whether you escalate situations unnecessarily. On whether you understand that once you hold that license, every mistake is yours."
"I understand," Izuku said. "That's why I want it."
All Might searched his face, looking for doubt.
He didn't find any.
"…Very well," All Might said at last. "Then my advice is this: don't show them what you can do."
Izuku frowned slightly. "Then what should I show them?"
All Might smiled faintly.
"Show them what you choose not to do," he said. "Anyone can solve problems with force. Very few can solve them without becoming the problem."
Izuku absorbed that.
"And the written portion?" he asked.
All Might huffed out a quiet laugh.
"You've already passed that in spirit," he said. "Frankly, some of the examiners could stand to study your notes."
Then his expression sobered.
"One more thing, Young Midoriya."
Izuku looked up.
"If you pass this exam," All Might said carefully, "you will no longer be seen as a student who needs protection. You will be seen as a professional who can be held accountable."
Izuku nodded once.
"That's exactly what I want."
All Might placed a hand on his shoulder, grip firm.
"…Then you have my full support," he said. "Not as your teacher—but as a fellow hero. Good luck, Apex."
Izuku's lips curved into a small, genuine smile.
"Thank you, All Might," he said.
As he left the room, All Might remained standing there for a long time, staring at the closed door.
....
Himiko blinked, spoon halfway to her mouth.
"…You're doing the pro hero exam?" she asked, head tilting slightly as she looked at him.
Izuku nodded, setting his phone down. "Yeah."
She stared at him for a second longer, then grinned. "Wow. You're really speedrunning life, huh?"
He huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Himiko," he said, more seriously now, "there's something I haven't told you yet."
That got her attention immediately. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands.
"Oooh, secret tone," she teased. "This sounds fun already."
"It's not a secret because I don't trust you," Izuku said. "It's just… I needed to be sure first."
She didn't interrupt. She was very good at listening when it mattered.
"When this is done," he continued, "when All For One and the villains are finished… I'm not planning on staying here."
Himiko's smile softened, but it didn't disappear. "Leaving Japan?"
"…Leaving this world."
There it was.
For a fraction of a second, something sharp flickered behind her eyes. Surprise, maybe. Then curiosity. Then—interest.
"Other worlds," she repeated. "Like… lots of them?"
Izuku nodded. "I don't know how many. Or for how long. I just know that if I stay, I'll start breaking things just by existing."
Himiko hummed thoughtfully. "That checks out."
He looked at her, searching her face. "I don't want to drag you into something like that. It's dangerous. Unstable. I won't always know what we're walking into."
She smiled wider now, sharp and bright.
"That also checks out."
Izuku hesitated, then asked the question anyway.
"…Do you want to come with me?"
For once, Himiko didn't answer immediately.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting up to the ceiling, fingers tapping idly against her arm. Then she looked back at him, grin returning—feral, delighted, unmistakably Himiko.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "You're telling me you're going to become a fully licensed hero, end the biggest bad guy in the world, then disappear into the multiverse?"
"…Yes."
"And you're asking if I want to come stab destiny in the throat with you?"
Izuku blinked. "…That's not exactly how I'd phrase it."
She was already on her feet, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
"Obviously, I'm coming," she said cheerfully. "Why would I stay in a world that finally figured out how boring it is?"
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You're sure?"
Himiko tilted her head, eyes softening just a little.
"I chose you a long time ago, Izuku," she said. "Worlds are just… scenery."
She poked his chest lightly.
"Besides," she added, grinning, "someone's gotta make sure you don't get all lonely and broody out there."
A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
"…Thank you."
She laughed. "Duh. Now hurry up and pass your exam already."
She paused, then smirked.
"Oh—and I call dibs on the first weird world we visit. I want something with lots of blood or cute monsters. Or both."
Izuku shook his head, amused.
Yeah.
He wasn't doing this alone. He sighed,
If she's coming with me, may as well let her know how this is going to happen.
"So... My quirk isn't really a quirk by the way as well..."
"…Oh?" she said slowly, eyes lighting up in a way that was never, ever innocent. "That sounded important."
Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, uh… figured I should probably say that before we start hopping universes together."
She plopped back down across from him, chin in her hands again, smiling like she'd just been promised a present.
"Okay," she said sweetly with a hint of threat. "Explain it to me like I'm very cute and very dangerous."
He snorted despite himself.
"It's… not really a quirk," Izuku began. "It's more like something external that lets me… acquire abilities. Traits. Items. Sometimes things that shouldn't even exist in this world."
Himiko's smile widened.
"So you're a walking gacha machine," she summarized. "Love that for you."
Izuku sweatdropped.
She doesn't know how literal that is...
"There are rules," he added quickly. "Limits. Costs. I can't just do everything at once, and pushing too far hurts. A lot."
She tilted her head. "But you do push anyway."
"…Yeah."
"And the other world's thing?" she prompted.
"Well, I guess it's time you met my little friend..." Izuku sighed as he retrieved Hoopa from the familiar storage.
"A golden ring clinked as something tumbled out midair.
"Hooopaaa!" it yawned loudly, stretching as it floated upright. "Mmm… five more centuries, please…"
It blinked.
"…Huh?"
Himiko stared.
Hoopa stared back.
There was a long, silent beat.
"…OH," Hoopa said, eyes widening. "YOU'RE the stabby one."
Himiko's grin spread impossibly wide as she tried to grab Hoopa. "You're adorable."
Hoopa recoiled midair. "MASTER, SHE'S LOOKING AT ME LIKE I'M A SNACK."
"She looks at everything like that," Izuku said tiredly.
Himiko leaned closer, squinting at Hoopa, circling it slowly. "So you're the portal thingy, right? The one that lets him go anywhere?"
Hoopa puffed up proudly. "I am Hoopa! Bound Djinn of Rings, Lord of Portals, Breaker of—"
"—nap schedules," Izuku added.
Hoopa gasped. "RUDE."
Himiko giggled, then looked back at Izuku, expression softening just a little. "So it's not just you. You've had… help."
"Yes," Izuku said. "Guidance. Warnings. Someone to tell me when I'm being an idiot."
Hoopa nodded sagely. "Which is often."
Izuku ignored it. "Hoopa knows about the worlds. About the system. About what happens if I stay here too long."
Himiko hummed. "And you trust it."
"With my life," Izuku said without hesitation.
Hoopa blinked, then looked away, embarrassed. "…Master says things like that sometimes."
Himiko's eyes flicked between them, something genuine settling in her gaze.
"…Okay," she said at last. "Yeah. That tracks."
Izuku raised an eyebrow. "That's it? No screaming? No existential crisis?"
She shrugged. "I already decided you were weird. This just gives it structure."
She leaned back, hands behind her head, smiling up at the ceiling.
"So," she continued lightly, "world-hopping, super-powerful boyfriend and his ancient portal gremlin servant… sounds like a fun upgrade from neglect and alleyways."
Hoopa floated closer to Izuku, lowering its voice. "Master… I like her. She is unafraid of the impossible."
Izuku snorted. "She is the impossible."
Himiko beamed. "Aww, I passed the vibe check."
She leaned forward again, eyes locking with Izuku's.
"So when do we leave?" she asked.
Izuku looked at Hoopa. Then back at her.
"…A couple of months, at most," he said.
"And... how are you going to break it to your mother?" She asked.
Izuku went quiet.
Not because he didn't have an answer — but because he did, and it scared him a little.
"I'm going to tell her the truth," he said finally. "That I'm going to different worlds that might be dangerous. That's something I need to do."
Himiko's eyes softened.
"I'll tell her we'll visit," he continued. "Frequently. I don't know the exact schedule yet, but I'll make sure she knows we're not disappearing."
He rubbed his thumb against his palm, grounding himself.
"I won't dress it up. I won't pretend it's small. She deserves better than that."
Himiko nodded slowly. "Yeah… she does."
"I know it'll worry her," Izuku admitted. "But she's always trusted me when I tell her I'm doing something because I have to. I think… I think she'll understand, even if she doesn't like it."
Hoopa hummed quietly nearby. "Your honesty will hurt less than half-truths, master."
Izuku gave a small, tired smile. "That's what I'm hoping."
Himiko leaned closer, resting her chin on her hands again.
"And we're really going to come back?" she asked, eyes sharp but not accusatory.
Izuku met her gaze without flinching.
"Every chance I get," he said. "I'm not cutting ties. I'm just… stretching them."
She smiled at that. A real one.
"Okay," she said simply. "Then I'll help you make sure you always remember that."
Izuku let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"…Thanks."
Hoopa's rings spun a little faster, voice light again.
"See? Emotional conversations complete. Now, can we go back to my nap schedule?"
Himiko laughed.
Izuku shook his head, smiling faintly.
With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed Hoopa, the rings chiming once before vanishing back into familiar storage.
"So," he said, turning back to her, "you've thought about my offer?"
Himiko nodded, rocking slightly on her heels.
"I guess if we're going to a different world…" she said, lips curling into a grin, "…I may as well, right?"
Izuku nodded, expression turning a little more serious. He reached inward again, and this time what appeared in his hand was a small vial — clear, faintly iridescent, deceptively ordinary.
He held it up between them.
"This is called Modified Compound V," he said. "It'll give you an ability. A strong one. But it's random."
Himiko's eyes gleamed. "Random?" she echoed, delighted. "Oh, I love surprises."
"There are no side effects," Izuku added. "But once you take it, there's no undoing it. I won't push you either way."
She didn't even hesitate.
"C'mon, Izuku," she said lightly. "You already know my answer."
She took the vial from his hand, turning it between her fingers, watching the liquid catch the light.
"Besides," she added, glancing up at him, "if I'm walking into other worlds with you, I don't want to be the one slowing you down."
"You wouldn't be," Izuku said immediately.
She smiled at that — softer than usual — then uncorked the vial.
"Well," Himiko said, lifting it in a mock toast, "to new worlds."
And without another word, she drank it.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, Himiko's feet lifted off the floor an inch.
She froze.
"…Oh."
Then she pushed—instinctively, experimentally—and shot upward with a startled yelp, arms flailing as she bumped lightly against the ceiling.
"AH—!"
She twisted midair, laughing as she caught herself, the air firming beneath her like invisible steps.
Izuku's eyes widened a fraction. "…You're a natural."
Himiko hovered there for a second, staring down at him.
Then her grin went feral.
"Oh this is dangerous," she said gleefully.
She kicked off the air and darted sideways, spinning, flipping, stopping on a dime like gravity was just a suggestion now. Every movement was sharp, controlled, playful—like she'd always been meant to move this way.
She floated down in front of him, landing softly on the balls of her feet.
"So," she said, leaning in close, eyes bright, "I can fly."
"Yes," Izuku said, smiling. "Precisely. And fast, if you train it."
She hummed, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "So I can keep up with you."
He met her gaze. "You already could."
That made her pause.
Just for a second.
Then she laughed, stepping closer and poking his chest.
"Still," she said, eyes shining, "now I can do it in style."
She leaned back, lifted off the ground again with effortless ease, and spun once in midair.
"Different worlds," Himiko said happily. "New powers. Flying girlfriend."
Izuku shook his head, amused. "…You're enjoying this way too much."
She hovered upside down in front of him, hair hanging freely, smile wide.
"Oh no," she corrected. "I'm enjoying this exactly the right amount."
And watching her there—unafraid, exhilarated, alive—Izuku felt something quiet settle in his chest.
A/N: She got this:
* [Wind Flight]
|Rare Ability|
Allows you to push off the air around you, allowing you to fly with precision and power.
.....
"Welcome, you fifteen. After completing your written exam, you'll now be completing the practical portion," the examiner spoke, voice amplified across the staging platform.
The candidates stood in loose rows, some tense, some visibly trying to steady their breathing. Below them stretched what looked like an entire city block—streets cracked, buildings half-collapsed, smoke already bleeding into the air from unseen sources.
"Now, I know most of you have heard this before," the examiner continued, pacing slowly, "but we're not testing your pure power."
A few candidates visibly relaxed.
"That's unfortunate for some of you," he added dryly.
A ripple of nervous laughter followed.
"We're testing whether you truly have what's necessary to be a pro hero."
The lights dimmed.
Sirens wailed to life.
In an instant, the mock city came alive.
Explosions echoed in the distance. A building façade buckled inward with a thunderous crash. Smoke poured out from ruptured windows as actors—already in place—began screaming, crying, calling for help.
"Scenario parameters," the examiner continued calmly, as if nothing chaotic was happening below. "Multiple structural collapses. Fires. Gas leaks. Civilians trapped at varying levels of injury severity."
Large screens flickered on, displaying live feeds from inside the city.
"Your objectives are simple," he said. "Minimise casualties. Stabilise the situation. Coordinate where possible."
He paused.
"There is no time limit."
That made several heads snap up.
"Your exam ends," the examiner finished, "when we decide you've either succeeded… or failed."
A low, mechanical hum filled the air as barriers disengaged.
"You may begin," the examiner said.
The floor beneath the candidates dropped.
They didn't fall far—but far enough to force immediate action. Some landed running. Others stumbled. A few froze for half a heartbeat too long.
Izuku hit the ground lightly, already scanning.
Smoke density.
Heat signatures.
Structural stress points.
Heartbeats—too many, clustered too tightly.
He moved.
Not forward.
Sideways.
A building to his left groaned ominously, support beams warped and screaming under load. Inside, he could hear panicked voices—too many, too deep.
"Evacuation route compromised!" an actor shouted convincingly.
Izuku didn't charge in.
He raised one hand and redirected, pushing rubble aside just enough to open a path while keeping the structure intact. He motioned sharply to two nearby examinees.
"You—seal the gas line. Your quirk was a welding one, right?" Izuku asked. The young man nodded, "You—escort civilians out in groups of three," he said, already moving again. "Don't rush. Keep them low."
The other man interrupted him,
"And who the hell are you?" he asked.
Izuku didn't turn around,
"I'm the guy who beat the Nomus that were supposed to kill All Might," Izuku replied.
Fwoom!
The air cracked.
Izuku vanished from where he stood, a pressure ripple rolling outward as dust and smoke were pulled into the wake he left behind.
The two candidates stared at the empty space.
"…He could've just said his name," the man muttered weakly.
The welder swallowed, "Yeah, well… I'm doing exactly what he said."
Somewhere deeper in the mock city, another building screamed as it gave way.
Izuku rushed into the building, time seemingly slowing in his vision,
He caught the first collapsing slab mid-fall, redirecting its momentum into the ground instead of stopping it outright.
Boom.
He tore through a partition wall, scooping up two "injured" civilians under one arm and shoving them toward an exit route he'd already cleared seconds earlier.
Boom.
A ceiling panel gave way—he stepped up into the air, kicked off nothing, and yanked three more bodies free as the floor beneath them disintegrated.
Then—
Fwoom.
He was gone.
Outside, one by one, the civilian dummies appeared in the designated safe zone. Not thrown. Not dropped.
Placed.
Carefully. Deliberately.
The final one was set down just as the building fully collapsed behind him, the roar of destruction rolling outward in a wave of heat and dust.
Izuku stepped out of the smoke, breathing steady, clothes barely scuffed.
A nearby examiner checked their tablet.
"…All civilians accounted for," they said quietly.
Another looked up, eyes following Izuku as he was already turning away, scanning for the next crisis.
"…And he didn't exceed force thresholds," they added.
From a high vantage point, A man watched the feed, his goggles reflecting the fire in front of him,
"Huh," he muttered. "Didn't even show off."
The city kept burning.
The exam kept going.
And Izuku Midoriya kept moving—never staying long enough to be thanked, never slowing long enough to be impressed with himself.
Because to him, this wasn't a test.
It was just another day where people needed to be pulled out of the fire.
.....
Boom!
A loud explosion echoed from the far east corner of the mock disaster area,
"Villains," Izuku murmured, "They did say it was going to be a pro... I wonder who it is."
He didn't rush in headlong.
Instead, he adjusted his route, moving around the epicenter rather than toward it, checking evacuation markers as he went. Civilians were still being funneled out—good. That meant whoever this was hadn't gone full scorched-earth.
Yet.
Izuku slipped onto a half-collapsed rooftop overlooking the blast zone, crouching low as dust billowed up below. Through the haze, he caught movement—too smooth for actors, too confident for examinees.
Feathers drifted lazily through the smoke.
Izuku's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Of course."
A figure landed in the center of the street, boots crunching against shattered asphalt. The man straightened, wings unfurling partially, red feathers spreading like a warning sign.
"Man, you test-takers are way more serious than usual," Hawks called out, voice casual, eyes already locked onto Izuku's position. "Kinda takes the fun out of playing bad guy."
Izuku stood, stepping into view.
"So you're the final scenario," he said evenly.
Hawks grinned. "Bingo. Pro Hero, playing villain, authorized to push you just hard enough to see what breaks."
Izuku studied him for a heartbeat—flight vectors, feather density, rescue routes still active behind him.
"…Then let's keep this away from the civilians," Izuku replied.
Hawks' grin widened, something sharp glinting behind it.
"Oh, I was hoping you'd say that."
Feathers snapped outward, slicing the air as Hawks launched skyward.
"Show me what kind of hero you really are, Apex."
And with that, the mock city braced itself—
Because the final test wasn't about whether Izuku could win.
It was about whether he could do so without harming anyone else.
....
In the air,
"Izuku Midoriya… Apex," Hawks said, hovering effortlessly as the wind tugged at his wings. "You've been an interesting individual to follow. Having the backing of All Might and Nezu has delayed our talk for quite a while."
His eyes flicked briefly toward the observation platforms, then back to Izuku.
"So," Hawks continued lightly, "wait for me after you finish the test. We need to talk."
Izuku nodded once, calm, measured.
"Let's focus on the exam for now," he replied. "It seems your fellow examinees are already dealing with your sidekicks."
Hawks' grin sharpened.
"Yep. Split pressure. Force bad decisions. Classic villain play." He spread his wings wider. "Now then, hero… how are you going to stop this?"
With a flick of his wrist, Hawks sent a flurry of sharpened feathers screaming downward—not at Izuku, but past him, arcing toward the city streets below.
Toward the gathered crowd.
Izuku didn't chase the feathers.
He moved.
The air cracked as he vanished, reappearing in a blur across the sky, hands flashing out. Feathers froze mid-flight—caught, redirected, stripped of momentum, and turned harmless in less than a heartbeat.
Some were pinned neatly into empty concrete.
Others were deflected skyward, shockwaves dissolving them into harmless red motes before they could reach the ground.
Not one reached the crowd.
Izuku was already moving again, placing himself between Hawks and the city, posture relaxed but absolute.
"You're testing my priorities," Izuku said evenly. "Not my speed."
Hawks hovered, eyes narrowing—impressed despite himself.
"…Yeah," he admitted. "And you didn't even hesitate."
"Then let's see how you deal with.... a ton more," Hawks smiled as his feathers rushed at Izuku directly.
Ting.
Ting.
Ting.
The sound rang out in rapid succession as feather after feather struck Izuku—and failed.
They curved, sliced, spun with lethal precision… only to skid harmlessly off his skin, deflected by something denser than steel and far more deliberate. The air around him shimmered faintly as the feathers lost momentum, clattering uselessly to the street far below.
Armament Haki came in clutch,
Izuku thought.
The storm collapsed in on itself.
Silence followed.
Izuku lowered his arm, hovering calmly in the settling air.
"…You done?" he asked.
Hawks stared at him for a long second.
Then he sighed, wings relaxing as the last of his feathers returned to roost.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I give up. I've got too pretty a face to get it beat up."
He dropped lightly onto a nearby rooftop, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Besides," Hawks added, glancing toward the stabilized city, "you passed the test about five minutes ago."
Izuku landed across from him, posture easing now that the pressure was gone.
"The civilians are safe," Izuku said. "Your sidekicks are contained."
"And you didn't escalate," Hawks replied. "Didn't show off. Didn't crush me even when you clearly could've."
He smirked. "Hero Commission's gonna hate that. They prefer things loud and obvious."
Izuku met his gaze evenly. "That's not my job."
Hawks studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once, expression turning serious.
"…Yeah," he said quietly.
A tone chimed over the loudspeakers, signaling the end of the practical exam.
Hawks straightened, wings folding neatly behind him.
"Congrats, Apex," he said. "Go get your results."
He paused, then added, eyes sharp again,
"And don't forget. We are talking after this."
Izuku nodded.
"I'll be on the rooftop."
As Hawks took off, Izuku looked once more over the mock city—scarred, smoking, but standing.
No casualties.
No unnecessary damage.
Test complete.
....
Hawks let out a low whistle as he leaned back against the railing, hands in his jacket pockets.
"So… what did you want to talk about, No.3?" Izuku asked evenly.
Hawks snorted. "Wow. Straight to the ranking. Cold."
"You brought me here," Izuku replied. "Figured you wouldn't want to waste time."
"…Fair," Hawks admitted.
He straightened a little, casual tone slipping just enough to show what was underneath.
"Officially," Hawks said, "this is a post-exam courtesy talk. Unofficially? I was sent to take a look at you."
Izuku raised an eyebrow. "By the Hero Commission."
"Bingo," Hawks said, tapping the side of his head.
"Before we get into the now, though," Hawks said, "we should probably talk about the then."
Izuku's expression didn't change. But he didn't interrupt.
Hawks continued, voice light, words sharp.
"Winter."
The name hung between them.
"No official records," Hawks went on. "No arrest files. No surviving footage that would hold up in a courtroom. Nezu made sure of that. Thorough guy."
Izuku finally looked at him. "And yet."
"And yet," Hawks echoed, nodding, "the timeline overlaps too neatly. Vigilante activity spikes. Black-ops takedowns of organized crime."
He shrugged. "Then Winter disappears… and you show up."
Izuku exhaled slowly. "Correlation isn't proof."
"True," Hawks agreed easily. "Good thing I'm not a prosecutor."
He turned fully toward Izuku now, gaze sharp but not hostile.
"But you move the same way," Hawks continued. "Same priorities. Same habit of ending things cleanly and leaving nothing behind. Same annoying tendency to save people while dismantling monsters."
Izuku was silent.
"And here's the funny part," Hawks added. "If you were Winter?"
He smiled faintly.
"The Commission wouldn't know what to do with that information. Half of them would want you arrested. The other half would want to put you in charge of a department that doesn't officially exist."
Izuku met his gaze. "I'm not interested in either."
"Yeah," Hawks said quietly. "That tracks."
There was a pause.
"Nezu wiped the evidence because he understood something," Hawks went on. "That dragging the past into the open wouldn't make the world safer. It'd just make you harder to work with."
Izuku nodded once. "He made the right call."
Hawks watched him carefully. "You don't deny it."
Izuku didn't smile.
"I won't confirm it either," he said. "Winter was someone who did what was necessary when the system couldn't. That's all that matters."
Hawks let out a low breath. "You know, most people would panic if I brought that up."
"I'm past panicking," Izuku replied. "I'm focused."
Hawks chuckled softly. "Yeah. Another thing that lines up."
He straightened, stretching his arms once.
"So here's where we're at," Hawks said. "The Commission suspects. But they've got nothing they can use. And if you're really planning to finish All For One and Garaki before disappearing off the board…"
He glanced sideways at Izuku.
"…Then frankly? They're better off not digging. That's what I'm going to relay."
Izuku's voice was calm. "I don't regret what Winter did."
"I didn't think you would," Hawks said. "That's why I wanted to hear it from you—not as a hero, not as a student."
He met Izuku's eyes.
"But as a professional who understands what lines mean when you cross them."
Izuku nodded once. "Then we understand each other."
Hawks smiled—small, sharp, genuine.
"Yeah," he said. "We do."
His earpiece chimed again. He tapped it, then stepped back toward the edge.
"For what it's worth," Hawks added, wings lifting, a blink, "Good work... Apex-"
Hawks blinked before letting out a small laugh.
"Kids these days, disappearing before letting their elders finish their words."
From a distance away,
Izuku looked down at the streets—busy, alive, unaware.
Winter was a shadow of the past.
Apex was what came after.
And soon enough…
Neither would belong to just one world.
.....
In his room, Izuku held his new shiny license up to the light,
"Apex," He sighed, "Soon enough, I'll even surpass that."
Turning his attention to the notification he got, he gave a wry smile,
[Congratulations on gaining your pro-hero license and defeating Hawks in the process. The user has gained 1x gold ticket.]
[The user has gained:
* [Clone]
|Epic Ability|
Allows you to clone yourself and operate your bodies as a hivemind. You can use your abilities on anybody you control, but creating and maintaining clones costs energy, with this energy cost rising exponentially with each clone. Every time a clone is killed, a portion of the damage they took is reflected back on you.]
Izuku stared at the description for a long moment.
"…Of course," he muttered.
He exhaled, rubbing his face once before letting his hand fall.
"Well," he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "that's another way to keep in contact."
Not a shortcut.
Not an escape.
But a compromise.
A way to stay present without staying trapped.
A way to protect without hovering.
A way to leave… without truly disappearing.
He looked at the license again, then set it down carefully on his desk.
Pro Hero Apex.
.....
The laboratory was quiet in the way only underground places ever were—no wind, no clocks, just the low, constant hum of machines keeping impossible things alive.
Shigaraki sat slouched in a reinforced chair, fingers twitching against his knee as he watched the tank across the room.
Something moved inside it.
Slow.
Coiled.
Too large to fully register at once.
"Dr. Garaki," Shigaraki said at last, voice scratching like sandpaper, "are you sure this is the correct thing?"
The ageless doctor didn't look up from his console. Tubes fed into his body like parasitic vines, eyes half-lidded behind thick lenses as data scrolled endlessly across the screens.
"This thing," Shigaraki continued, gesturing vaguely toward the tank, "feels like it could go rogue quite easily."
Garaki chuckled softly.
"Oh, Tomura," he said pleasantly, as if indulging a child. "Everything worthwhile carries that risk."
The thing in the tank shifted again.
A long, segmented silhouette slid through the viscous fluid, its outline serpentine, layers folding and unfolding as if its body couldn't quite decide what shape it preferred. Plates along its length flexed, overlapping like living armor.
Shigaraki's eyes narrowed.
"…It moves like it's deciding on its shape," he muttered.
Garaki finally turned, smiling thinly.
"It is," he replied. "Just not in ways you're accustomed to."
He tapped a key, bringing up a diagram—deliberately abstract, details obscured, labels reduced to symbols and arrows rather than names.
"Adaptation," Garaki continued. "Correction. Response. This specimen does not merely endure threats—it answers them."
Shigaraki scratched at his neck harder now, irritation bleeding through curiosity.
"And if it answers us?" he asked.
Garaki's smile widened.
"Then we'll have learned something invaluable."
The creature in the tank uncoiled slightly, its mass pressing against the reinforced glass. For a brief moment, something like a head turned—no eyes visible, no mouth, just a suggestion of awareness sliding along the surface.
Shigaraki felt it.
A pressure.
A sense of being measured.
"…That thing's not a Nomu," he said slowly.
Garaki laughed, delighted.
"No," he agreed. "It's something closer to a solution."
He leaned back in his chair, hands folding neatly.
"And should our little Apex overextend himself," Garaki added softly, "this creature will ensure that he learns a very important lesson."
Shigaraki grinned, teeth bared.
"Good," he breathed. "I want to see him break."
Behind the glass, the serpentine shape shifted again—faster this time, fluid churning violently around it.
As if it had heard its name spoken
"Now," he said calmly, fingers steepling as he faced Shigaraki once more, "it's time for the discussion the master prompted."
Shigaraki leaned back in his chair, scratching at his neck, eyes never leaving the glass.
"…This about him?" he asked.
Garaki smiled thinly.
"Yes. Due to that little variable," he said lightly, "we'll be accelerating the timeline."
Shigaraki's fingers paused mid-scratch.
"…Accelerating how?"
Garaki tapped a control. Several screens shifted at once, schematics and progress bars overlaying one another. Red warning indicators flickered, then were deliberately ignored.
"Plans are meant to bend," Garaki continued. "And Apex has a habit of forcing them to."
He turned his chair fully toward Shigaraki.
"Tomura," Garaki said, voice suddenly serious, reverent even, "we'll be moving you to a new site to undergo the process."
Shigaraki's breath hitched, just slightly.
"…The process."
Garaki no dded.
"You will inherit," he said carefully, savoring each word, "All For One."
For a moment, the lab was silent.
Then Shigaraki laughed.
Not loud.
Not manic.
Low. Trembling. Hungry.
"…So that's it," he muttered. "That's the answer."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes burning with something sharper than rage.
"When?"
"Sooner than planned," Garaki replied. "Your body is ready enough. Your will…" he smiled, "…has never been in question."
Shigaraki's grin widened.
"And him?" he asked. "The hero."
Garaki glanced back at the tank, where the serpentine silhouette shifted faintly once more.
"He will be… occupied," Garaki said. "By something that learns."
Shigaraki stood, dusting his hands off against his coat.
"Good," he said simply. "I don't want him dead yet."
Garaki chuckled. "Of course not. Endings are far more satisfying when they're earned."
He gestured toward the far corridor, already opening.
"Come, Tomura," Garaki said. "The world is about to change its shape."
...
"Congratulations, Apex," Nezu said pleasantly, folding his paws atop his desk. "I assume this marks the end of your Hero Academia?"
"Nearly," Izuku replied as he stepped fully into the office, still in his hero suit. He didn't sit. "I do have a question, though."
Nezu's ears twitched. "Oh?"
"Do you plan to have a training camp any time soon?" Izuku asked.
The room went quiet.
Not tense—interested.
Nezu tilted his head, eyes glinting with unmistakable curiosity.
"And how," he asked mildly, "did you know about that, Young Midoriya?"
Izuku didn't dodge it.
"Because that's when I interfered," he said. "In the other world."
Nezu's smile didn't falter, but something sharp clicked into place behind it.
"The villains," Izuku continued calmly, "that's when they attacked. All For One followed up with an attack on Kamino after Bakugou was kidnapped in that event. That's when I ended him."
A beat passed.
Then another.
Nezu leaned back in his chair, tail flicking once.
"…I see," he said softly.
Izuku met his gaze. "If the timeline's accelerating now, they won't wait as long. Whatever they were planning, they'll bring it forward."
Nezu tapped a claw against the desk. "And you believe the training camp is the trigger point."
"Yes," Izuku said. "Or close enough that it doesn't matter."
Nezu studied him in silence—really studied him. Not as a principal. Not as an administrator.
But as a strategist.
"You're aware," Nezu said at last, "that even suggesting such a thing borders on precognition."
Izuku nodded. "I know how it sounds."
"And yet," Nezu added, smiling faintly, "you've been correct too many times for me to dismiss it."
He stood, walking to the window overlooking the campus.
"If we proceed," Nezu said thoughtfully, "and you're right… Then the camp becomes a battlefield."
Izuku's voice was steady. "Then it's better it happens when I'm still here."
Nezu turned back to him.
"…You plan to stay until then," he observed.
"Yes," Izuku replied. "I'll finish what needs finishing."
Nezu chuckled quietly. "How reassuring. And how alarming."
He returned to his desk, fingers dancing across a hidden console.
"Very well," Nezu said. "Preparations will continue. Quietly."
Izuku inclined his head. "That's all I needed to know."
As he turned to leave, Nezu spoke once more.
"You know," Nezu said lightly, "most students ask how to survive their training camp."
Izuku paused at the door.
"I'm not worried about survival," he said. "I'm worried about interception."
Nezu smiled—wide, sharp, delighted.
"…Of course you are."
The door closed behind Izuku.
And alone in his office, Nezu stared at the projected schedules already rearranging themselves.
.....
"So… you're a pro hero now?" Momo asked, fingers curling around his sleeve as they walked toward the lunch hall.
Izuku nodded, then let out a quiet sigh.
"Yeah. Officially."
She smiled for him, proud — but it faded slightly when she noticed his expression.
"Momo," he said, slowing to a stop, "can I talk with you for a bit? There are a few things I have to say."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Of course."
They turned down an empty corridor, the noise of the school fading behind them. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
Izuku stopped and faced her properly.
"I'll just say this plainly," he began. "I don't want to mislead you, and I respect you too much to let things stay… ambiguous."
Momo straightened slightly. "Alright."
"I have a girlfriend," Izuku said. "Her name is Himiko."
Momo didn't react right away. No gasp, no sharp intake of breath — just a quiet stillness.
"…I see," she said softly.
"She knows about you," Izuku continued. "And she doesn't mind the idea of… more than one relationship. A harem, I guess. That's how she sees it."
Momo blinked, clearly not expecting that phrasing.
"That's… unconventional," she said carefully.
"I know," Izuku replied. "And if that makes you uncomfortable, or if you want nothing to do with it, that's completely fine. I won't push. I just needed you to know the truth."
There was a pause.
Momo looked away for a moment, fingers tightening around her own sleeve as she thought.
"…Thank you," she said at last. "For telling me honestly."
He nodded. "There's more."
She looked back at him.
"I'm going to be leaving," Izuku said. "Not immediately, but soon. Other worlds. It's… complicated, but it's not something I can avoid."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Leaving… as in Japan?"
"…As in this world."
Silence settled between them, heavier this time.
Momo exhaled slowly. "You're serious."
"I am," Izuku said. "That's why I needed to talk to you now. I didn't want to let things grow without you knowing where this was headed."
He took a deep breath,
"So there are two options from here on out," he continued quietly. "You could come with me. Travel different worlds. Explore things no one here ever will."
There was a soft pop.
A second Izuku stood beside him — identical in every way, posture relaxed, presence calm. He spoke seamlessly, as if finishing the same thought.
"Or," the clone said gently, "you can stay here. Grow. Live. Become the hero you want to be. Have a good life here… with me."
Momo stared.
Not at the clone.
At Izuku.
"…You're serious," she said softly.
"Yes," both of them replied in unison — then the original spoke alone.
"This isn't a trick. And it's not a test," Izuku said. "I won't be offended by either choice. I just didn't want you to feel like you were choosing blind."
Momo clasped her hands in front of her, thinking. Really thinking.
"…If I went with you," she said slowly, "I'd be leaving behind everything I'm trying to build. The people I want to protect. The kind of hero I want to become."
Izuku nodded. "I know."
"And if I stayed," she continued, eyes flicking briefly to the clone, "I wouldn't be abandoned."
"No," the clone said softly. "You wouldn't."
Silence settled again, but this time it wasn't heavy.
Momo finally smiled — small, sincere, resolute.
"…Then I know my answer," she said.
She stepped closer to Izuku, stopping just short of touching him.
"I want to stay," she said. "I still have things to do here. People to help. A future I want to earn with my own hands."
Izuku's expression softened — not disappointed, not relieved — just understanding.
"That's what I thought you'd say," he admitted.
"But," Momo added, meeting his eyes, "thank you for giving me the choice. For not deciding for me."
The clone inclined his head slightly. "That choice matters."
She exhaled, then smiled a little wider. "Just… don't disappear completely."
"I won't," he said quietly. "Even if it's a clone, it's still me."
Momo tilted her head, listening.
"It's my energy," Izuku continued. "My thoughts. We're a hivemind. Nothing's diluted or replaced."
He paused, searching for the right words, then gave a small, almost sheepish smile.
"It just feels like…" he gestured vaguely, "…rubbing my belly with one hand and patting my head with the other. Two focuses, one mind."
Momo blinked.
Then she laughed—soft, genuine, relieved.
"That's… strangely reassuring," she admitted.
"It's not perfect," Izuku said. "But it means I can move forward without cutting myself off from the people who matter. I'll still have a life here."
Her smile settled into something warm and steady.
"Then that's enough," she said. "I don't need all of you. Just… you. I don't mind you having other women... just make sure there's enough space in your heart for me."
Izuku met her gaze, sincerity clear.
"You'll have that," he promised.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Izuku approached her slowly, tilting her head up to meet his 6'1 frame,
"For as long as you want."
His lips touched hers.
The kiss was soft, unhurried. A quiet affirmation, not a claim. Momo's hands came up to rest lightly against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform. She could feel the steady, certain rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palms.
When they parted, it wasn't with a gasp, but with a slow, shared breath. The air between them felt clearer, lighter.
Izuku rested his forehead gently against hers.
"Let's get back... before they think we're plotting something," He whispered.
She nodded before they hurried back.
...
After lunch, Bakugou grabbed Izuku by the shoulders and yanked him to a stop.
"Let's talk."
There was no yelling.
No explosions.
Which, somehow, made it more serious.
Izuku looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright."
Bakugou released him and jerked his head toward a quieter section of the hallway. They walked in tense silence until they reached an empty stairwell, the heavy door swinging shut behind them.
Bakugou crossed his arms, jaw tight.
"You're a pro hero now," he said. "You beat Hawks. You walk around like you already know how everything's gonna end."
Izuku didn't interrupt.
"And then I hear you're planning on leaving," Bakugou continued, eyes sharp. "Not graduating. Not climbing the ranks. Just… gone."
Izuku met his gaze evenly. "Yeah."
That single word seemed to hit harder than any argument.
"…Tch," Bakugou clicked his tongue, looking away for a moment. "Figures."
He turned back, fists clenched.
"You're not the same Izuku that I knew," Bakugou said. "Before my actions, before everything. I can still see a spark of the kid I used to play with. But he's been buried. You've changed, you get stronger, you move ahead—and then you act like you're done."
"…Tch," Bakugou clicked his tongue, looking away for a moment. "Figures."
He turned back, fists clenched hard enough that his knuckles went white.
"You're not the same Izuku that I knew," Bakugou said. "Before my actions. Before everything." His voice was rough, but not explosive. Raw. "I can still see a spark of the kid I used to play with. But he's been buried."
He took a sharp breath.
"You've changed. You get stronger, you move ahead—and then you act like you're done."
Izuku didn't flinch.
He didn't deny it either.
"You're right," he said quietly.
Bakugou froze. Just for a second.
"I have changed," Izuku continued. "I grew up Kacchan... Maybe you should too. And I'm not done because I gave up."
He looked Bakugou straight in the eyes.
"I'm done because I'm leaving this world."
The words landed heavily.
Bakugou stared at him. "…What?"
"I'm not running," Izuku said. "And I'm not quitting. I'm just… outgrowing this place."
Bakugou's teeth grit. "That's bullshit."
"It's the truth," Izuku replied calmly. "If I stay, I become a ceiling. For you. For everyone. I don't want that."
Bakugou stepped forward, anger flaring. "You think I give a damn about your ceiling?!"
"I know you don't," Izuku said. "That's why I'm telling you now."
Silence stretched tight between them.
"…So that's it," Bakugou said finally, voice lower now. "You just leave. After everything."
"I finish what needs finishing first," Izuku said. "All For One. Garaki. Anything they leave behind."
"And then?" Bakugou demanded.
Izuku didn't hesitate. "Then I go."
"But I'll still be here, watching."
"I'm leaving a clone," Izuku continued, matter-of-fact. "Same mind. Same instincts. Same bad habits. I won't be hovering, but I won't be gone either."
A faint, familiar smirk tugged at his lips.
"So anytime you want to get your ass beat," Izuku said evenly, "just let me know."
For a second, Bakugou just stared at him.
Then he barked out a harsh laugh.
"…You bastard," he muttered. "You really think that makes it better?"
Izuku shrugged. "Didn't say it would."
Bakugou stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Izuku's chest.
"Listen to me," he said fiercely. "I don't care if it's you, your clone, or some goddamn echo. I'm not done with you."
Izuku met his glare without backing down.
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm making sure you always have a target."
Bakugou's grin spread—sharp, feral, familiar.
"…Good," he said. "Because next time, I'm winning."
Izuku smiled back, just as sharp.
"Don't be disappointed if you don't."
Bakugou scoffed, turning toward the door.
"Don't get soft just because you're playing multiversal hero," he threw over his shoulder. "If I beat your clone, it still counts."
Izuku chuckled quietly. "I wouldn't dare say otherwise."
The door slammed shut.
Izuku exhaled slowly, the tension finally easing.
Some bonds didn't weaken with distance.
They just adapted.
And Bakugou Katsuki was nothing if not relentless.
...
"Hagakure… I need to talk to you," Izuku said quietly as he lay back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the dorm lights.
"…That sounds serious," Toru replied, her voice close, right beside him. She was lying on her stomach, chin propped on her hands. Even without seeing her, he could tell she was focused.
"It is," Izuku admitted. He turned his head slightly in her direction. "I'm not going to disappear on you, but I am going to leave."
There was a pause.
"…Leave how?" she asked carefully.
"I'm going to other worlds," Izuku said. "Soon. Not tomorrow, not this week—but soon enough that I don't want to pretend it isn't happening."
Toru went quiet again, longer this time.
"And you're telling me now," she said, "because…?"
"Because you deserve the choice," Izuku replied. "All of it."
She shifted slightly, the mattress dipping as she rolled onto her side.
"I'm leaving a clone here," he continued. "Same mind. Same me. I'll still be around. You'll still see me, talk to me, train, argue, whatever."
He exhaled.
"But I won't be here all the time."
Toru didn't interrupt.
"So," Izuku said softly, "you can come with me. With Himiko. See other worlds, other skies, things no one here ever will."
Another pause.
"Or," he added, "you can stay. Here. With the clone. With Momo. Finish school. Be a hero in this world."
Finally, she spoke.
"…You're really not pushing either way," Toru said.
"No," Izuku replied immediately. "I won't. I won't decide this for you."
She let out a small laugh—nervous, but not upset.
"You're bad at dramatic ultimatums, you know that?" she said.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I figured honesty was better."
Toru shifted again, closer this time. He felt the mattress dip beside his shoulder.
"…Can I ask something selfish?" she said.
"Always."
"If I go with you," she asked, "will I still matter when everything gets bigger?"
Izuku didn't hesitate.
"You already do," he said. "You always have."
She went quiet at that.
"…And if I stay?" she asked.
"Then you'll still matter," he said just as firmly. "Just here. Where you're building something real."
Toru breathed out slowly.
"…You really did think this through," she murmured.
"I had to," Izuku said. "You're not a footnote in my life, Toru."
That made her laugh again—softer this time.
"…Okay," she said after a moment. "Okay. I need time to think."
"Take all of it," Izuku replied. "I'm not going anywhere yet."
She leaned back, staring up at the ceiling with him.
"…You know," she added quietly, "most people don't even notice me enough to offer choices like this."
Izuku turned his head toward her voice.
"I notice," he said.
The room fell into a comfortable silence after that.
They lay there for a long while, the hum of the dorm lights steady, distant laughter drifting faintly from somewhere down the hall. Izuku didn't rush her. He didn't fill the space with reassurance or jokes. He knew better.
Before the end of the night, she spoke.
"I'll go with you."
Her voice was soft, but it didn't waver.
Izuku turned his head toward her.
"…Yeah?" he asked gently.
She nodded, even though he couldn't see it.
"Being a hero is cool," Toru continued, fingers idly tracing the fabric of the bedsheet. "Saving people, standing up for things… I like that."
She took a small breath.
"But," she said, quieter now, "you're the first person who actually saw me. Not my quirk. Not the joke. Me."
Izuku didn't interrupt.
"And I think," she added, a shy smile in her voice, "seeing new things with you is gonna be… cooler."
For a moment, Izuku didn't say anything.
Then he smiled.
"I'm glad," he said simply. "I won't take that lightly."
She laughed softly. "I figured. You're terrible at taking anything lightly."
"Occupational hazard," he replied.
She shifted closer, resting her head near his shoulder.
"So," Toru said, trying to sound casual and failing just a little, "guess that means I'm a multiversal runaway now, huh?"
Izuku chuckled. "More like an explorer."
"…I like that better. I'll have to explain to my aunt, but she shouldn't take too much convincing," she said.
Izuku nodded.
They lay there together, the future no longer an abstract distance but something quietly approaching.
Not rushed.
Not forced.
Chosen.