The evening sun was bleeding out across the horizon, casting long, crimson shadows through the windows of the hospital ward. Inside Sherlock's room, the air was heavy, thick with a tension that felt like a physical weight pressing down on everyone present.
Momo sat by the edge of Sherlock's bed, her fingers still trembling slightly from the conversation they had just shared. The silence between them was fragile, a brief moment of recovery that was suddenly shattered as the door swung open.
A crowd of familiar faces filtered in. their presence instantly makes the small room feel claustrophobic. Shoto Todoroki entered first, his dual-colored eyes as cold and unreadable as the ice he commanded. Following him was Eijiro Kirishima, whose usual vibrant, shark-toothed grin was nowhere to be found. He looked haggard, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were white. Behind them came Midoriya, his arms encased in heavy, restrictive casts, looking like a ghost haunting his own life, accompanied by Tokoyami and Tsuyu.
They all circled around Sherlock's bed, their eyes reflecting the same grief and frustration that had been haunting the hallways for the last forty-eight hours.
"Sheets! You're finally awake!" Kirishima's voice was a jagged rasp, devoid of its typical "manly" cheer. He stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides so tightly they were white. " We don't have time for small talk. You heard what happened. Bakugo... he's in the hands of those monsters. And we're just sitting here."
"I am aware of the situation, Kirishima," Sherlock said, his voice a low rasp.
"It's not just that," Kirishima added, his voice rising with a frantic, desperate edge. "The media is ripping UA apart. The teachers are under investigation. And Bakugo... we don't know what they're doing to him. Shigaraki... that monster...
"We need to go," Kirishima pleaded, his voice cracking with a desperate intensity. "I couldn't do anything when he was right in front of me! I reached out, and I was too slow! If we don't act now, we're just waiting for the news to tell us he's dead. Or worse."
Shoto stepped up beside him, his gaze icy and focused. "He's right. The villains have no reason to keep him alive for long if he doesn't cooperate. Every hour we spend debating is an hour he loses. We have a tracker. We have a way to find them."
The room erupted into a hushed, frantic debate.
"But the Pro-Heroes are already moving!" Aoyama whispered, looking nervously toward the door. "If we interfere, we'll just get in the way. It's too dangerous!"
"Aoyama is right," Tokoyami added, his arms crossed over his chest. "We are students. We lack the authority and the experience for a stealth extraction in villain territory. We must trust the system."
Tsuyu looked at Midoriya and then at Sherlock, her finger on her chin. "We're all frustrated, kero. But if we break the law again, we're no better than the villains we're fighting. It's not the right way to do this."
An awkward, stifling silence followed her words. It was the sound of a class divided—not by malice, but by the impossible choice between loyalty and duty.
The heated debate was cut short by the arrival of a tall, gray-haired doctor. He stepped into the room with a heavy sigh, looking at the crowd of teenagers with a mixture of pity and professional annoyance.
"I need everyone but the patient to step out," the doctor said firmly. "I have to discuss the results of the internal scans with young Mr. Sheets."
Kirishima looked at Midoriya, then at Sherlock. He leaned in close to Midoriya, whispering loud enough for Sherlock to catch. "Behind the hospital. After dark. Don't be late."
One by one, the students filed out. Momo stayed the longest, her eyes lingering on Sherlock before she followed the others, her mind clearly elsewhere.
The doctor pulled up a stool, his expression darkening as he looked at Sherlock's charts. "Sherlock, I've been a physician for thirty years. I've seen Quirks of every shape and size. But what you did to your own biology in that infirmary was... well, it was a miracle you didn't explode."
"Sherlock, I've seen some incredible things in my time, but what you did to your own body... it's borderline suicidal."
Sherlock looked at his bandaged palms. "I did what was necessary."
"Maybe. But your body has reached its limit," the doctor said, pointing to a scan of Sherlock's cardiovascular system. "That 'Blood Paper' you created—it's a high-density cellular construct that drains your iron and salt levels instantly. More importantly, the pressure spike it causes is a death sentence. Your heart stopped for a full second because it couldn't handle the load."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a stern, paternal warning. "Listen to me very carefully. You are banned from using your Quirk for the next seventy-two hours. Your lipid reserves are gone, and your salinity is dangerously low. As for this 'Blood Paper'... you are never to use it again until you have a mechanical or chemical way to regulate your blood pressure. If you try to manifest that crimson sheet while your heart is in this weakened state, it won't just stop. It will burst. Do you understand? You will die before the paper even hits the air."
"Understood," Sherlock replied, his face a mask of calm, though his mind was already cataloging the warning as a risk factor to be managed rather than a rule to be followed.
The doctor left, and a moment later, Sherlock's personal phone—a replacement his father had sent—vibrated on the nightstand. It was a video call.
The screen flickered to life, showing the interior of a high-end office. Arthur Sheets, sat behind a mahogany desk. Beside him was Sherlock's uncle, Thomas, looking equally concerned.
"Sherlock," Arthur said, his voice firm but laced with a father's worry. "I've heard the medical report. You need to stay put. I've already contacted the hospital administration to ensure you have the best care. Don't think about the camp. Don't think about the school."
"I can't just ignore it, Father," Sherlock said.
"You can and you will," Thomas added. "Your father is right. You've done your part. You saved that boy, Kota. That's enough for one lifetime. Stay in that bed."
A long pause on the other end. "Just stay safe, Sherlock. Don't go looking for more trouble."
Sherlock hung up. He knew he was about to ignore that final piece of advice.
Sherlock watched the screen go black. He looked at his hands. He knew they were right. He knew his body was a wreck. But he also knew that the "Architect" was waiting for him in the shadows below.
The shadows behind the hospital were long and jagged, cast by the amber glow of the streetlights. Sherlock moved with a stiff, mechanical gait, every step a reminder of the aortic tear the doctor had described. Beside him, Momo walked with her head down, her fingers white-knuckled around the tracking device.
Behind the hospital, near the darkened garden, he found them. Shoto, Kirishima, and Midoriya were already there. Momo stood slightly apart, her face pale as she held a small, glowing device in her hands—a new receiver she had just finished crafting.
"You came," Kirishima said, a look of immense relief crossing his face.
"I am a man of my word," Sherlock said, leaning against a stone pillar to keep his balance.
"Momo made the receiver," Shoto explained. "The tracker on the Nomu is still active. It's in Kamino Ward."
"Wait!"
The group turned as Tenya Iida marched toward them. His engines weren't idling; they were silent, his face a mask of grief. Behind him was Tsuyu, her large eyes wet with tears.
"Iida-kun..." Midoriya began, stepping forward.
"I won't let you!" Iida's voice wasn't a shout; it was a desperate plea. "I went to Hosu! I sought revenge, and because of that, you three had to bleed to save me! I am the Class Representative! It is my job to stop you from throwing your lives away! If you go to Kamino, you are no longer students! You are outlaws!"
"Iida," Shoto said, his voice like cracking ice. "We aren't going for revenge. We're going because we can't live with the silence."
The group turned. In the distance, the rest of Class 1-A had emerged from the hospital lobby, watching from the shadows. Uraraka, Tsuyu, Jiro... they were all there, their faces filled with worry.
Tsuyu stepped forward,"It's not right, ribbit," Tsuyu interjected, her voice trembling. "If you go, you're breaking the trust we all have in each other. You're saying the rules don't matter as long as you feel bad. Tsuyu stepped beside Iida, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I told you all... in the hospital. If you ignore the rules, if you act on your own, you're no better than the villains we're supposed to be fighting.
Sherlock looked at Tsuyu. He saw the genuine fear in her eyes, the desire for safety and order. He remembered her from the Beast Forest, her bravery, her steady nature. But then he remembered the sight of Bakugo being swallowed by the blue fire.
The word "Villain" hit the group like a physical weight. Kirishima flinched, and even Shoto looked away. The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Tsuyu," Sherlock began, his voice devoid of warmth. "You speak of the law as if it is a physical constant, like gravity. You believe that by staying within the lines, you remain 'good.' But the law is a social construct designed for the average day. This is not an average day."
"That doesn't make it right, Sherlock-chan," she whispered.
"Right and wrong are variables that change based on the outcome," Sherlock said coldly. "If we stay here, following the 'rules,' and Bakugo is killed or converted into a villain, is your morality still 'right'? If the system you trust fails to protect one of its own, is it still a system worth following blindly? You can stay here and be a 'good student' while your friend's life is decided by a coin toss. But I will not. I would rather be a criminal who acts than a hero who watches a catastrophe from the sidelines because a book told him to."
"But it's wrong, Sherlock-chan," Tsuyu whispered, tears in her eyes. "It's just wrong."
Sherlock looked at her. It was a cold, hard look—not of malice, but of necessary truth. "Tsuyu. If we wait for the 'right' time, we might be waiting for a funeral. I would rather be wrong and have Bakugo alive than be right and have him in a grave. We are leaving."
The weight of his words hung in the air. Tsuyu lowered her head, weeping silently into her hands. The rest of the class stood frozen, unable to find the words to stop them.
Iida looked at Sherlock, then at the others. He saw the resolve in their eyes—the same resolve he had seen in the mirror before he hunted Stain. He knew he couldn't stop them.
"Fine," Iida whispered, his head hanging low.
"If you are going... then I am going too. To act as your brake. To make sure you don't cross the line."
Iida said, his voice thick with emotion. "I will be the one to watch you. If a single punch is thrown, if you try to engage in combat, I will drag you all back by force. I am here to ensure you don't cross the line I once did."
Sherlock looked at the group—the Architect, the Engine, the Ice, the Riot, and the Hero. The team was complete, though the cost of their union was the weight of a secret they would all have to carry.
The journey to Kamino Ward was a blur of train whistles and hushed conversations. They sat in the corner of a crowded car, six teenagers trying to look invisible while the blue dot on the receiver pulsed like a heartbeat in Momo's lap.
The Six students sat in a secluded corner of the carriage, the atmosphere so thick with tension that the other passengers instinctively moved to different cars.
"We stick out," Sherlock noted, his eyes scanning the reflection in the train window. "In these clothes, we look exactly like what we are: runaway students. If there are villains in Kamino, they'll spot us before we even get off the platform."
"He's right," Momo said, her eyes lighting up as her mind shifted back to creative logistics. "We need to blend into the local environment. Kamino is a bustling, gritty ward. We need to look like locals."
"I have a plan for that," Momo said, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips. "Follow me."
When they reached the ward Kamino was a different world from the clean, wide streets near UA. It was a labyrinth of neon signs, narrow alleys, and the persistent hum of a city that never quite slept. The air felt heavy, saturated with the smell of cheap street food and the ozone of a thousand air conditioning units.
They headed straight for a "Don Quijote" discount megastore. It was a chaotic maze of cheap goods, towering shelves, and loud music—the perfect place to disappear.
"Alright, everyone! We have ten minutes!" Momo commanded, her voice regaining its "ClassRep" authority. "Find something that completely obscures your identity. Think 'underground' and 'unremarkable'!"
Ten minutes later, the transformation was complete.
Kirishima emerged first, wearing a wild, spiky wig that looked like a bird's nest and a leopard-print jacket that was blindingly loud.
He looked like a low-level thug from a back-alley gambling den. "How's this? Manly, right?"
"You look like a walking fashion disaster, Kirishima," Sherlock remarked, though he was busy donning his own cover.
Sherlock had chosen a look that felt like a sharp departure from his usual polished self.
He wore a long, charcoal-grey trench coat with a high collar and a wide-brimmed fedora pulled low over his eyes. He looked like a detective from a classic noir film, his silhouette sharp and mysterious.
"Whoa, Sherlock! You look like you're about to solve a murder!" Kirishima laughed.
"It's a functional disguise," Sherlock muttered, adjusting his hat. "The brim creates a natural shadow over my facial structure, and the coat hides the bandages on my arms."
Midoriya stumbled out next, wearing a tracksuit and a fake mustache that looked like it was made of industrial carpet. He looked terrified and ridiculous at the same time. "I feel like everyone is staring at me..."
"That's probably because your mustache is peeling off on the left side, Izuku," Sherlock observed.
Then, Momo stepped out. She was wearing a sophisticated, high-fashion dress with a massive sun hat and oversized sunglasses. She looked like a wealthy socialite who had accidentally wandered into a bad neighborhood.
" You look like you're going to a gala," kirishima whispered.
"I thought it was a very effective camouflage!" Momo said, her cheeks turning pink. "It's the 'wealthy tourist' look! Nobody suspects a tourist of being a hero-in-training!"
"Momo," Sherlock said softly, "you look like you could buy the entire street. Which, ironically, makes you the most suspicious person here."
"I... I can make more modest clothes if I have to!" she stammered, her regal confidence faltering under his gaze.
"No, it works," Sherlock said, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "It's a good distraction. If anyone looks at us, they'll be too busy looking at you to notice the rest of us."
The group shared a small, nervous laugh, a brief moment of levity in the dark. But the humor died as they walked out of the store and into the heart of Kamino.
As they approached the central plaza of Kamino Ward, the neon bustle of the city seemed to swell. Crowds of people were gathered in front of the massive electronic billboards that towered over the intersection.
"Look," Midoriya who pointed upward, his voice trembling.
The regular advertisements for energy drinks and cosmetic products had been replaced by a live news feed. The screen showed a long, wooden table in a dimly lit press room.
Behind it sat three men whose faces were known to everyone in the country: Principal Nezu, Vlad King, and Shota Aizawa.
Aizawa looked older, his face still wrapped in the bandages from the camp. He stood up, and alongside the Principal, he performed a deep, formal bow—the "Apology of the Fallen."
"We are here to address the grave security failures at the UA Summer Training Camp," Nezu's voice boomed from the speakers across the plaza.
The reporters were relentless, their questions cutting like knives. "Why were the students unprotected?" "Is it true that UA has become a magnet for villains?" "How can parents trust you with their children's lives ever again?"
"We failed to protect the students in our care," Aizawa's voice was steady, but there was a deep, underlying sorrow in it. "But we are not giving up. We will bring Katsuki Bakugo home."
The crowd around the students began to murmur, the air turning toxic with judgment.
"Look at them... supposed to be the best school in Japan, and they can't even keep a kid from getting kidnapped," a man nearby muttered.
Sherlock watched the screen, his fingers tightening on the brim of his fedora. He saw his teacher—the man who had worked himself to exhaustion to save them in the forest—being publicly humiliated for the sake of "accountability."
"They're taking the heat," Shoto whispered, his eyes fixed on the screen. "They're bowing so the world looks at them instead of looking for us."
"It's a tactical diversion," Sherlock said, his voice a cold, sharp whisper. "The world is focused on the apology. Which means the shadows are wide open."
He turned away from the screen, his emerald eyes flashing under the hat. The pulse on Momo's receiver was getting stronger. The warehouse was close.
"The architecture of the rescue is set," Sherlock commanded. "Let's move before the light of that screen fades."
The Six students turned their backs on the flickering image of their teachers and disappeared into the neon-lit depths of Kamino, six shadows moving against the light.
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Read My FF Mha:- The Grand illusionist