Chapter 1: The Weight of the World
Izuku Midoriya had always thought the world was full of amazing things, but they were always just out of his reach. Izuku was one of the unlucky few who were diagnosed as Quirkless in a time when 80% of people had superpowers called Quirks.
He was at the tender age of four, his legs swinging back and forth on the paper-covered examination table, crinkling with every fidget. His All Might action figure was clutched so tightly in his small fist that the hard plastic cape dug into his palm.
He remembered the X-rays clipped to the lightbox—the undeniable proof of his defectiveness. The doctor tapped the film with a pen. He pointed to the extra joint in the pinky toe. A biological redundancy that had marked him as a reminder of a time when people were weaker, slower, and more fragile.
He remembered how bored and clinical the doctor sounded when he told a child they would have a life of irrelevance. He spoke of evolution as if it were a cruel god and Izuku were a glitch in humanity's software—something to be patched out, ignored, and forgotten. There was no sympathy in the man's eyes, only the dull fatigue of a bureaucrat processing a filing error.
He remembered the car ride home, the silence so thick it felt like a physical chokehold. The windshield wipers slashed back and forth, counting down the seconds of his new life. The rain drummed against the window, erratic and angry, matching the rhythm of his breaking heart.
But mostly, he remembered the tears. Not his own—he had been too shocked to cry then, frozen in a state of hollow disbelief—but his mother's. He remembered sitting in front of the computer later that night, the blue glow of the monitor illuminating his dark room like a spotlight on a tragedy. On the screen, All Might laughed, fearless and strong, carrying people out of the fiery debris of a disaster zone, a hundred lives safe in his massive arms.
"I Am Here!"
Izuku remembered turning to his mother, pointing at the screen with a trembling finger, his voice just a whisper, breaking under the weight of his desperate hope.
"Mom… can I… can I be a hero too?"
He didn't want an apology. He didn't want pity. He didn't want a hug.
"Yes. You can. It will be hard, but you can."
That's all that he wanted her to say.
But she didn't.
She had collapsed to her knees, hugging him so tightly it hurt, her tears soaking his favorite All Might shirt. She had apologized, over and over.
"I'm sorry, Izuku. I'm so, so sorry."
That was the first crack in the foundation. The realization that even the person who loved him most in the world didn't have faith in him. If his own mother, the woman who kissed his forehead and bandaged his scrapes, couldn't see a hero in him, who could? Her apology made him feel worthless. She wasn't crying because she thought the world was unfair; she was crying because she thought the doctor was right.
From that day forward, his life became a relentless gauntlet of isolation and ridicule.
In kindergarten, the other children flaunted their budding abilities—tiny flames flickering from fingertips, objects levitating at will, and bodies stretching like rubber. Izuku sat on the sidelines, his wide green eyes filled with awe and envy.
"Hey, Deku! You're useless without a Quirk! You're worse than the rejects. You're nothing."
Katsuki Bakugo, or Kacchan, his childhood friend-turned-bully, would sneer and make small explosions in his hands as he ruled the playground. They used to be friends when they were young, and his Quirk hadn't yet appeared. Back then, they played together on a leveled field. They had chased balls in the park, scraped their knees on the same asphalt, and dreamed of being the best hero duo the world had ever seen.
The dynamic shifted the moment Kacchan's hands began to pop with the sweet, sickly smell of nitroglycerin, while Izuku remained stubbornly ordinary. The order of things was made.
Kacchan was a star, a supernova prodigy whom teachers, parents, and friends praised. He got a big head because he lived in a culture that valued power above all else. And what about Izuku? Izuku was the rock in the way. Not a problem, since a problem is something complicated. He was just there. Not worth paying attention to. Beneath contempt. A background character in Kacchan's origin story.
The bullying wasn't just physical, though the burns on Izuku's shoulders and the bruises on his ribs were real enough. It was psychological. It was the way Kacchan looked at him—not always with hatred, but often with genuine confusion and disgust that Izuku even dared to exist in the same space as him, as if Izuku's very presence was an insult to the concept of strength.
"Don't you get it? You don't have a Quirk. You're barely even human in this society. You're a liability. A waste of space."
Kacchan had said earlier that day, smoke curling from his palms as he cornered Izuku against the chalkboard with his lackeys behind him, snickering. The words burned hotter than the explosions.
Liability. Useless. Deku.
The nickname "Deku"—a play on "dekunobou," meaning "useless"—stuck like glue. It wasn't just a nickname anymore; it was his identity. It was the label the world had slapped onto his forehead—a constant reminder of his inadequacy. Teachers looked the other way, and society whispered that the Quirkless were unfit for a world of heroes and villains.
Yet, Izuku's spirit refused to break entirely. He poured his heart into notebooks, scribbling detailed analyses of every hero he admired. All Might, the Symbol of Peace, was his idol, a beacon of hope with his unbreakable smile and overwhelming strength.
Izuku would whisper to himself, clutching his latest volume of his Hero Analysis Notebooks—#13.
"One day… I'll save people too. I'll be a hero, Quirk or no Quirk."
That fragile dream was shattered when, after school, he was rescued from a villainous sludge monster by All Might himself. The world's greatest hero—the man whose smile had been the only thing keeping Izuku's dream on life support for ten agonizing years—had stood right before him.
In desperation to ask him a question, Izuku accidentally clutched onto his idol's leg just as he decided to take off into the air, taking the boy with him for a flight. He had ignored the vertigo, ignored the fear of death as they soared through the air, to ask that one question. The question he needed someone to answer was different from his mother's, Kacchan's, or the doctor's. He required the pillar of justice of this superhuman society to tell him he belonged.
Once they safely landed on the roof of a nondescript commercial building in Musutafu, the hero unintentionally revealed his real form—a gaunt, skeletal man, eyes sunken and shadowed like a skull, blood trickling from his mouth as an undisclosed injury ravaged his once-mighty frame.
Still, Izuku asked him…
"Can a Quirkless person become a hero like you?"
All Might answered in a hollow rasp.
"Young Midoriya… a Quirkless person… can't become a hero."
The words hit him like a Detroit Smash to the gut.
"Pros are constantly risking their lives. I cannot simply say, 'You can become a hero even without power.' I appreciate your spirit. But it's too dangerous. Without a Quirk, you can't become a hero. You'd just get yourself killed—or worse, drag others down with you. I'm sorry."
He had tried to be kind. He had suggested police work—a noble profession, he said, but one where they were mocked for receiving villains captured by heroes. He had told Izuku to be realistic.
Realistic.
Izuku's world blurred, his knees buckling as All Might descended a rickety fire escape, leaving him on the rooftop. Minutes that felt like hours slipped by as his mind was far away, stuck on that single moment replaying over and over, like a cruel movie jammed in an endless loop. For him, it was not just a rejection; it was a death sentence passed on the last dream he had left. The dream he'd clung to for twelve long years of bullying, ridicule, and loneliness. The words were heavy. Absolute. Spoken by the one person whose approval would have changed everything.
Izuku let out a hollow, broken laugh that was snatched away by the wind. Reality was cruel. Reality was unfair. Reality was a genetic lottery in which he had pulled the only losing ticket in the box, while everyone else got superpowers. Reality was a boot stamping on a human face, forever.
"He said no," Izuku whispered, his voice cracking, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic. "Even he said no."
The Notebook No. 13—Hero Analysis for the Future—lay on the cold concrete near the stairwell door where All Might had dropped it. It was charred and wet, ruined by Kacchan's explosion earlier that day and the koi pond it had been thrown into. The cover was warped, the pages swollen with water, looking like the bloated corpse of his dreams. Izuku walked over to the notebook, his legs feeling heavy, as if filled with lead. He knelt and picked it up, his fingers tracing the scorched edges where the paper had turned to ash.
Hero Analysis for the Future?
What future?
The wind whipped through his messy green hair, tugging and tearing at his Aldera Middle School uniform like insistent fingers urging him forward. The city buzzed far below. Every breath he took, coming in shallow gasps as the weight of rejection pressed down, hurt. His shaking foot slipped once—he caught himself by instinct.
Instinct.
The same instinct that always told him to help others. This time, it told him to let go. He looked at his hand. It was trembling uncontrollably, a vibration that traveled up his arm and into his chest.
Izuku's heartbeat felt hollow in his tightened chest, as if it had forgotten how to be steady. The knuckles gripping the rusted guardrail were white and trembling. It was old, rusted in places, the metal flaking off under his touch. It barely reached his chest and was cold against his thigh, biting into his skin through the fabric of his trousers. A wind gust tousled his hair, cold against his feverish skin.
Just one more step.
The thought came unbidden, like a whisper from the darkness at the back of his mind. A whisper that had grown louder every hour since that meeting. Every minute. Every second. He stepped closer to the ledge and looked down. Tears slid down his freckled cheeks, off his chin, and vanished as he stared down at the pavement many stories below.
The cars were just toys from up here, streaming red and white lights. The people were ants, rushing to their homes, their jobs, their lives. The world felt distant, detached, as if he were watching it through a thick pane of glass. The noise of the city—the sirens, the chatter, the hum of daily life—faded into a dull roar, drowned out by the pounding of his own heart in his ears, blurring into a shadowy haze that stretched out like dark, welcoming arms. Each teardrop was a testament to shattered illusions.
It wasn't high enough to seriously hurt a pro hero. Maybe not even a student with a Quirk. But him…?
It looked easy.
Gravity was the one thing that didn't care if you had a Quirk or not. It treated everyone the same. It didn't discriminate based on genetics or power levels. It was the only fair thing in the world.
Izuku's breath hitched.
He swallowed hard as Kacchan's voice boomed in his mind. He had tried for so many years to convince himself that Kacchan had been having a bad day. Or month. Or childhood. That he didn't mean any of it.
After all, Kacchan had been his first friend. His only friend.
And still, the boy he had once admired had said the words that were now whispering again in Izuku's head.
"If you want to be a hero that badly, there's a quick way to do it. Believe that you'll be born with a Quirk in the next life and take a swan dive off the roof of the building!"
"What's the point?" he murmured, his voice breaking. "All those years... the notebooks, the dreams... for nothing?"
He thought about his mother. She was a kind woman, a ball of anxiety and love who fretted over his grades and cooked his favorite katsudon when he was sad. She had gained weight over the years, guilt eating at her just as much as it ate at him.
I'm sorry…
I'm sorry that I'm not the son you wanted, Mom.
If he did this... if he ended it...
It would destroy her…
Would it really destroy her?
Or would she be relieved?
Relieved that she didn't have to look at him with those sad, apologetic eyes anymore. Relieved that she didn't have to worry about her fragile, glass-boned son trying to play rough with gods and monsters. Relieved that she didn't have to whisper about him to the neighbors, explaining away his lack of power like a shameful family secret. She was constantly apologizing to him, crying for him. Her life was a vigil for a living ghost. Maybe if he were gone, she could finally smile. She could stop saying "sorry" and start living.
And Kacchan... Kacchan would be happy. He'd finally be free of the pebble in his path. The "extra" would be deleted from the scene. No more Deku looking down on him. No more annoying bug buzzing in his ear.
But Izuku didn't need to worry; they'd move on eventually. Everyone did. Everyone had to. The world was built that way. No one would miss a Quirkless nobody for long. Society had no place for the Quirkless—jobs were scarce, respect nonexistent. He was a burden, a failure. The edge of the rooftop beckoned—the drop below a yawning abyss promising release.
It's not so bad—just one step.
And then the pain stops.
The disappointment stops.
The 'I'm sorries' stop.
You can finally rest, Izuku.
Here he was, standing on the narrow concrete ledge on the wrong side of the railing. His heels hung over the empty air. The wind buffeted his back, pushing him, pressing against him like a hand, almost encouraging him to let go. To fly, just for a second.
He closed his eyes.
He could see the sludge villain from earlier that day. The suffocation. The feeling of slimy, foul-smelling fluid filling his lungs. The paralysis. The sheer terror of dying without leaving a mark. He hadn't been able to do anything. He hadn't saved anyone. He had just been a victim. Again. A damsel in distress who was waiting for a hero, who looked at him with pity.
Izuku took a deep, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the smoggy city air one last time. He released his grip on the railing behind him. He let his arms fall to his sides, surrendering.
Despair coiled tighter as he exhaled shakily.
Just one more step.
One more step, and it would all be over. No more disappointment. No more pain. No more pitying looks. No more being told he wasn't enough. No more lying to Mom about the bruises. No more Kacchan's words cutting deeper every year. No more future he could never reach.
He closed his eyes as his foot slid forward—
"Hey! Hey! Heyyy!"
A voice like chimes broke through; melodic, curious, and startlingly close. "What are you doing that close to the edge? That seems dangerous, you know?"
Izuku flinched as if he had been shocked, and his breath caught in his throat. He turned his head, not enough to fully face the speaker, but just enough to see a girl floating in the air with bright, golden waves of energy curling around her blue skin-tight bodysuit and feet that looked like a whirlwind of living light. The energy pulsed, lighting up the roof in a warm, ethereal glow that produced a strange, oscillating hum. It sounded like a charged battery, like pure energy singing a high-pitched, resonant song.
Vvvvvvvmmmmmm.
She looked like a hero, but not one Izuku had seen before. Honestly, she looked like she belonged inside a book of myths. Her long, wavy hair floated around her like wings made of periwinkle-blue silk that defied the wind. What really caught his attention were her wide eyes. Even though the girl was roughly ten feet away, Izuku could see how curious, expressive, and impossibly bright they were, and also staring at him with something he didn't recognize at first.
Fear.
She was scared for him.
She landed on the roof with a soft thump, waves of energy dispersing gently. Then she took a single step forward. "People don't stand on edges like that! People who do that are—are—" Her voice broke. "Just don't move." She raised her hands slowly, palms open, showing she meant no harm. "Please. I—I want to talk to you."
Izuku swallowed as the girl's eyes, wide and innocent, locked onto his—red-rimmed from tears—with an intensity that pinned him in place. "I—I didn't think anyone was here," he choked as the world tilted. "H-how… why are you… here?"
"I was patrolling," she replied softly, still inching closer, slowly, like approaching the ledge might spook him. "But you look like you could use a friend right now. Mind if I join you? The view up here is pretty amazing, huh?"
"W-Who are you?" He stammered, his voice barely audible over the wind. One foot shifted back from the ledge, but he didn't move away entirely. Despair still held him captive.
"I'm Nejire-Chan. Hero-in-training. What's your name? No pressure, just…"
Izuku's gaze darted between her and the drop below, his mind a whirlwind.
A hero? Here? Why now?
But something in her voice—genuine, without pity—pierced the fog. Izuku hesitated, then took a small step back, though his body remained tense, ready to bolt or worse.
"I-I'm Izuku... Midoriya," he whispered, unsure why he bothered to answer her.
"Well, Izuku, I don't know what's going on, but… it looks like you're thinking something scary over there. Could you step back from the edge? Just a little? Or we can chat from here—whatever makes you comfortable." She wasn't shouting. She wasn't giving commands. She sounded… warm. Nervous. Human.
"You... you shouldn't be here. Just leave me alone." Izuku's fingers tightened on the railing. "I'm fine."
"You're standing on the ledge of a really tall building," she said with a small, shaky smile as she shook her head, her long blue hair swaying. "That's not the usual spot for someone 'fine.' Do you want to talk about it instead of looking down?" She gestured to the space beside her invitingly, keeping her movements slow and predictable. "Heroes don't walk away from someone who needs them. And right now? You look like you could use a listening ear. What's going on, Izuku? Why are you up here all by yourself?"
He closed his eyes.
Just one more step.
"Please. I don't want to watch you fall."
Something about the way she said that, like the thought physically hurt her, made a crack in the wall around his heart. The last of Izuku's resistance broke. Her voice—warm, earnest—felt like the first sunlight after a lifetime of rain.
Izuku's legs buckled slightly, but he stepped… back.
Just one step back.
Nejire-Chan hurried forward, wrapped her arms around his middle, and yanked him back hard. Izuku stumbled backward, falling onto the rooftop floor with a gasp as she landed partly on top of him. He could feel her trembling around him. The hug was immediate, instinctive, warm… so warm; she refused to let go. Izuku's lips parted, but no sound came out. He didn't know what to do. He had never been hugged like this by anyone except his mother.
"You're okay," she whispered. "You're okay…"
Izuku's hands hovered awkwardly before slowly clutching her, and the dam inside him broke. Something hot and humiliating built in his throat. Shame. Fear. Relief. So many things he couldn't categorize. He sobbed against her shoulder; it tore through him raw and ugly.
"I'm sorry," he croaked. "I'm so stupid. I just… I didn't mean for anyone to… see."
Nejire-Chan didn't move away. She loosened her grip enough to kneel beside him, shifting so she could look at him with her beautiful blue eyes. "Do you want to die?" she asked quietly.
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, but tears came out anyway. "I don't want to die; I just don't want to be a burden."
"A burden?" Her breath caught sharply. "To whom?"
"Everyone." The words came out quickly now, tumbling out. "To Mom. To my teachers. To all of you who have to act like you don't feel sorry for me. To everyone who has to watch me fail and keep trying, even though it doesn't matter. To all the heroes in the world. To—" He choked. "To my childhood friend who said it would be better if I were dead."
The last words slipped out without permission, and Nejire-Chan's eyes widened—not in pity but in anger. "Who said that to you?"
Izuku shook his head violently. "It doesn't matter—"
"It matters!" Nejire-Chan insisted. "Because no one gets to say that to you. No one gets to decide your worth."
Izuku laughed weakly, hopelessly. "I'm Quirkless. Always have been. Everyone says I'm worthless, that I can't do anything. Even All Might... he told me today. A Quirkless person can't be a hero. Can't save anyone. I've tried so hard... notebooks full of analyses, dreaming every night... but it's all useless. I'm useless. What's the point of living in a world where I'm nothing?"
Nejire-Chan didn't hesitate as she leaned forward and hugged him. Not a startled, awkward hug, but a full-bodied, warm, human contact kind of hug—like she was trying to hold all the pieces of him together by herself. "You're worth something," she murmured into his shoulder. "You're worth a lot."
Izuku finally broke down completely. Tears poured freely, sobs wracking his frame, and he clung to her like a lifeline in stormy water, sobbing into her hero suit's sleeve and trembling with every breath he tried to take.
"It's okay," she whispered. "Let it out. You're safe."
He didn't know how long they stayed like that. But eventually, when the storm inside him quieted enough for him to speak, he pulled back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
"No being sorry." Nejire-Chan shook her head. "Not for this."
She held him tighter as he cried. She didn't ask him to stop crying. She didn't tell him to calm down. She just stayed—solid, steady, a warm presence in a cold world. She stayed through the tears, through the trembling, through the words he could barely form. She listened.
When his sobs finally tapered into shaky breaths, she guided him toward the stairwell door. "Come on, let's get you down from here, yeah? I'm taking you to Ryukyu's agency."
Izuku blinked, the word registering sluggishly in his exhausted brain. "What?"
"Ryukyu, the Dragoon Hero. I'm her sidekick on top of being a student at U.A. I'm a second-year, soon-to-be third-year, but I have a license to do patrols on my own. She's cool; she'll—"
Izuku stiffened, digging his heels into the concrete. His eyes darted around, panic flaring up again. A Pro Hero agency? Him?
"N-no, I can't," he stammered, pulling his arm back slightly. "I… I'm nobody. I can't just walk into a Pro Hero's agency looking like this. I'm a mess. And… and my Mom. She'll be worried. I have to go home. If I don't… if she finds out about this…"
He trailed off, the shame burning his cheeks. How could he explain that going to a Hero Agency felt like walking into a temple he had been excommunicated from? He was the Quirkless kid who had just tried to jump. He didn't belong in Ryukyu's world. He would be a nuisance there, too.
Nejire-Chan looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the fresh wave of anxiety washing away his brief relief. She didn't pull him. Instead, she stepped closer, invading his personal space with that same gentle warmth.
"We'll call your mom," she promised firmly. "But I can't let you go home alone right now, Izuku. Not tonight." Her expression softened, the curiosity in her eyes replaced by a fierce protectiveness. "Because you need somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. And because if I don't, I'm terrified you'll leave here, and I'll never see you again."
Izuku stared at her. There was no judgment in her voice. No disgust. Only fear—and determination, and something else. Something warm.
Trust.
She stood and extended her hand. "Izuku. Come with me. Please. We'll figure this out together, okay? I'm here for you."
His breath trembled. He looked at Nejire-Chan's hand—not a fist ready to hit him, not a finger pointing out his flaws—an open palm.
Izuku didn't trust his voice, so he nodded.
Then, slowly, he took her hand.
She smiled softly, relieved as she helped him stand and led him downstairs, never loosening her grip on his hand.
Gradually, the tension in Izuku's shoulders eased. The wind still howled, but it no longer felt like a beckoning force. Nejire-Chan's warmth and her eccentric yet profound empathy chipped away at the despair.
Izuku wasn't healed—far from it. But he was alive because someone cared enough to notice him. Someone bright. Someone kind. And for the first time in a long time, Izuku felt like maybe—just maybe—his story wasn't over yet. The rooftop, once a precipice of ending, became the start of something new—a lifeline extended by a blue-haired angel