MIDORIYA IZUKU

The envelope was waiting on his desk when Izuku arrived at the agency Monday morning.

Plain white. No return address. His hero name written in neat, precise handwriting that somehow felt wrong-too careful, too deliberate.

It was the third one in two weeks.

Izuku stared at it for a long moment, his coffee growing cold in his hand. The morning sun streamed through his office window, bright and cheerful, completely at odds with the dread pooling in his stomach.

He should call someone. Report it. This was the kind of thing heroes were supposed to take seriously.

But what would he even say? That he was getting letters? That someone knew where he worked? That wasn't exactly unusual for a top-ranked hero. Fan mail came in constantly, and not all of it was positive.

Except these weren't fan mail.

Izuku set down his coffee and reached for the envelope with hands that weren't quite steady. The paper felt ordinary under his fingers-standard office supply, nothing distinctive. He turned it over, looking for any identifying marks, any clue about who might have sent it.

Nothing.

He opened it carefully, pulling out a single sheet of paper. The same neat handwriting, the same unsettling precision.

You looked tired on the news last night. Are you sleeping well? I worry about you, working so hard. Always pushing yourself. Always trying to save everyone.

But who saves you, I wonder?

Who's watching out for you when you're alone?

Don't worry. I am.

I'm always watching.

Izuku's hands tightened on the paper, crinkling the edges. His heart was beating too fast, his breath coming shallow.

The words themselves weren't overtly threatening. Could almost be mistaken for concern from an overzealous fan. But the tone-the implication that someone was watching him, tracking his movements, his schedule, his appearances-

He thought of the previous letters. The first one had arrived two and a half weeks ago, shortly after the rankings ceremony.

Congratulations on your continued success. You've worked so hard to get where you are. Built so much. It would be terrible if something happened to it all. If everything you've worked for came crashing down.

Be careful, Deku. The higher you climb, the farther you have to fall.

The second letter had been worse. More personal.

I saw you on patrol yesterday. You smiled at that little girl, gave her your autograph. So kind. So heroic. You have no idea how many people depend on you, do you? How many lives rest in your hands?

It must be exhausting, carrying all that weight.

What would happen if you failed? If you couldn't save someone? If you made one wrong move and everything fell apart?

I think about it a lot.

I think about you a lot.

Izuku had tried to trace them. Had quietly asked his agency's security team to review footage, to check for anyone suspicious lingering near the building. But there was nothing. Hundreds of people passed by the agency every day. The letters could have been dropped off by anyone, at any time.

He'd considered going to the police, but what would he tell them? That someone was sending him vaguely threatening letters? That he felt watched? Heroes dealt with threats constantly. This probably didn't even qualify as a real danger.

Except it felt like danger.

It felt like someone was circling closer, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Izuku folded the letter carefully and locked it in his desk drawer with the others. His phone buzzed-a text notification-but he ignored it. He'd been ignoring his phone a lot lately.

He couldn't afford distractions right now. Couldn't afford to let his guard down.

Someone was watching him. Someone knew his schedule, his movements, his agency. Someone was paying very close attention.

And until he figured out who and why, he needed to stay alert.

He needed to stay safe.

The patrol schedule had been light this week, but Izuku had added extra shifts. Volunteered for overnight watches. Taken on assignments in neighboring districts.

His team had noticed. Ochako had pulled him aside yesterday, concern clear in her eyes.

"Deku, you're working yourself too hard again. When's the last time you had a day off?"

"I'm fine," he'd assured her. "Just want to stay sharp. Keep my skills up."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Staying busy helped. Kept his mind occupied. Kept him from obsessing over the letters, over the feeling of being watched.

And if he was out on patrol, moving constantly, unpredictable in his routes-maybe that made him harder to track. Harder to target.

Maybe.

His phone buzzed again. Izuku glanced at it-another text in the group chat with Kacchan and Shoto. He'd been meaning to respond. Had typed out replies a dozen times and deleted them all.

What was he supposed to say? That he was fine? That everything was normal?

He wasn't fine. Nothing was normal.

And he couldn't tell them. Couldn't drag them into this when he didn't even know what this was yet.

Kacchan would immediately try to hunt down whoever was sending the letters, probably blow up half of Musutafu in the process. And Shoto would insist on providing security, on staying close, on protecting him.

Izuku didn't need protecting. He was a hero. He could handle this.

He had to handle this.

His phone buzzed a third time. Izuku turned it face-down on his desk and tried to focus on his paperwork.

TODOROKI SHOTO

The text sat unanswered for six hours.

Shoto stared at his phone during his lunch break, at the message he'd sent that morning that still showed as unread.

TODOROKI SHOTO: Saw your interview on the morning news. You handled those questions about the Hosu incident really well.

It was innocuous. Friendly. The kind of message he'd sent dozens of times before.

Midoriya always responded. Usually within an hour, often within minutes. He was almost compulsive about it, about staying connected, about maintaining their friendship.

Except lately, he wasn't.

Shoto scrolled up through their chat history. His last three messages had gone unanswered for hours before Midoriya finally replied with brief, distracted responses. The group chat was even worse-Midoriya's contributions had dwindled to occasional emoji reactions and short acknowledgments.

Something was wrong.

Shoto had noticed it over the past two weeks. The gradual withdrawal. The longer response times. The way Midoriya's messages felt perfunctory, like he was going through the motions rather than actually engaging.

And it had started right after that disastrous training session.

Shoto's chest tightened with guilt. He'd been so caught up in his own confused feelings, in the tension with Bakugo, in trying to figure out what he wanted-he hadn't considered how his behavior might affect Midoriya.

Had they made him uncomfortable? Had he noticed the way both of them had been acting? The possessiveness, the jealousy, the way they'd both fled like cowards rather than face their feelings?

Of course he'd noticed. Midoriya noticed everything.

And now he was pulling away. Distancing himself. Probably trying to give them space, trying not to make things awkward.

Shoto had seen him on the news last night-a brief clip from a patrol in downtown Musutafu. Midoriya had looked exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, his smile not quite reaching his face. The reporter had commented on his increased patrol schedule, on how dedicated he was to his work.

Too dedicated. Too many hours. Too much work.

Shoto knew that pattern. Had seen it before. Midoriya threw himself into hero work when he was stressed, when he was trying to avoid dealing with something.

He was avoiding them.

The realization sat heavy in Shoto's stomach. They'd ruined this. Whatever easy friendship they'd had, whatever comfortable dynamic had existed between the three of them-they'd destroyed it with their inability to handle their own feelings like adults.

His phone buzzed. For a moment, hope flared-maybe Midoriya had finally responded.

But it was Bakugo.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: Have you heard from Deku?

Shoto's fingers tightened on his phone.

TODOROKI SHOTO: Not since yesterday. Why?

BAKUGO KATSUKI: He's not answering my calls. Hasn't responded to texts in two days.

TODOROKI SHOTO: He responded to me yesterday. Briefly.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: What did he say?

Shoto scrolled back to find the message. It had been in response to his question about whether Midoriya wanted to meet up next weekend.

MIDORIYA IZUKU: Sorry, really busy with work right now. Maybe another time?

Polite. Distant. Completely unlike him.

TODOROKI SHOTO: He said he was busy with work.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: Bullshit. He's avoiding us.

Shoto didn't respond. Didn't need to. They both knew it was true.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: We fucked this up.

TODOROKI SHOTO: Yes.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: So what do we do about it?

That was the question, wasn't it? What could they do? Confront Midoriya? Force him to talk about why he was pulling away? That would only make things worse, would only make him more uncomfortable.

Give him space? Let him work through whatever he was feeling? That felt wrong too, felt like abandoning him when he clearly needed support.

TODOROKI SHOTO: I don't know.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: Helpful.

TODOROKI SHOTO: Do you have a better idea?

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times. Finally:

BAKUGO KATSUKI: No.

Shoto set his phone down and stared at his half-eaten lunch. His appetite had vanished.

He'd been so focused on his own feelings, on trying to figure out what Midoriya meant to him, on navigating the complicated tension with Bakugo-he hadn't stopped to consider that Midoriya might be struggling too.

Might be hurt by their behavior. Might be confused by the sudden change in their dynamic.

Might be pulling away to protect himself from whatever mess they'd created.

Shoto picked up his phone again, pulling up the news app. He searched for Midoriya's name, scrolling through recent articles and video clips.

There-footage from three days ago. A villain incident in Musutafu's shopping district. Midoriya had responded, had handled it efficiently, but the camera had caught his face in an unguarded moment.

He looked tired. Worn down. Like he was carrying weight he couldn't share.

Shoto's chest ached.

They'd done this. He and Bakugo, with their jealousy and possessiveness and inability to communicate like functional adults. They'd made Midoriya uncomfortable enough that he was withdrawing, working himself to exhaustion, avoiding their messages.

They'd hurt him.

And Shoto had no idea how to fix it.

BAKUGO KATSUKI

The call went straight to voicemail. Again.

Katsuki resisted the urge to throw his phone across his office. Barely.

"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Deku wasn't answering. Hadn't answered his last three calls. Hadn't responded to texts in two days except for one brief message that basically amounted to "I'm busy, leave me alone."

Except Deku never said leave me alone. Never pulled away like this. Never went radio silent.

Not unless something was seriously wrong.

Katsuki pulled up the news on his computer, searching for any mention of Deku or his agency. Maybe there'd been an incident. Maybe he was dealing with something big, something that required his full attention.

But there was nothing. Just routine patrols. Standard hero work. A few interviews where Deku looked exhausted but smiled through it anyway.

That smile didn't reach his eyes anymore.

Katsuki had noticed it over the past week. The way Deku's expressions seemed forced. The way he looked worn down, stretched thin. The way he was taking on more and more work, more patrols, more shifts.

Like he was trying to avoid something.

Like he was trying to avoid them.

The thought made Katsuki's stomach twist. They'd fucked this up. He and Half-and-Half, with their stupid jealousy and possessiveness and complete inability to handle their feelings like adults.

They'd made Deku uncomfortable. Had probably freaked him out with the way they'd both been acting during that training session. The intensity. The territorial bullshit. The way they'd both fled afterward like cowards.

Of course Deku was pulling away. Of course he was avoiding them.

They'd ruined everything.

Katsuki's phone buzzed-a text from Todoroki.

TODOROKI SHOTO: I'm worried about him.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: Yeah. Me too.

TODOROKI SHOTO: He looked exhausted on the news last night. He's working too much.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: I know. He does this when he's stressed.

TODOROKI SHOTO: We did this.

Katsuki stared at the message. Wanted to argue. Wanted to say it wasn't their fault, that Deku was just busy, that they were reading too much into it.

But he couldn't. Because Todoroki was right.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: Yeah. We did.

TODOROKI SHOTO: I don't know how to fix it.

BAKUGO KATSUKI: We give him space. Let him work through whatever he's feeling. Stop being weird and possessive and fucking everything up.

TODOROKI SHOTO: And if that's not enough?

BAKUGO KATSUKI: Then we figure something else out. But right now, we're the problem. So we back off.

It hurt to type. Hurt to admit. But it was true.

They were the problem. Their feelings, their jealousy, their inability to just be normal friends without making everything complicated.

Deku deserved better than that. Deserved better than them making him uncomfortable, making him feel like he had to pull away to protect himself.

Katsuki closed the news article, closed the image of Deku's tired smile. His chest felt tight, his hands clenched into fists.

He'd spent years trying to make up for how he'd treated Deku when they were kids. Years trying to be a better person, a better friend. Years building something that felt real and solid and important.

And now he was fucking it up all over again.

Just in a different way.

MIDORIYA IZUKU

The fourth letter arrived on Friday.

Izuku found it slipped under his office door when he came back from a patrol. He'd been gone for six hours-a long sweep through the eastern district that had turned up nothing unusual.

The envelope was the same. White. Neat handwriting. His hero name.

His hands shook as he picked it up.

He should report this. Should tell someone. This was escalating. Four letters in three weeks. Someone was getting bolder, more persistent.

Someone was getting closer.

Izuku locked his office door before opening the envelope. The letter inside was longer this time. More detailed.

You've been working so hard lately. So many extra patrols. So many late nights. Are you looking for something? Looking for someone?

You won't find me. Not until I'm ready to be found.

I've been watching you for a long time, Deku. Longer than you know. I've seen you grow. Seen you succeed. Seen you become everything you dreamed of becoming.

It's beautiful, really. Inspiring.

But everything beautiful breaks eventually.

Everything successful falls.

I wonder what it will take to break you. What it will take to make you fall.

I guess we'll find out soon.

Don't worry. I'll be gentle.

At first.

Izuku's breath came short and fast. His vision blurred at the edges. The paper crumpled in his grip.

This was a threat. A real, concrete threat. Not vague implications or unsettling observations. This was someone promising to hurt him. To break him.

Someone who'd been watching him for a long time.

Someone who was planning something.

He needed to report this. Needed to tell someone. His agency. The police. Other heroes.

Kacchan. Shoto.

His phone sat on his desk, screen dark. He'd been ignoring their messages for days. Had been avoiding their calls. Had been pushing them away because he was scared and confused and didn't want to drag them into this.

But maybe he needed help. Maybe he couldn't handle this alone.

Izuku reached for his phone, his hand hovering over it.

Then he pulled back.

No. He couldn't. Couldn't burden them with this. Couldn't make them worry. Couldn't put them in danger.

He was a hero. He could handle this.

He had to handle this.

Izuku locked the letter in his desk drawer with the others and tried to steady his breathing.

He'd increase his patrols. Stay more alert. Maybe hire private security for the agency. Maybe install better cameras.

He'd figure this out. He'd find whoever was sending these letters. He'd stop them before they could do whatever they were planning.

He just needed to stay focused. Stay vigilant.

Stay alone.

His phone buzzed. Another text. Probably Kacchan or Shoto, checking in again. Worried about him.

Izuku turned the phone face-down and didn't look.

He couldn't afford distractions right now.

He couldn't afford to let anyone close.

Not when someone was watching. Waiting. Planning to break him.

Not when getting close to him might put them in danger too.

So he'd stay distant. Stay focused. Stay alone.

And he'd pray that was enough to keep everyone safe.

Even if it meant losing the two people who mattered most.