We stop in front of my apartment building.

It's... very normal.

Peeling paint near the mailbox. A bike chained to the railing that's definitely been there longer than legally allowed. Someone's wind chime clinking lazily in the afternoon breeze.

Not exactly the kind of place people imagine when they think future hero analysis headquarters.

Aizawa looks up at the building.

Then at me.

Then back at the building.

"This is it," I say.

"...You live here."

"Last I checked, yes."

He doesn't sound judgmental.

He sounds like he's filing the information away under Important Context.

We head upstairs. The stairwell smells faintly like detergent and someone's attempt at cooking fish earlier. I unlock the door, and before I can even announce we're home—

"Izuku?!"

Mom appears like she's been standing there the entire time waiting.

Her eyes go straight to the bandage on my head.

Then to Aizawa.

Then back to me.

Then back to Aizawa.

Her brain is clearly trying to process why a pro hero has escorted her son home like a mildly concerning package delivery.

"I'm okay!" I say quickly. "No new injuries since the last update!"

"That is not reassuring!" she says, already fussing with my shoulders like I might crumble if she stops touching me for two seconds.

Aizawa watches this with the same expression he had earlier when I mentioned thirteen notebooks.

Somewhere between confusion and reluctant understanding.

"...Your mother," he says quietly, "is the reason you're still alive, isn't she?"

Mom straightens, suddenly aware there's a guest, and bows politely.

"Thank you for bringing him home! He didn't cause trouble, did he?"

Aizawa and I exchange a look.

We both think about today.

The fire drill.

The infiltration.

The analysis conversation.

Me getting lost in a building designed by what I can only assume is a sadistic architect.

"...He asked questions," Aizawa says.

Mom sighs.

"Yes, that sounds like Izuku."

I grin.

"Productive questions."

"Relentless questions," Aizawa corrects.

Mom smiles apologetically. "He's been like that since he could talk."

There's a pause.

Aizawa glances past us into the apartment.

And that's when he sees them.

The shelves.

Not all of them—my room door is still closed—but even from here there are visible stacks of books, articles, printouts, color-coded folders.

Evidence.

His eyes narrow just slightly.

"...Midoriya."

"Yes?"

"...Those thirteen notebooks."

I smile.

Mom blinks. "Oh! You mean his analysis journals?"

Aizawa closes his eyes.

I can practically hear the moment he realizes this is real.

Not a joke.

Not exaggeration.

Documented. Supported. Encouraged.

"...I see," he mutters.

Mom tilts her head. "Would you like tea?"

There is a long silence.

Aizawa looks like a man who has accidentally stepped into something far more complicated than a student escort errand.

"...No," he says finally. "I should return to UA."

Probably before his entire worldview shifts another few degrees.

He turns toward the door, then pauses.

Looks back at me.

Not annoyed.

Not skeptical.

Just thoughtful.

"...Midoriya. Don't stop training."

I blink.

That's not what I expected him to say.

"Okay," I answer.

He nods once, like that settles something, and leaves.

The door closes.

Mom looks at me.

I look at her.

"...So," she says slowly, "why did a pro hero bring you home?"

I exhale.

"That is a very long story."

And somehow—

I get the feeling it's only the beginning.

Mom doesn't even wait five seconds.

She gives me the look.

The one that says: Sit down. Explain. Use complete sentences.

I drop my bag by the couch and collapse into the chair across from her like my bones have finally remembered today has been approximately three weeks long.

"...Okay," I start. "So. You know how this morning I said I had a bad feeling?"

"Yes," she says immediately.

"Well. That feeling was correct."

She gestures for me to continue.

I take a breath.

"I helped stop some kids from bullying someone."

Her eyes soften. "That sounds like you."

"I then got shoved, hit the pavement, and apparently bled enough to trigger a full emergency response."

Her expression snaps right back to concern.

"Izuku—!"

"I'm fine! Mostly! That's not even the weird part!"

"...There's a weirder part?"

"Oh, yeah," I say. "The ambulance got hijacked."

She freezes.

"...Hijacked."

"By the principal of UA."

There is a very long silence.

Mom blinks.

I nod.

She blinks again.

"...I'm sorry," she says carefully. "The principal... stole the ambulance."

"Yes."

"To bring you to school."

"Yes."

"Instead of the hospital."

"Yes."

She leans back slowly.

"...I don't know how to respond to that."

"Neither did the paramedics," I admit.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to organize the mess of thoughts that's been bouncing around my skull all afternoon.

"I got treated there. Met some teachers. Got lost—don't say anything, the building is a maze—then there was a fire drill."

Mom opens her mouth.

Closes it again.

I continue.

"And during that drill," I say slowly, "I ran into someone who wasn't supposed to be there."

Her posture changes instantly.

Not panicked.

Alert.

"What do you mean?"

I stare at the table for a second before answering.

"...A villain."

The word hangs heavy between us.

Mom doesn't interrupt.

Doesn't rush.

Just listens.

"He didn't attack me," I explain. "Didn't threaten me. He was... gathering information. Like he was scouting the place."

"That's dangerous," she whispers.

"Yeah," I say. "It is."

I hesitate.

Because this next part sounds strange even to me.

"But when we talked... it didn't feel like he was there just for destruction. It felt like—"

I struggle to find the right word.

"—like he was stuck."

Mom frowns slightly. "Stuck?"

"Like he wanted to say something and couldn't. Like he needed help but didn't know how to ask."

I laugh weakly.

"Which is insane, right? Because he's a villain. That's not how that's supposed to work."

Mom doesn't laugh.

She just watches me.

"You felt empathy," she says gently.

I groan. "I analyzed behavioral inconsistencies."

"That is your version of empathy."

"...I refuse to admit that."

She smiles faintly.

But the concern never leaves her eyes.

"And then," I finish, "Aizawa-sensei walked me home while interrogating me about my notebooks like he'd just discovered a new species."

Mom actually chuckles at that.

"Yes, I can imagine that."

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

Everything feels quiet now.

Too quiet after a day like this.

"...Mom," I say after a moment.

"Yes?"

"I don't think this is over."

She doesn't ask what I mean.

She already knows.

Because I know.

Because somewhere out there is a man who walked into the most secure academy in the country just to look around—

—and who looked at me like I was part of a solution he hasn't figured out yet.

I close my eyes.

Tomorrow, I go back to Aldera.

Back to normal.

Back to pretending my life isn't slowly turning into something else.