Chapter Text
The first breath was always the strangest.
It never stopped being jarring, no matter how many times it happened. The gasping, the rush of air into lungs that felt too new, too clean. And the silence that followed — not true silence, but a hush. Like the world itself was waiting to see what this Izuku Midoriya would become.
He was used to it now.
Rebirth.
Sometimes it came peacefully, in his sleep, when his old body had simply run out of strength. Other times, it came in pain — fire, steel, villain's laughter — the cost of choosing a life of action. But whether as a whisper or a scream, the end always came. And then… it began again.
Time reset, the world rewound, and he was born once more into the same home, the same body, the same life. Izuku Midoriya. Son of Inko. “Quirkless,” as the doctors always said.
They never saw it.
How could they? His Quirk wasn’t flashy. It didn’t shine or explode or reshape matter. It activated only when he died. A cruel kind of quirk — one that demanded endings to restart. And every time he came back, no one remembered what had come before. No one but him.
He stopped asking why after his fifteenth life. He’d lived twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight by now. Who was counting?
In one life, he'd been UA’s top graduate, a shining beacon of hope with One for All blazing in his veins, pushing All For One into the abyss with a scream that tore his throat raw.
In another, he'd walked the back alleys in a mask, a nameless vigilante with bloodied knuckles and a penchant for pissing off Eraserhead — that one had been fun. Aizawa never figured out who he was, and Izuku made sure to leave cryptic little calling cards just to push his buttons. A tradition, really. He’d annoyed Aizawa in at least five timelines. It never got old.
One life he spent at peace, or as close to peace as someone like him could get. No One for All. No obvious quirk. 'Quirkless'. Just a quiet job, a quiet life. He learned to bake bread, read detective novels, and grew herbs in a tiny window box. It was... nice. Brief. Lonely. It didn’t last.
Another time, he’d been Principal Nezu’s assistant. That was a bizarre timeline. Endless paperwork, long conversations about ethics and chaos theory, and an ever-growing suspicion that Nezu knew. The rat — no, mammal — had watched him too closely for someone who wasn’t aware. That life ended with a villain attack and a very heroic, very stupid decision.
He’d tried everything. Lived every kind of life. Each time he returned, it was a new attempt. A new performance on the same stage.
And now, it began again.
Same hospital. Same ceiling tiles. Same weak cries from his brand-new throat.
Izuku Midoriya was back.
And what would he do this time?
He’d figure it out later.
~
The hospital walls faded behind them as the car rolled through the city — same route, same traffic, same flickering streetlight on the corner near the bakery with the cracked window. Everything was familiar. Too familiar.
Izuku lay bundled in Inko’s arms, eyes squinted just enough to catch the blur of color and light outside the window. He knew this ride. He’d done it before, more times than he cared to count. But the warmth of Inko’s heartbeat, steady and gentle against his tiny chest, never failed to settle something deep inside him.
“We’re almost home, baby,” Inko whispered, soft and sweet, brushing her cheek lightly against his hair. “You’re going to love your room. I made sure your cradle was next to the window. You’ll get to watch the stars.”
Izuku wanted to smile, but his newborn muscles didn’t cooperate. Still, the love in her voice wrapped around him like a blanket warmer than anything cotton could manage. She never changed. Thank god, she never changed.
When they arrived, she carried him inside like he was made of glass. She moved through the apartment with practice. The smell of miso still lingering faintly in the air. She paused at the hallway, calling gently,
“Hisashi? We’re home!”
Izuku’s heartbeat slowed, a flicker of cold recognition slicing through the warmth.
Right. Him.
A moment later, footsteps. Then the man himself appeared — tall, lean, dressed like a normal salaryman in a collared shirt and loose tie. His face wore a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, not for Izuku. It never had.
“There’s my little man,” Hisashi said smoothly, stepping closer with arms outstretched. “He’s already got your eyes, Inko.”
His voice was perfectly balanced — gentle, fatherly, almost bored. Izuku knew better. Knew what lurked behind that expression. In his ninth life, he’d seen it — behind the mask, behind the Quirk-stealing hand. Hisashi Midoriya wasn’t a man at all.
He was All For One.
But he didn’t know. Not about Izuku’s Quirk. Not about the lives lived and lost. To him, Izuku was just a child — his child. An heir, maybe. But still innocent. Still moldable.
Izuku let out a tiny, obligatory coo as Hisashi leaned in. The villain cradled him for a moment, careful and measured, the way someone might hold a ticking bomb. But there was no malice here. Not yet. Just… curiosity.
“Hm,” Hisashi mused, eyes scanning Izuku’s face like he was reading something between the lines. “Already so alert.”
Izuku didn’t react. He’d learned long ago not to give AFO anything. No tells. No recognition. Let him think he had the upper hand.
“Be nice,” Inko chided gently, completely unaware. “He’s still sleepy.”
“Of course,” Hisashi replied with a placid smile. “Just saying hello to our miracle boy.”
Inko took Izuku back and moved toward the small bedroom — his room. She hummed a quiet lullaby as she lowered him into the cradle, adjusting the blanket just right. The mobile above swayed lazily, plastic stars spinning in slow circles.
Izuku stared up at them, listening to Inko tidy nearby, her soft voice drifting in the background.
It was the same room. Same walls. Same stars. Same warmth.
He’d died, been reborn, and brought home to this exact place more times than he could remember. It was all familiar. Comforting. Terrifying.
And yet, somehow, it still mattered.
He didn’t know what this life would hold — not yet. But for now, wrapped in soft blankets and the scent of his mother’s perfume, he could afford to wait. To watch. To think.
He’d figure it out later.
~