Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The air was thick with smoke and sirens.
Zevrin moved like a shadow through the wreckage, boots ghosting over cracked tile and shattered glass. The scorched hallways of the abandoned research facility glowed with flickering emergency lights, their dying pulses casting long, distorted shadows on the walls.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Silence was safer. Silence meant control.
This was supposed to be simple.
In. Locate the vault. Extract the data chip. Out. A clean smash-and-grab, according to Compress. "Just a baby job," Toga had teased, twirling her knife. "You could do it with your eyes closed, Swan-boy."
He could.
He had.
And yet—nothing ever went clean.
Not anymore.
Zevrin pressed his back to the cold wall, clutching the drive he'd pulled from the shattered vault. It was no bigger than a thumbnail, humming faintly with encrypted code. Something to do with Nomu research—something Shigaraki wanted badly enough to send him in alone while the others ran distraction outside.
Not that they’d stick around.
They never did.
A low rumble vibrated through the floor beneath him. Cracks split the ceiling above. A chunk of cement dropped beside his foot, spraying dust. The whole structure was coming down, fast.
He turned into the hallway, aiming for the south exit, when the comms in his ear buzzed once—then died.
Static. Jammed.
Or cut.
Zevrin cursed under his breath, then stopped.
A sound.
Not boots. Not sirens.
Crying.
A child’s voice, hoarse and panicked, barely audible over the wail of the fire alarms. Zevrin’s head whipped to the left—toward a partially collapsed corridor shrouded in smoke and dust. For a moment, he hesitated.
No.
This wasn’t part of the mission. He had the chip. His route was clear. The heroes would be here in seconds.
He should leave.
He didn’t.
His legs moved anyway.
Zevrin ducked under a low beam and pushed into the smoke, heart pounding—not with fear, but something sharper. Familiar. He found the child within moments—small, maybe six, with a bloody scrape across one cheek and panic in his wide, tear-filled eyes. He was trapped beneath a fallen support beam, pinned at the ankle.
Zevrin dropped to his knees, fingers already working beneath the beam.
“Don’t move,” he said softly. His voice was altered through the mask—lower, synthetic. Nothing like the boy he used to be.
“I can’t— I can’t breathe—” the child gasped.
“I’ve got you.”
With a grunt, Zevrin pushed upward, ignoring the pain slicing through his arms. Slowly, inch by inch, the beam shifted just enough for him to drag the boy out. He swept him into his arms and turned—
Too late.
A sonic boom cracked the air like a whip.
The wall beside them blew inward, a flash of red and gold flooding the corridor. Feathers rained like razors through the smoke, and through it all stepped a tall figure in a black trench coat, wings wide and shimmering with menace.
Hawks.
Zevrin skidded to a halt, holding the child tight.
“Well,” Hawks said, tilting his head. “Didn’t expect you to play the hero today.”
Zevrin didn’t respond. Words were too dangerous. His hand hovered near the flash grenades on his belt, but Hawks was fast—too fast.
Behind him, fire bloomed.
The far hallway lit up with blue-hot light. Heat rushed in like a tidal wave as Endeavor emerged from the smoke, flames licking up his arms, eyes glowing beneath his mask.
“Drop the child,” he growled.
Zevrin turned, but every path was blocked.
He could hear the kid breathing—rapid and wet, like he was about to pass out. His own breath quickened.
No way out.
His thumb brushed the drive in his pocket. The mission was complete. He could fight—maybe escape—but not with the kid.
And not without blowing his cover.
A beat of silence passed.
Then, slowly, Zevrin knelt.
He laid the boy gently on the floor, between himself and the heroes.
He raised his hands.
The flames dimmed. Hawks didn’t lower his wings, but his posture shifted—just slightly.
Behind his mask, Izuku Midoriya closed his eyes.
He wasn’t a villain.
Not really.
But he hadn’t been a hero in a long, long time.
They bound his wrists. Removed his comms. Confiscated the chip. The child was taken away—safe. Coughing, but alive.
None of the heroes spoke to him directly. Not yet. They didn’t recognize him. His mask stayed on. He didn’t fight them. He barely looked up.
Because part of him—maybe the last part that still hurt—wanted this.
To be caught. To stop running.
Because in the end, no matter how far he got from home, from that rooftop, from the boy who broke and the one who watched it happen…
He still missed the sky.

The sharp clang of handcuffs echoed against cold concrete walls as Zevrin—silent, masked, and still bruised—was led through the corridors of the hero’s safety commission’s headquarters. Despite the chaos of the failed mission still rippling in the air, a grim sense of victory settled among the heroes.
For years, the League of Villains had been a ghost in the shadows—always a step ahead, striking unpredictably, sowing chaos. Their network was vast and elusive, a tangled web of secrets that kept the pro heroes guessing.
But now, Zevrin was caught.
And that changed everything.
In the spacious server room high above the city, top heroes and intelligence analysts gathered around a sprawling digital map projected midair. The glow of red dots blinking across the cityscape represented every known or suspected League member’s location. Tonight, those dots multiplied—and then began to disappear, one by one.
“All right,” the Chief of Police announced, voice calm but resolute, “with Zevrin in custody, we have access to crucial intel—communication logs, safe house coordinates, movement patterns. This is our chance to strike hard and fast.”
A flurry of fingers flew over holographic displays, cross-referencing encrypted transmissions intercepted from Zevrin’s capture with previous surveillance. Slowly but surely, patterns emerged.
“Looks like they’ve been relying on a few key hubs around the city,” said another hero, tapping on a blinking icon. “Their supply chain, meeting points—if we hit these, we cut off their lifeline.”
“Deploy the strike teams,” the Chief of Police ordered. “Divide and conquer. We can’t let them regroup.”
Outside the server room, streets that had long felt tense and unsafe suddenly became the stage for swift, precise action.
Strike teams—pro heroes and hero course students alike—moved with practiced efficiency, encircling buildings, monitoring alleyways, cutting off escape routes. The League of Villains, once confident in their anonymity, now scrambled to evade capture.
In one dim warehouse on the city’s outskirts, a squad of heroes broke down reinforced doors to find several members scrambling to gather their equipment. Their faces twisted in shock as they were swiftly subdued and cuffed.
“Not so fast,” a voice growled. “Your game’s up.”
Elsewhere, in a narrow alley, the echo of pursuit chased a small group of fleeing villains. Panting, desperate, they turned corners and ducked into shadows, only to find themselves boxed in by heroes who had anticipated their every move.
For the first time in years, the League’s carefully crafted façade was cracking.

Back at headquarters, Zevrin sat alone in an interrogation room, the weight of his capture pressing down like a stone. The heroes were confident this victory would cripple the League forever—but the boy beneath the mask felt anything but defeated.
His mind churned with bitter memories and cold calculation.
They had caught him, yes, but they didn’t know the whole truth.
Not yet.

The day bled into night as one by one, League members were brought in—disarmed, defeated, broken.
Reports flooded the war room: “Member X detained in East district.”
“Safehouse Y cleared; no sign of suspects.”
“Communications jammed; channels compromised.”
And through it all, Zevrin’s name was whispered with a mixture of awe and relief.
“The Jaded Swan,” some called him—a shadow that had haunted the heroes for months, now caged.
The network that had seemed untouchable was unraveling fast.
As dawn approached, the last of the League’s known affiliates were in custody, their reign of terror paused indefinitely.

Bakugou hated the quiet.
Not the silence that came after a blast or a fight—he thrived in that—but the kind that crawled under your skin. The kind that filled a classroom when everyone was thinking the same thing but no one had the guts to say it out loud.
Today, that silence pressed heavy through the halls of U.A.
He slammed his locker shut and leaned against it, jaw tight. His classmates were whispering again. Eyes shifting. Tongues biting back speculation like it was candy.
Zevrin.
The name had swept through the school like wildfire by second period.
The villain. The masked enigma who’d been rising through the League’s ranks like a ghost. The one who, according to the growing rumor mill, had been caught last night. Not just caught—cornered, taken down, and dragged in alive.
But that wasn’t the only part setting everyone on edge.
Bakugou had heard it from Kaminari, who’d heard it from Yaoyorozu, who said she'd overheard it from two faculty members walking down the hall:
“They’re considering keeping him here. U.A.”
Rehabilitation.
Bakugou could’ve laughed if it didn’t make him want to throw up.
What the hell did that even mean? Rehabilitating villains? Letting them into his school? Walking the same halls as people they’d tried to kill?
He didn’t buy it.
…But he couldn’t ignore it either.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked past the chattering students, ignoring the murmurs.
“The League’s gone. Wiped out overnight.”
“Did you hear? Zevrin didn’t even fight back when they took him.”
“They say he saved a kid during the mission… weird, right?”
That stopped Bakugou in his tracks.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Just listened.
“Yeah, apparently he pulled a civilian out of the crossfire. No idea why. Some people think he’s not like the others.”
“Tch.” Bakugou exhaled through his teeth. His heart pounded with irritation—or maybe something heavier. Something more complicated.
None of this made sense.
Heroes didn’t save villains. Villains didn’t save kids. The League didn’t fall overnight, not without help from the inside.
He stormed out onto one of the rooftop walkways, the wind tugging at his hair, cold against his face.
If the rumors were true—if that bastard Zevrin really was coming here—Bakugou wanted to know who the hell thought that was a good idea.
He sat on the railing, not dangerously close, but near enough to feel the pull of gravity beneath him.
He wasn't scared of heights. Just the things that came with looking down.
"Quirkless nerds shouldn’t dream."
"Why don’t you take a swan dive off the roof?"
The words haunted him more now than ever.
And he hated that no matter how much time passed, they still circled back to one name.
Izuku.
Deku.
His fingers curled into fists in his pockets.
Izuku was gone. Dead. And Bakugou had said the words that pushed him there.
No matter how many villains he blasted down, no matter how many missions he aced—none of that erased what he’d done.
Now some new villain was on his way to U.A., and Bakugou was expected to share space with him? Train with him? Maybe even protect him?
The wind picked up, and he could almost hear it—like a voice in the back of his mind, whispering through the air:
"People like you don’t get to play hero."
Bakugou gritted his teeth and stood.
If the rumors were true…
If Zevrin was coming to U.A….
Then Katsuki Bakugou was going to find out who he really was—and why the hell something about this villain didn’t sit right with him.

The conference room buzzed with quiet tension.
Zevrin sat motionless in his chair, armored from head to toe in matte black. The mask covering his entire head had no visible seams, no skin, no hair, no voice—just the cold hum of the modulator filtering every word into something calm, blank, and untraceable. Even his eyes were obscured behind dark lenses.
A ghost among legends.
Across the table sat U.A.’s elite. Principal Nezu, brilliant and unnerving, perched like a judge at the head. Eraserhead, arms crossed, sharp eyes trying to cut through the steel. Midnight and Recovery Girl sat quietly, expressions hard to read. Present Mic leaned back in his chair, arms folded, radiating distrust.
And beside him, dressed in a tailored gray suit and with his gaunt frame held upright by sheer willpower, sat All Might.
Zevrin’s breath caught for just a second.
All Might.
His silhouette was smaller than it used to be. Fragile. Thinner. But still unmistakable. The symbol of peace. The man Izuku had once built his entire heart around. And now he was one of the people deciding whether Zevrin would be allowed to walk free—or sent away in chains.
Zevrin said nothing. But inside, the ache was unbearable.
All Might didn’t know he was sitting across from a boy who had once cried just from shaking his hand.
Nezu broke the silence first. “I’ve reviewed the field report. Zevrin made an unusual choice during the League’s final mission: he risked his own capture to save a civilian child.”
“And?” Present Mic said with a scoff. “Villains can fake nobility. Doesn’t mean they’re redeemable.”
“Fake or not, it was a decision. One that separated him from the League’s orders,” Nezu said calmly. “That’s a start.”
“It’s a risk,” Eraserhead said. “He could be manipulating the situation. Laying the groundwork for a deeper plan.”
Zevrin finally spoke. “If I was planning something bigger, I wouldn’t be here.”
The voice that emerged from the mask was emotionless, filtered through his voice modulator. Yet the room stilled.
Nezu continued, “What we’re proposing isn’t freedom. It’s structure. The Villain Rehabilitation Program was created for this very scenario. Zevrin is sixteen. Still a minor. He will be placed under constant observation, in Class 1-A, where he can be trained, monitored, and assessed over time.”
All Might’s voice, gravelly but warm, broke in. “And if he proves to be dangerous?”
“Then we act accordingly,” Nezu said. “But we won’t know unless we give him the opportunity.”
All Might turned to face Zevrin, his brows drawing together.
“You risked your life to save that child,” he said. “Why?”
Zevrin hesitated. His hands curled slightly in his lap.
“…Because no one saved me.”
All Might blinked slowly.
The room shifted again—less tense, but heavier.
Midnight tapped a pen against her notepad. “Let’s say we agree. He joins the program. Is he going to keep that mask on forever?”
Aizawa stepped in before Nezu could answer. “I want to see his face. If he’s going to be in my classroom, I need transparency.”
Zevrin stiffened.
“I can’t take it off.”
A beat.
“Why not?” Midnight asked.
“…My face is heavily scarred. Burned. Disfigured. It’s not something anyone wants to look at.”
Another lie.
Another shield.
Aizawa’s stare didn’t waver. “That’s not the real reason.”
Zevrin tilted his head slightly. “I’m not asking you to believe me. Only to let me prove I’m not a threat.”
There was a long silence.
All Might, to Zevrin’s surprise, was the one to speak next.
“If he proves himself, maybe we’ll see the face underneath one day. Until then… we focus on actions.”
Zevrin could barely breathe. The part of him that had once idolized this man—the one who held on through every quirkless day, every rejection, every rooftop edge—wanted to cry.
But he kept it buried.
“Let’s vote,” Nezu said.
Before they could, Zevrin raised his hand again.
“I have one more request.”
Aizawa’s eyes narrowed.
Nezu nodded. “Speak.”
Zevrin’s voice dropped low. “Himiko Toga. She’s unstable. But she’s not evil. She needs help—like me.”
Present Mic groaned. “She’s got a bloodlust, kid. Literally.”
“She’s traumatized,” Zevrin snapped before catching himself. Then steadier: “She kills because no one taught her how to be seen without violence. She doesn’t even understand why it’s wrong.”
“And you think she deserves the same chance?” Midnight asked, arching a brow.
“Yes. If she’s left to rot in prison, she’ll just get worse. I’ve seen what that looks like.”
“And you care about her?” Eraserhead asked flatly.
Zevrin nodded. “She was my friend. And she saved my life more than once.”
“You do realize what that sounds like, right?” Present Mic said.
“I’m not defending what she’s done,” Zevrin said. “Only asking that you look at why she did it.”
Nezu smiled faintly. “We’ll review her case separately. But your advocacy will be included in our decision.”
Zevrin bowed his head once. “Thank you.”
Nezu raised his paw. “Very well. All in favor of allowing Zevrin into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and placing him in Class 1-A?”
One by one, the votes came in.
Midnight hesitated, then gave a quiet yes. Recovery Girl nodded slowly. Aizawa, to Zevrin’s shock, gave a reluctant thumbs-up.
Present Mic voted no.
All Might paused—then gave the faintest nod.
Majority.
Zevrin was in.
Nezu smiled. “Then it’s settled.”
Zevrin exhaled, so quietly that no one heard.
Except maybe Aizawa.

The hallways of U.A. were brighter than Zevrin thought they would be. Too bright.
His boots echoed as he walked down the long corridor, flanked by two pro heroes. Not shackled — not exactly — but his steps were heavy with the weight of every eye behind every classroom door they passed. Word had already spread: a villain was being transferred into Class 1-A.
Not just any villain.
Zevrin — the mask-wearing ghost who helped dismantle the League of Villains.
He stood before the classroom door for a heartbeat too long.
Then the pro to his left knocked once.
Inside, voices quieted. Chairs scraped.
The door opened.
A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward him — curious, wary, suspicious. Some with open fear, others with barely-hidden fascination.
Katsuki Bakugou sat in the third row near the window, arms folded. He stared at Zevrin with a glare that could peel paint. It wasn’t personal — he looked like that at everyone. Still, Zevrin’s heart twisted once behind the mask. He doesn’t know it’s me.
Standing near the front of the room was Aizawa, cool and unreadable as always.
“This is Zevrin,” he said, eyes scanning the class. “You already know what program he’s part of. Don’t waste time with rumors or drama. He’ll train beside you, and he’ll be treated like any other student — unless he gives us a reason not to.”
Zevrin said nothing.
He didn’t look for reactions. Didn’t give his name again. Didn’t remove the mask.
Then he heard it:
“Zee!”
He turned — and there, sitting in the back row with a grin that stretched like she’d won the lottery, was Himiko Toga.
Zevrin blinked — or would've, if his mask had allowed it.
She leaned back in her chair, spinning a pen between her fingers like a blade. “Took you long enough to show up.”
He walked toward the empty seat beside her. Aizawa didn’t stop him. No one did. The class parted just enough for him to pass through.
As he sat, Toga leaned toward him and whispered with a smirk:
“They stuck me in a room with five pros and a rat with a tie.”
Zevrin tilted his head toward her, voice low through the modulator. “What happened?”
“Oh, you know,” she drawled. “They asked if I’d stab anyone. I said probably not. They asked if I’d drink anyone’s blood. I said not unless I really liked them. Then that grumpy scarf guy said, ‘you’re still dangerous,’ and the rat said, ‘but she’s honest.’”
She shrugged with a small grin.
“I guess they’re desperate.”
Zevrin let out the faintest breath of a laugh. It caught him off guard.
Toga grinned wider, leaning on her desk with a hum. “Looks like we’re roommates again, Zevrin.”
From the front of the class, Aizawa spoke again. “You’ll both be working with me directly. Everyone else — we’re behind schedule. Let’s get to training.”
As Zevrin sat back, the class moved on.
But Bakugou didn’t look away from him.

The classroom went quiet the second the door clicked shut behind Aizawa.
Bakugou didn’t look up right away, but he felt it — the shift in the air, the way conversations died mid-sentence, how even Kaminari stopped messing with his charger cable.
Two of them.
One he recognized from the news — Zevrin. All black, full face mask, tall and still like a statue. The voice distorter he used made him sound more like a machine than a person.
The other one was Toga.
Himiko freaking Toga, wearing the U.A. uniform like it was some kind of joke. She waltzed in like this was her stage, tossed her bag on the desk, and flashed the kind of smile that screamed trouble and didn’t care who knew it.
Bakugou didn’t flinch. He didn’t do flinching.
But he sure as hell felt something crawl down his spine.
He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.
He wasn’t the only one reacting.
Uraraka turned partway around in her chair, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. She looked between the two newcomers, confusion written all over her face. Not fear — not exactly — but the kind of worry that clung to people who saw others hurt before.
Kirishima gave Zevrin a tight nod, the kind you give to a stranger who might explode. His fingers twitched against his pant leg, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.
Iida, seated two desks over, had the exact posture Bakugou expected: spine straight, chin high, judgment barely restrained behind his glasses. He looked like he wanted to lecture the room about second chances but didn’t know where to start.
Todoroki stayed stone silent in the back. Arms crossed. Watching. Always watching.
Mineta whispered something to Kaminari, and both laughed nervously until Yaoyorozu turned around and gave them a look sharp enough to cut steel.
Toga ignored all of it.
Zevrin… said nothing.
Did nothing.
Bakugou kept his arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek. Something about that guy rubbed him the wrong way. Not like danger, exactly. More like… familiarity. Like something just under the surface was wrong and he couldn’t figure out what.
The way Zevrin stood. The way he held his arms stiff at his sides. The way he turned his head slightly when someone laughed too loud.
You've seen someone move like that before.
He shook it off. Waste of time.
Aizawa introduced them both in his usual dry monotone, emphasizing that they were “guests of the new Villain Rehabilitation Initiative,” not full students — yet. They were being tested. Watched. One wrong move, and they were out.
Maybe worse than out.
Bakugou almost scoffed. If they thought throwing a couple of villains into their class was gonna go smoothly, they were idiots. Even if they’d helped take down the League.
No one said it out loud, but the weight in the room said enough.
This wasn’t normal.
This wasn’t okay.
And Bakugou could already feel something churning in his gut.
Of course Aizawa didn’t waste time. Twenty minutes into the day and they were already being shoved into the training arena.
“Pair up,” Aizawa said. “Control-based sparring. Partners will rotate every ten minutes.”
Bakugou cracked his knuckles and stood up. This part he could handle. This part made sense.
He glanced around to see who was left to pair with — and that’s when Aizawa dropped the hammer.
“Bakugou. Zevrin. You’re up first.”
He nearly growled. “Tch.”
As Zevrin stepped onto the mat, his body language didn’t change. He moved smoothly, silently — like he wasn’t even nervous. Just calm. Controlled. And again — off.
Bakugou stared at him across the mat, sparks dancing at his fingertips as he waited for the cue.
Zevrin didn’t flinch. Didn’t crouch. Didn’t posture.
Bakugou hated that.
Hated not knowing what someone was thinking. Hated being watched like he was the one under the microscope.
When the signal came, Bakugou moved fast and clean. Zevrin responded like he'd trained for years — perfect parries, quick footwork, no wasted energy. Too smooth for someone who’d been raised in the League.
They exchanged blows — quick ones — and neither gained ground.
Bakugou’s jaw clenched.
Still nothing from him. Not a grunt. Not a curse. Just that blank, soulless mask staring back.
The ten minutes dragged, tension building in Bakugou’s chest like a fire he couldn’t release.
When the round ended, they broke apart clean. Zevrin bowed — mechanical and shallow — and stepped aside.
Bakugou didn’t bow back.
Didn’t say a word.
He turned on his heel and stalked to the wall, collapsing against it harder than he meant to.
His hands were shaking.
Why?
He rubbed them together, growling low under his breath. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t. He just… didn’t like being around people who made him feel—
Wrong.
He glanced at the rest of the class.
Uraraka was whispering to Yaoyorozu again, throwing quick glances at Zevrin and Toga.
Kirishima offered him a small thumbs-up from across the mats, trying to play it cool.
Todoroki, still and quiet, locked eyes with Bakugou for just a second. No words. But it felt like a question.
Bakugou looked away.
His heart pounded. He didn’t know why.

They called his name.
Well—not his name.
Not anymore.
“Zevrin. You’re up.”
He walked onto the mat with silent steps, the soft thud of his boots muffled by the weight of eyes. Even through the visor of his helmet — pitch black, no glass — he felt the class watching him like a science exhibit. A dangerous one.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t breathe too fast.
Didn’t react.
He’d trained for this.
Control the body. Hide the voice. Erase the tells.
It wasn’t like middle school anymore. No more stammering. No hopeful smiles. No notebooks.
That boy was gone.
Burned away.
Across the mat stood someone he knew too well.
Bakugou Katsuki.
Of course.
Zevrin didn’t need the teacher to call the match. He knew how this would go. Sparks flickered in Bakugou’s palms already. His jaw was tight. Muscles wound like coiled wire.
Bakugou didn’t recognize him.
Not yet.
Zevrin made sure of that.
The suit was sleek, seamless, matte black with reinforced plating over the torso. His face was covered entirely — visor, filter, distortion mic. Even his hair, dyed darker and kept shorter, was tucked under the helmet’s shell. No way to see who was underneath unless he wanted them to.
And he didn’t.
Especially not Bakugou.
Not the boy who told him to jump.
Not the reason he did.
The signal came.
Bakugou moved first — a sharp step forward, right hand cocked, palm already crackling. The explosion missed by inches as Zevrin dipped under it, foot sliding into a defensive pivot.
He didn’t retaliate.
Not yet.
Bakugou growled, spinning into a second strike, faster. His movements were refined now — sharper than middle school. Stronger. But they were still his.
Zevrin remembered this rhythm.
He remembered dodging punches behind the gym building.
He remembered the sting of gravel and smoke.
He remembered lying in a hospital bed with a broken arm, saying he slipped on stairs.
Zevrin blocked a third hit with his forearm, skidding backward slightly.
He didn’t grunt. Didn’t speak.
The mask filtered everything.
The class was silent. Watching.
The girl with the earjacks whispered to a tall one with white-and-red hair. Someone with spiky red hair clenched his fists. Another girl near the front kept flicking her eyes between the fighters, visibly anxious.
He didn’t know their names.
Didn’t want to.
They weren’t his concern.
Only Bakugou was.
Because Bakugou fought like he had something to prove.
Zevrin fought like he had nothing left.
He parried a wild strike and twisted Bakugou’s wrist — just enough to make him stumble. Not enough to cause damage. Not enough to win.
Zevrin wasn’t here to win.
He was here to observe.
To survive.
To blend in.
Bakugou stumbled back a step, breath loud and angry. “Tch.”
Zevrin remained silent. Breath steady. Body still.
He’d be lying if he said the fight didn’t rattle him.
Not physically. That part was easy.
But being this close to the boy who pushed him over the edge—
Who called him names.
Who told him no one would ever care.
Who said he should jump—
It made something cold settle in his chest.
The round ended. The teacher called time.
Zevrin bowed, a motion drilled into him from months of League etiquette — ironic, considering the League didn’t care for formality.
Bakugou didn’t bow back.
Of course he didn’t.
He just stared at him — eyes narrowed — like Zevrin had touched something he didn’t mean to.
Then turned and walked away without a word.
Zevrin returned to the edge of the training room, back pressed to the wall, arms folded.
He felt every heartbeat echo through the helmet.
Felt every suppressed breath.
Toga appeared beside him, slinking into the shadow of his stillness. She nudged his arm lightly.
“Well, that was hot,” she said, voice bright.
He didn’t reply.
She leaned in. “He doesn’t recognize you, huh?”
Zevrin shook his head, just once.
“Would’ve thought the drama would be instant,” she mused. “You’re really doing the silent brooding thing well, by the way.”
Still nothing.
She sighed, but there was something fond in it. “You’re gonna have to talk eventually. They’re already making up nicknames for you.”
Zevrin watched the others. Watched Bakugou pace the far corner, fists still clenched. Watched the way some of the students avoided looking at him, while others stared too long.
He didn’t speak.
Not even to Toga.
Because if he started speaking, he might not stop.
And if he didn’t stop, the mask might crack.
And if it cracked…
Bakugou might recognize the voice of the boy he buried years ago.
And that would ruin everything.

The dorms weren’t what he expected.
They were too... warm.
The building itself looked nothing like the crumbling warehouses and abandoned offices he’d learned to sleep in. There were clean walls here. Hallways that smelled like soap and warm fabric softener. The floorboards creaked in places — not from age, but from being walked on too many times by people who were safe enough to leave footprints.
Zevrin stayed silent at the threshold.
The others moved around him — students laughing, dropping bags, kicking off shoes. He didn’t know any of their names. Didn’t want to. Their voices blurred into background noise, muffled further by the internal audio dampeners in his mask.
No one approached him.
No one had to.
He knew the role he was meant to play. The dangerous one. The new variable. The villain.
The mask helped.
And it wasn’t just a mask of metal and ceramic plating — it was posture. Stillness. Precision. He kept his arms close to his sides. His steps soft. His head angled slightly down — not submissive, but unreadable.
It worked. They stared, but didn’t speak.
Except one.
“Your room’s upstairs, second on the left,” said the tall boy with glasses — the class rep, probably. Zevrin didn’t know his name, just his type.
Efficient. Orderly. A little too rigid.
Zevrin nodded once in acknowledgment but said nothing.
“Common room is open whenever,” the boy added. “We take turns with cooking. There’s a schedule posted by the kitchen.”
Zevrin made no move to read it.
He didn’t plan on cooking.
Or eating with them.
Or sitting on their bright-colored couches.
He was here to serve a sentence.
Nothing more.

His room was clean. Blank. Identical to all the others, but untouched. A bed, a desk, a dresser, and a wide window that overlooked the campus.
He closed the door softly behind him.
Finally — finally — he let out a breath.
His hands unclenched, just a little.
He removed his gloves and flexed his fingers. Pale skin, faint calluses. Hands that had both saved and destroyed. The ghosts of them lived under his fingernails.
He stood in front of the mirror.
The helmet stayed on.
He reached for the seal at the jawline — paused — then let his hand fall away.
Not yet.
Not here.

He unpacked with clinical efficiency. Two sets of clothes. One set of armor maintenance tools. A small hardcase with secure locks — the only thing he kept from the League. Not because it was useful.
Because it was a reminder.
He set it in the desk drawer and didn’t open it.
The room’s overhead light flickered softly as he clicked it off and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence felt deafening.
This place didn’t creak like the League’s safehouses. It didn’t hum like hideouts built near generators or rain-slicked drainage pipes. It was… still.
Too still.
There were no orders being shouted. No escape plans. No coded phrases to memorize or surveillance drones to reprogram. No Dabi. No Spinner. No Shigaraki.
Just white walls and the sound of laughter echoing faintly from the floor below.
Zevrin sat with his back straight and stared at the door.
It felt like it would swing open at any second.
Like the dream would end and he'd wake up with the taste of copper in his mouth, bruises under his ribs, and the wind howling through a cracked ceiling.
But it didn’t.
This was real.

A knock came.
Three soft raps. Polite.
He didn’t answer.
“Zee~!” came a sing-song voice from the hall. “You hiding already?”
Toga.
Of course.
Her footsteps shuffled away without waiting for a reply.
He exhaled.
Not because she was gone.
Because she was the only one who might ever knock again.
The others wouldn’t bother. They were still downstairs, talking about him when they thought he wasn’t listening. The new “rehabilitation case.” The masked one. The silent one.
He wondered if Bakugou was talking about him, too.
No—Bakugou wouldn’t talk. He’d stew. Grit his teeth. He didn’t recognize him. But he’d felt something during the fight, hadn’t he?
A flicker of familiarity?
Zevrin pushed the thought away.
It didn’t matter.
He was here to graduate through this program and disappear.
Back to the margins.
Back to nothing.
He leaned his helmeted head against the cool wall and let silence settle around him like armor.

The dorms were louder than usual.
Not noisy, just… full. Energy humming just beneath the surface. He could feel it in the way everyone spoke with lowered voices, eyes darting toward the far wall of the common room, where the two new arrivals had entered earlier.
The villain kids.
Or whatever the hell they were supposed to be now.
He hadn’t said a word since the match ended.
Didn’t need to.
Didn’t trust himself to.
He’d expected the League of Villains to be locked up in Tartarus or wherever they stuffed people like that. Instead, they were being invited to sleep a hallway away.
And one of them had gone toe-to-toe with him today in training.
Zevrin.
The guy hadn’t spoken a single word. Just moved like he’d been through hell and didn’t flinch when he saw fire. Controlled. Cold. Calculated.
Too cold for someone their age.
Too quiet.
Bakugou leaned against the wall near the dorm staircase, watching silently as students filtered up with bags, snacks, and half-hearted jokes. The usual energy had dulled into wariness. Nobody knew how to act.
A few of the extras were whispering to each other.
“That mask is creepy as hell…”
“Do you think he ever takes it off?”
“Bet he sleeps in it.”
“Toga’s just straight-up smiling like it’s normal.”
Bakugou scowled faintly but didn’t speak.
It wasn’t like he didn’t agree.
He just didn’t want to give voice to the knot in his chest.

He waited until most of them were upstairs before pushing off the wall and heading up himself. His duffel bag slung over his shoulder, still half-zipped, uniform jacket loose around his waist.
The hallway was quiet now. Just the hum of distant voices and the creak of one door closing.
He stopped halfway down the corridor, eyes narrowing.
Zevrin stood outside one of the rooms. Still masked. Still silent.
The guy didn’t even look like he was breathing under that suit.
And then — without a word — Zevrin stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
Bakugou turned to his own door.
Directly next to it.
He stared at the numbers for a second.
Then again.
Then back at Zevrin’s closed door.
“…Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

He didn’t even bother turning on the light. Just dumped the duffel on his bed and paced once.
Twice.
Zevrin was right there. A wall away.
Something about the guy had crawled under his skin during their sparring match. Not because he lost — he didn’t — but because something in the way Zevrin moved felt practiced. Like it was muscle memory from a place Bakugou had never seen.
He’d seen real villains before. Fought some.
Zevrin didn’t fight like a showboat. He fought like someone who had to survive.
Every block, every shift of weight — it was calculated. Clean.
Like someone who’d been training for years, not months.
But that wasn’t what really got to him.
No — it was the silence.
The way it reminded him of something he couldn’t name.
A hole in his memory.
A burn scar in his head that never healed right.

Bakugou didn’t notice he’d been staring at the wall until there was a knock at his open door.
He turned sharply.
Kirishima stood there, eyebrows slightly raised, holding two bottles of water. “Yo. You good?”
Bakugou grunted. “Fine.”
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
Kirishima smiled knowingly. “Nah. You’re usually yelling about something.”
Bakugou didn’t answer. He just looked at the bottle in Kirishima’s hand until the other boy handed it over.
They sat in silence for a second. Kirishima didn’t push, which was why Bakugou didn’t throw him out.
Finally, Bakugou muttered, “They put that guy in the room next to mine.”
Kirishima blinked. “Zevrin?”
He nodded once.
“You think he’s dangerous?”
Bakugou paused. “No.”
“Then…?”
“I don’t think he’s dangerous,” he said slowly, “but he ain’t normal.”
Kirishima leaned back on his hands. “None of us are, man.”
Bakugou shot him a look, but it wasn’t angry.
Just… distracted.
Kirishima didn’t push further. Just clinked his water bottle lightly against Bakugou’s and stood up.
“I think we’ll figure him out eventually,” he said. “You always do.”
Then he left, his footsteps fading into the hall.
Bakugou stared at the water bottle in his hand for a long time.
Zevrin hadn’t spoken once. Not a single word.
He thought about the way the guy fought.
The way he bowed after the match, like it was second nature.
The way something inside Bakugou had stuttered when he looked into that black visor.
Why the hell did it feel like a ghost was standing next to him?

The classroom was too bright.
Zevrin kept to the back, standing against the far wall like a statue. Mask sealed. Arms crossed. Not touching anything. Not making a sound.
Just existing was loud enough.
The students filtered in one by one — sleep-rumpled, half-dressed in their uniforms, muttering about training schedules and dorm chores. Some of them glanced his way. Most tried not to. A few stared longer than they meant to.
He didn’t return the looks.
Didn’t give them a reason to think he was anything but unreadable.
At his side, Toga plopped into her seat like she owned the place. Arms draped over the backrest. Legs crossed in a dramatic sprawl. She stretched like a cat in the sun and grinned.
“You’re extra broody today, Zee,” she said, voice low.
He didn’t respond.
“You’re doing that still-as-death thing,” she added, then leaned in close. “You're freaking them out. It’s fun, but it’s not very ‘I want to make friends’ of you.”
Zevrin shifted his weight slightly.
“That’s not the point,” he muttered, voice run through the distortion in his helmet — low, metallic, almost synthetic.
Toga raised an eyebrow. “It kinda is. We’re not in the League anymore, remember? Gotta charm the locals.”
She stood up suddenly.
Zevrin stiffened.
“Come on, tall-dark-and-spooky,” she sing-songed, grabbing his sleeve. “Let’s make friends!”

He didn’t fight her.
Would’ve drawn more attention if he did.
Toga all but dragged him toward the front of the room like she was presenting a prize at a school festival.
“Hi, everyone!” she said brightly. “We didn’t really get to talk yesterday, because everything was super tense and explosive and mysterious — but I’m Himiko Toga, and this is my bestie-slash-roommate-slash-broody statue, Zevrin.”
There were a few awkward waves. A muttered “hey” or two.
Zevrin stayed still beside her.
“He doesn’t talk much,” Toga added, glancing at him. “But he’s super loyal and surprisingly not a murder machine. Anymore.”
“…Toga-san,” the girl with gravity-defying hair — Uraraka — said hesitantly, “are you... like, serious?”
Toga’s grin softened. “Dead serious. We’re here to be better, right?”
There was a pause.
Then, surprisingly, Uraraka smiled back.
“Alright. Welcome.”
Toga lit up.
“See, Zee? Told you we wouldn’t get eaten alive.”
He nodded once, quietly grateful. No one else had to know how badly his chest hurt just standing there.

The students — cautious but curious — began introducing themselves. Not all at once, but naturally. In fragments.
The class rep with glasses was Iida. He bowed stiffly and welcomed them with the intensity of a man shaking hands at a funeral.
The boy with the red-and-white hair introduced himself as Todoroki — calm, quiet, watching Zevrin with a kind of unspoken understanding.
Tsuyu Asui, with calm eyes and a patient voice, told him to call her “Tsu.” Zevrin nodded in return. She didn’t ask questions, and he appreciated that.
Even Uraraka came over to offer him a seat — which he took, only because Toga elbowed him in the ribs until he moved.
Zevrin didn’t speak unless spoken to. But he listened.
Carefully.
He learned names.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Habits.
They were all still cautious.
Even Bakugou, who sat with his head down, arms crossed, only looked at him once — brief, sharp, unreadable. But Zevrin knew that gaze. It wasn’t suspicion.
It was weight.
It was something unspoken.
Something buried.

It was Kirishima — sharp grin, bright voice — who broke the room’s surface tension.
He walked over, leaning against the side of Zevrin’s desk.
“Hey, man. That was a hell of a spar yesterday.”
Zevrin gave him a nod.
Kirishima chuckled. “You’re really good at not talking. Like... impressively good.”
Toga smirked from behind her desk. “He’s a master of brooding. Top of his class.”
Kirishima laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, uh… can I ask something kinda stupid?”
Zevrin tilted his head a little.
Kirishima gestured toward the helmet. “Why do you wear the mask all the time? Just curious.”
The room went dead silent.
All movement stopped.
Even Bakugou looked up.
Zevrin’s body remained still — but inside, something dropped.
His fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the desk.
Toga’s expression faltered.
Kirishima’s smile wilted a little. “Ah—sorry, dude. That was probably rude. Forget I asked—”
“My face is...” Zevrin said slowly, voice low and quiet beneath the distortion, “…disturbing to look at.”
The words landed like a stone in water.
Kirishima blinked.
“Oh—man, I’m sorry. That’s not what I—”
He was cut off by the sound of the classroom door opening.
Aizawa walked in, scarf hanging lazily around his neck, dark eyes scanning the room like he’d heard every word.
“Seats. Now,” he said.
The class scattered.
Zevrin sat back down slowly, still staring straight ahead.
As Aizawa began roll call, Zevrin stared at the desk in front of him.
He could still feel their eyes.
Even the ones that weren’t looking.
He wasn’t angry at Kirishima.
He wasn’t even upset, not really.
It had just… caught him off guard.
Because it wasn’t really about the face.
It was about what they might recognize in it.
The scars weren't the danger.
The memories were.

Bakugou sat in his seat, arms folded, jaw tight. The new kids were already here—stationed like landmines at the front of the room.
Zevrin and Toga.
Villains. Or… former villains. Or whatever the hell this experiment was supposed to be.
No one had explained it to the class. Not really.
They were just here now.
Toga smiled like she didn’t have a care in the world. Zevrin stood next to her like a shadow carved out of steel—face covered, body unreadable, masked head slightly lowered like he didn’t want to be seen, but didn’t care if he was.
Bakugou narrowed his eyes.
The guy didn’t even fidget. He just stood still. Not like someone who was confident. Not even like someone dangerous. More like… someone used to being watched.
Way too used to it.
It made Bakugou’s skin itch.
Toga launched into her little performance. “Hi, everyone! This is Zevrin. Don’t mind the silence, he’s just shy! Or terrifying. Depends on the day.”
She talked like they were transferring in from a different school, not a disbanded terrorist organization.
Still, Uraraka offered a cautious smile. “Well… welcome.”
Of course she did.
The girl couldn’t turn down a puppy with fangs.
Iida looked like his tie was strangling him. Tsu just blinked. Todoroki’s gaze lingered a second too long.
Everyone was waiting for someone to react.
Bakugou didn’t move.
He just stared at the back of Zevrin’s head.
There was no voice. No eye contact. Not even a twitch of muscle. That full-black mask didn’t give him anything to work with. Not expression. Not identity. Not intention.
Just a void.
It pissed him off.
Not because Zevrin did anything wrong—but because Bakugou didn’t know what box to put him in.
That mask…
Bakugou had never seen anything like it.
It wasn’t flashy like a villain’s disguise. It wasn’t stylized like a hero’s costume.
It was functional. Blank. Like a burial shroud made of carbon fiber.
Not even his hair showed. Just silence wrapped in black.
For all they knew, he could’ve been anyone under there.
And somehow, that unsettled Bakugou more than if he’d shown his face outright.
The tension cracked a little when Kirishima, all sunshine and easygoing nerves, leaned forward from his desk.
“Hey, man. That was a pretty intense spar yesterday,” he said, friendly. “You’ve got, like, serious control. Is it from your quirk, or training, or—?”
Zevrin didn’t answer.
Kirishima tried again, this time a little more hesitant. “Also, uh… if it’s not too weird—why the mask? You wear it all the time.”
Bakugou lifted his head slightly.
The room froze.
Even Kaminari looked up from his notebook. Ashido stopped halfway through applying eyeliner.
Zevrin didn’t flinch.
Didn’t react for a full three seconds.
Then finally, in that strange, modulated voice:
“My face is disturbing to look at.”
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even bitter.
It was just… flat.
The silence that followed was immediate.
Kirishima opened his mouth like he might apologize again, but Aizawa chose that moment to enter the room.
“Seats. Now.”
The timing was too perfect.
As the class settled in, Bakugou leaned back and stared at his desk, arms still folded tight across his chest.
He could still hear Zevrin’s voice.
My face is disturbing to look at.
It wasn’t the words that got him. It was the way he said it.
No shame. No pride. Just fact. Like someone who’d stopped arguing with the mirror a long time ago.
And for some reason, that made Bakugou’s chest clench in a way he hated.
He didn’t know Zevrin.
Didn’t know how he fought, or where he came from.
But something about that voice—that stillness—hit him too hard. Like it brushed past his ears and right into some place inside him that still echoed.
A place that hadn’t stopped hurting since the day someone told him the truth about a kid who never made it off a rooftop.
No reason to connect the two.
No logic to it.
Just a feeling.
A whisper in his bones.
"You're not supposed to feel sorry for someone like that," he told himself.
"You're not supposed to feel anything at all."
But he did.
And it burned like hell.

The cafeteria at U.A. was loud in a way that grated on Zevrin’s nerves.
Not the volume—he could handle that. It was the casualness of it all. The way students moved without checking every exit. How they laughed with their backs turned. No one flinched when a tray slammed. No one scanned the room like their life depended on it.
No one but him.
Zevrin’s eyes tracked everything, even behind the mask. His tray of food—simple, small—rested in his hands like a shield. His fingers curled too tightly around the edge, the tension refusing to release.
Toga, on the other hand, moved like she’d always belonged there.
She was balancing her tray with one hand, the other waving at someone across the room. Her laughter carried, bright and sharp, and people turned to look—some smiling, some bristling, some just curious.
She didn't care.
She spun on her heel suddenly, making Zevrin stop short.
“There!” she said, pointing toward a table where Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki, and Tsuyu were already seated. “That’s the friendliest table. Come on.”
Zevrin said nothing.
He followed.
Toga stopped just short of the table, flashing her best I’m definitely not dangerous anymore smile.
“Hiya! Mind if we sit with you guys?”
Uraraka blinked, then looked at the others.
Iida adjusted his glasses, posture tensing for a heartbeat before he gave a slow, cautious nod.
Todoroki didn’t react much at all—he glanced at Zevrin once, unreadable, then back to his food.
Tsuyu offered a quiet, neutral, “You can sit with us if you want, kero.”
Uraraka looked between them all, searching for any hard resistance. When she found none, she turned back to Toga with a smile.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Toga made a delighted noise, dropped her tray on the table, and launched into a hug around Uraraka’s shoulders.
“Eeeee! I knew you were my favorite!” she squealed.
Uraraka made a noise of surprise—something between a squeak and a gasp—as she tried not to drop her water bottle.
Everyone stared.
Except Zevrin, who quietly pulled out a chair and sat.
It took a few minutes for things to settle. Toga was eating like she hadn’t had a full plate in weeks (she probably hadn’t), while Zevrin picked at his food with careful, efficient movements.
The others talked. Slowly at first.
Iida brought up something about Eraserhead’s expectations for homework. Tsuyu mentioned the upcoming endurance drills. Uraraka laughed softly at a memory from yesterday’s quirk control class—Todoroki had apparently frozen the doorknob off a training room again.
Zevrin listened.
Carefully.
He wasn’t trying to join the conversation. He didn’t need to. He was learning.
Names.
Dynamics.
Habits.
Every word, every movement, was stored away. Part instinct. Part survival.
Still… he wasn’t as tense as he had been earlier that morning.
He didn’t realize that until he caught himself relaxing his grip on his fork.
“So,” Uraraka said, looking between them as she unwrapped a rice ball, “we do this thing sometimes—movie night in the common room. Kind of a wind-down after training. Everyone piles onto the couches or floor, and we take turns picking films.”
Toga perked up immediately. “Movie night? That sounds adorable.”
Uraraka grinned. “It can be. Mostly. Last week Kaminari picked a horror movie and screamed louder than the characters.”
Iida adjusted his glasses again. “It’s a useful bonding exercise. Builds team morale.”
“Sounds like fun,” Toga said. She turned to Zevrin, elbowing him lightly. “What do you think? Wanna watch dumb hero movies with our new almost-friends?”
Zevrin didn’t answer right away.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he wasn’t sure what to do with the heat he felt across the room.
His head tilted slightly. His eyes shifted behind the mask.
Bakugou.
Across the cafeteria, seated with his usual group—Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, Mina, and Jirou—Bakugou was watching him.
Not talking. Not eating. Just staring.
His mouth was a hard, flat line. His eyes sharp beneath his bangs. His tray of food untouched.
He hadn’t moved in the last five minutes.
Zevrin looked away quickly.
A dull ache pressed against the base of his skull—not pain. Memory.
Bakugou wasn’t suspicious.
But something in him had always been able to sense… tension.
And Zevrin had always been full of it.
“…I’ll think about it,” Zevrin said finally, voice low and flat.
Toga gave him a look. “That means yes.”
Uraraka smiled. “Cool. Come if you want. We usually start around eight.”
Iida nodded. “You’ll be welcome, Zevrin.”
Zevrin gave a small nod in return.
But across the room, Bakugou’s eyes hadn’t left him.
And even surrounded by chatter and laughter and warm food, Zevrin couldn’t shake the memory of the rooftop beneath his feet.

Bakugou hated the cafeteria.
Too many voices. Too much light. Too many damn people pretending they didn’t know they were sitting across from villains.
He sat with his usual group—Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, Mina, and Jirou—but he wasn’t listening.
Didn’t care about Kaminari’s new playlist.
Didn’t laugh when Sero flicked a straw wrapper at Kirishima and missed.
Didn’t listen to Mina gossiping to Jirou about some boy.
His eyes were on them.
The two newcomers.
The ones the heroes were apparently trusting enough to walk freely into their school and sit at their tables like they belonged there.
Toga, of course, soaked it in like a sponge. Loud, chaotic, giddy in the kind of way that made your skin crawl and your brain second-guess whether her smile meant trouble or charm.
But Zevrin…
Zevrin was quiet. Too quiet.
Bakugou hadn’t expected to watch him so closely.
He wasn’t even sure when he’d locked on. But there it was—his eyes tracking every movement Zevrin made, like they were tied to him.
When the guy sat down with Uraraka’s group, Bakugou nearly scoffed. Of course. The soft ones. The bleeding hearts. Uraraka probably thought she was saving them just by smiling.
But Zevrin didn’t respond like someone being saved.
He sat like a question no one wanted to answer.
When he reached for his tray, Bakugou stiffened.
Because for the first time since the masked freak arrived, he moved to eat—and that meant—
The mask came up.
Just a little. Just enough to expose his mouth.
Just enough to see skin.
The curve of a lip.
A hint of his jaw.
And—
Bakugou froze.
Freckles.
Scattered like stars across pale skin.
His breath caught.
For one horrible second, he saw Izuku sitting there.
Not fully. Not obviously. But in the soft shape of his mouth. The tilt of his chin. The way he chewed without sound, tucked into himself like someone trying not to be noticed, even while half the room was watching him.
Freckles.
A gut punch wrapped in something too quiet to scream.
He looked away—hard.
Stared down at his own tray. Fork untouched. Appetite gone.
But it was too late.
His brain was already spiraling.
If Deku were here, how would he react to this program? To villains in the classroom? Would he be nervous? Hopeful? Would he ramble about second chances and strategy like he used to in middle school, annoying and bright and too good for this damn world?
Would he—
Bakugou slammed the thought shut like a cage door.
Izuku was dead.
There was no “if.”
He wasn’t here to have opinions. He wasn’t here to smile awkwardly at Toga or whisper theories about Zevrin’s quirk. He wasn’t here to get flustered when Kirishima offered a high five or cry at a hero movie.
He was—
Gone.
Because Bakugou told him to jump.
He forced his eyes back up before he could stop himself.
Zevrin hadn’t noticed him watching.
Or maybe he had.
But he didn’t react.
Except—
When Toga leaned too close and said something Bakugou couldn’t hear, the corners of Zevrin’s mouth twitched.
Just a little.
Not a smile. Not really.
Just… movement.
Like he didn’t want to smile but couldn’t stop it.
That got under Bakugou’s skin the worst.
Because it felt familiar.
Because Izuku used to do that too—that small, unguarded quirk of the lips when something unexpected amused him. When he didn’t want to laugh, but still felt it anyway.
Bakugou’s chest twisted.
He told himself it wasn’t the same.
This wasn’t Deku.
This was Zevrin.
Some emotionless masked weapon of the League, dropped into their class like a test they weren’t allowed to fail.
But…
Freckles.
Why the hell did he have freckles?
Bakugou clenched his fists under the table.
He didn’t say anything to Kirishima when he asked if he was okay.
Didn’t answer Kaminari when he tried to lighten the mood.
Just kept his eyes locked anywhere but that table now.
Anywhere but that ghost in black who smiled too quietly and didn’t laugh right and sat with people who didn’t know what loss looked like.
He shoved his tray forward. No appetite.
His voice was a growl when he finally spoke:
“I’m going to the training room.”
Kirishima called after him, but Bakugou didn’t hear it.
He was already walking away.
Not because of Zevrin.
Not because of freckles or posture or what-if whispers in the back of his skull.
No.
He just needed to punch something before the ghost behind that mask started feeling too damn real.

Zevrin’s dorm room was… clean.
Too clean.
Sterile, even, like a hotel room no one had stayed in yet. The sheets were crisp and untouched. The desk was empty. No posters. No clutter. No personality.
Just a bed, a chair, a closet—and him.
He stood in the middle of it, staring at the walls, arms limp at his sides, mask still on.
His reflection caught in the dark window like a ghost.
No hair. No face. No eyes.
Just a blank shape, wrapped in fabric and silence.
He peeled the mask off slowly.
Not because he wanted to breathe.
Because he wanted to look at himself and remember.
What the hell am I doing here?
The thought wasn’t angry. Just... tired.
The conversation from lunch drifted back to him like fog.
Toga throwing her arms around Uraraka. Iida speaking with the stiffness of someone trying so hard to be kind. Todoroki’s long, unreadable stare. Tsuyu’s cautious nod. Uraraka’s easy, careful smile when she invited them to movie night.
He’d watched their faces.
He didn’t know them.
Didn’t trust them.
But in that moment, they hadn’t looked at him like a weapon.
They looked at him like someone who might belong there, eventually.
And he hated how much that unsettled him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, mask in his lap, fingers tracing the grooves of the voice filter.
Freckles.
He’d seen Bakugou’s eyes across the cafeteria.
Burning into him like they always had.
He’d caught it when he raised the mask to eat.
The stare.
The tension.
The look of someone who recognized something—not enough to make the connection, but enough to feel the ghost of it.
Zevrin turned away from the window.
Got up. Pushed the chair back. Sat again.
Got up.
Why the hell was he even thinking about going?
Movie night?
What part of him even wanted that?
He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t like them. He’d stood on the other side of that line and didn’t regret it—not all of it, anyway.
He was here because he saved one kid.
One single kid.
And Nezu thought that was enough to gamble a rehabilitation experiment on.
It was insane.
It was insulting.
It was…
Exactly what All Might would’ve wanted.
The thought hit him like a whisper in his ribs.
He closed his eyes.
The old him—the Izuku who used to scribble hero notes and cry during rescue footage—would’ve begged for this chance. Would’ve jumped at the idea of joining a team. Of being seen as a potential hero again.
But that boy was gone.
Had to be.
Still…
The quiet in the dorm pressed in from every direction.
And Zevrin, alone with his thoughts, felt the hollowness creeping in like a tide.
He stood again.
Moved to the desk.
Pulled the mask back on—not in a rush, not like armor, just… slowly. Carefully. Like slipping back into a version of himself that didn’t shake when he breathed too hard.
Then he stepped into the hallway.
The dorm was quiet this time of evening, most students already in the common room or their rooms.
He paused for a moment, hand on the railing, listening.
Laughter floated from downstairs.
Kirishima’s voice.
Uraraka’s laugh.
Toga shrieking something about popcorn.
He didn’t move for a long moment.
Then his fingers curled tighter around the railing.
And he started down the stairs.

Bakugou stood just around the corner from the Class 1-A common room, back pressed to the wall like he was about to breach enemy territory.
The lights from the open space bled into the hallway, casting shifting shadows on the floor. The distant buzz of a movie was underscored by laughter — Kaminari's, loud and dumb; Toga’s, sharp and reckless; Uraraka’s, warm and too genuine for a night like this.
He didn’t want to be here.
Didn’t even know why he was here.
Except—
Zevrin showed up.
Kirishima had passed him in the hallway ten minutes ago, too casual, too cheerful.
“Yo, man, you’re missing movie night. Zevrin actually came down. He’s just sittin’ quiet, but still, that’s something, right?”
Bakugou didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
His feet were already moving before his brain decided to argue.
Now here he was, frozen in the hallway like a goddamn coward, listening.
Just listening.
Toga was narrating the movie like a live stream, throwing in her own sound effects.
“Pew pew, boom! Look at that explosion, Uraraka, that’s practically a love letter to you.”
“No, that’s Bakugou,” someone laughed.
Kirishima chimed in. “You kidding? Bakugou is an explosion.”
They laughed again.
Bakugou didn’t smile.
But he didn’t walk away either.
He told himself he was just making sure Zevrin wasn’t up to something.
That the mask didn’t hide a smirk at how stupidly trusting everyone was.
That this wasn’t a setup — or a distraction — or a long game waiting to bite them in the ass.
He told himself it was about control.
Surveillance.
Tactical caution.
But deep down?
That was bullshit.
He was here because Zevrin felt too familiar.
And the more time passed, the worse it got.

He wasn’t looking at Zevrin earlier today.
Not really.
But he’d seen it anyway.
The way he raised the mask just high enough to eat. Just for a second. Just enough to show a mouth that twitched when Toga said something stupid. Just enough to show—
Freckles.
And Bakugou hated himself for it.
For remembering.
For reaching into his head and dragging Izuku Midoriya out of the grave again, just to compare some silent masked freak to the kid he told to jump.
He stared at the floor now.
Fists clenched at his sides.
If this were Izuku…
He wouldn’t sit on the sidelines. Wouldn’t be lurking in doorways like some creep.
He’d be in there. Watching. Laughing. Making everyone uncomfortable with his endless damn rambling about hero stats or explosions or “Kacchan, that’s so cool—”
Bakugou squeezed his eyes shut.
It wasn’t Izuku.
Izuku was—
Gone.

Inside the common room, the movie picked up again. Some dumb action scene with flying debris and dramatic slow-motion. Toga’s voice rose in excitement. Zevrin’s didn’t join in.
But Bakugou could picture him sitting on the floor or tucked in the corner of a couch, body quiet, gaze sharp, like he didn’t want to be there and didn’t know what to do with himself now that he was.
It made Bakugou’s chest ache.
Because for all the things that were off about Zevrin…
So much still felt too right.
And he wasn’t ready to ask why yet.

He didn’t move from that doorway for twenty full minutes.
Not until the credits rolled.
Not until Zevrin stood up to leave.
And even then, he waited—listened to the footsteps, the quiet retreat, the soft door click upstairs.
Only when Zevrin was gone did Bakugou finally walk back to his room.
His jaw was tight.
His thoughts a mess.
And his chest was too full of a name he couldn’t say anymore.