Dante kept running.
He didn't know where to go, what he was going to do—he just ran. His feet pounded against the wet pavement, water splashing beneath his feet as he kept running. Streetlights blurred past him, the cold wind stung against his wet skin, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Because if he did, the thoughts would catch up to him.
His father was probably gone, a hero would catch and arrest him before long. His mother was dead, long gone. The world had already branded his father a villain.
What would they do if they found out about Dante? Would they brand him as a villain?
No one would listen to the truth. No one would care, so what's the point?
Dante's legs carried him up a fire escape, metal crying out beneath his weight as he climbed further and further up. When he reached the top, he stumbled forward, his hands gripping the rooftops edge.
The city stretched out before him—cold, vast, uncaring.
Dante's breath shuddered.
He was only eight years old. Eight. But inside, he was much older. And so, so tired.
Maybe if he let go now, it wouldn't matter so much anymore. Maybe it would all just end.
Then—
A voice.
"You sure about that, kid?"
Dante sighed. He spun around, his heart racing in his chest.
A man stood at the other end of the rooftop, hands in his pockets. His scarf fluttered slightly in the wind, and his sharp, tired eyes locked onto Dante with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
Dante didn't know this man but he looked somewhat familiar, maybe he'd seen him in the news?
Ah yes, Eraserhead. How could he forget such a silly name.
But right now, none of that really mattered.
Dante's eyes rolled. "Go away."
Aizawa didn't move. "Can't do that."
Dante sighed, but replied with a shaky breath. "Why? Because you're a hero?" Dante scoffed and let out a bitter laugh. "You don't even know me."
Aizawa raised an eyebrow, "You talk as if you've lived a lifetime, kid." Aizawa looked up, his tone unreadable "well, I know enough. Inknow when a kid looks like when they've given up."
Dante's jaw clenched, "Yeah, maybe because there's nothing left for me to hold on to."
Aizawa studied him for a while, then sighed. "You must've lost someone, yeah?"
Dante didn't even need to reply, he didn't want to.
Aizawa took a cautious step forward, "I won't pretend to understand what you're going through. And I'm not going to stand here and tell you that things will just magically get better."
Dante scoffed. "Then what?"
Aizawa stopped a few feet away, his gaze steady. "How about I'll just tell you the truth?"
Dante stayed silent, the wind brushing against his wet golden blonde hair.
Aizawa crouched down slightly, meeting Dante's strange and unique eyes. "The world doesn't care about fairness. It doesn't care about right or wrong. And people like you?" His voice softened just a little. "You've been dealt a bad hand."
Dante swallowed, his throat dry.
"But letting yet his world decide who you are?" Aizawa shook his head. "That's a choice!"
A choice.
His whole life—his past life— he had been trapped. Hurt. Powerless. Now, here, in this new world, he had been given something different.
But did it matter?
He turned, looking at the long drop below.
"You really think you're out of options huh?" Aizawa asked.
Dante's fingers twitched.
Then finally, he stepped back.
Aizawa didn't say anything at first. He just nodded. "Good."
…
…
The diner was quiet. An old school diner in the middle of the city.
Dante sat in a corner booth, across from Aizawa, staring down at the steaming plate of food in front of him. It wasn't much—just a simple meal of rice, grilled meat, and some fries on the side. But to him, it was everything.
It felt warm. It felt real. And it reminded him of his mother, the mother had lost.
His stomach twisted, and before he knew it, his hands were moving. He picked up a fry and shoved it into his mouth, barely even tasting it before reaching for another. Then another.
Aizawa watched, sipping his coffee, saying nothing. He didn't rush Dante, didn't ask any questions—just let him eat.
Dante didn't realize how hungry he was until now. His body had been running on nothing but adrenaline and exhaustion, and now that he had stopped, it all hit him at once.
He barely remembered eating this fast in his old life. Even back then, food wasn't exactly something he could just enjoy.
For a moment, he thought about his mother—his real mother, the one from before. She wasn't the kind, loving type. If anything, she only ever saw him as a burden, another thing she had to deal with. But still… he remembered the rare moments when she actually cooked something for him. Cheap, simple meals, tossed onto the table with barely a word.
They weren't made with love. But they were food. And back then, that was enough.
Dante swallowed, pushing the thoughts away.
His hands slowed as his hunger started to fade, and finally, Aizawa spoke.
"You gonna tell me what happened?"
Dante glanced up, his chewing slowing. He thought about ignoring the question, about telling Aizawa to mind his own business.
But… he had saved him.
And now, he was feeding him.
That was more than anyone else had ever done for him.
Dante sighed, setting his fork down. "Just look at the tv."
Aizawa tilted his head slightly. "Ah, I see. You're their kid? Well I know what the news is saying." He took another sip of coffee, his expression unreadable. "But I get the feeling you don't believe their version of events."
Dante let out a bitter laugh. "Because it's a lie."
Aizawa didn't react—didn't look surprised, didn't question him. He just waited.
Dante clenched his fists. "My father didn't kill my mother. The police did, I'm sure of it." His voice was steady, but his body wasn't. His fingers twitched, his arms tensed, and something deep inside him boiled.
He didn't even know his parents. Not really. Not beyond what little he had seen of them in this world. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that the world had already made its decision.
His mother was gone. His father was a villain. And he was just collateral damage.
"They'll never admit it," Dante continued, his voice sharp. "The cops, the heroes, the news—none of them care about the truth. They just needed someone to blame."
Aizawa set his mug down. "And now you're caught in the middle."
Dante exhaled, his fingers loosening. "Yeah."
A long silence stretched between them.
Aizawa leaned back, crossing his arms. "So, what now?"
Dante blinked. "What?"
"You're alive," Aizawa said simply. "You made the choice to keep going. So what are you gonna do with it?"
Dante scoffed. "You ask that like I actually have choices."
"You do," Aizawa replied. "They might not be good ones, but they're still yours."
Dante opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. He wanted to tell Aizawa that he was wrong. That no matter what he did, he'd always be seen as the son of a villain. That people would always assume the worst of him.
But Aizawa wasn't wrong, was he?
Because Dante had made a choice tonight.
He had chosen not to jump.
And whether he liked it or not, that meant something.
Dante looked down at his half-finished plate of food, his mind racing. He had spent his entire life—both of them—running. From his past, from the pain, from the reality of his situation. But now, for the first time, he wasn't running.
He didn't know what came next. He didn't know if he wanted to be a hero, a villain, or something else entirely.
But for the first time, at least he had a choice.
…
Dante stepped out of the diner, the cold night air biting against his skin and the smell of nicotine invading his nostrils. The streets were relatively quiet, only the distant hum of traffic and some times a flicker of streetlights breaking the silence.
Aizawa walked a little ahead before stopping. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting Dante's, "you sure you'll be alright?"
Dante shoved his hands into his pockets, avoiding Aizawa's gaze. "Yeah."
Aizawa didn't look convinced.
"You don't have to pretend, you know." He said after a moment, "if you need somewhere to stay—"
"I'm fine." Dante cut him off, sharper than he intended. He took a breath, forcing himself to relax. "I just need to think."
Aizawa studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Alright. If you ever change your mind though…" he rummaged in his pocket and then pulled out a small slip of paper, handing it over.
Dante hesitated before taking it. A phone number.
Aizawa then stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Stay out of trouble, kid."
And just like that, Aizawa walked off into the night.
Dante stood there for a moment, watching Aizawa leave. Then, slowly his fingers curled around the piece of paper.
He shoved it into his pocket and exhaled.
It was quiet again, too quiet.
He started to walk again.
At first, he didn't have a destination— he was just moving, letting his feet take him somewhere, anywhere. The streets stretched forever, the buildings filled the streets that felt colder than ever. Even when he passed by people, it was like they couldn't even sense him.
Like he wasn't there.
Then it hit him.
"Wait… where am I even going?" Dante thought out loud.
He stopped walking and looked around.
He had nowhere to go.
His fists clenched. He didn't have a single yen to his name. He had spent the last few hours running on pure instinct, on the raw emotions that had kept him moving. But now…
Well, at first he wasn't even going to kill himself, hence why he had packed a bag of stuff before leaving.
But just being there, on the roof, it felt like he was free.
But now, the reality of it all settled on his shoulders.
He was fucking homeless.
His breath came out shaky. The city surrounded him, endless and uncaring. It swallowed him whole.
He had no phone to call Aizawa.
Nowhere to go.
Nothing to do.
He had no idea what to do.