The night was thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete, the neon glow of the city bleeding into dark alleyways where the law never quite reached. Kirishima kept to the shadows, his hood pulled low over his face. This was stupid. He shouldn't be here. If Aizawa caught him sneaking out like this, he'd be in for the lecture of a lifetime.
But the news reports wouldn't leave his head—whispers of a villain too brutal for the heroes to catch. A string of kidnappings, bodies left behind in pieces, organs missing, faces mutilated beyond recognition. The heroes were investigating, sure, but only within the rules. They had restrictions. Warrants. Protocols. And in the time they wasted following them, more people were dying.
The wailing only increased as Kirishima got closer to the shady warehouse, his hands quivering as adrenaline crashed into his bloodstream, his fingers hardening and reverting to normal subconsciously. Kirishima had no real plan—he was acting on instinct, moving with the city's pulse, searching for something that felt wrong.
Then he heard it.
The muffled cry. Small. Weak. A child.
His feet moved before he could think. He followed the sound down an alleyway, past graffiti-stained brick walls and garbage bins overflowing with the stench of decay. His heart hammered as he reached the source—the warehouse door slightly ajar, the dull hum of a flickering light spilling onto the pavement.
He hesitated.
His breath came fast. What the hell was he doing? He wasn't a pro hero. He didn't even have his license yet. If he went in there alone, he might not come out. He thought of his teachers, his friends, the system that had trained him to wait for backup, to call for help.
Then he heard the kid sob harder.
Something inside him snapped.
Caution burned away, replaced by something raw, something primal. He pushed through the door and stepped inside.
The warehouse smelled of rust and blood. A single hanging light swung overhead, casting long, shifting shadows. Chains rattled. A child—no older than six—was bound to a chair, their face streaked with tears. A large man stood over them, his fingers curled around a rusted knife.
Kirishima barely had time to process the scene before the man turned. He was huge, his face a patchwork of scars, his grin too wide, his eyes burning with something sick. His shirt was soaked in blood that didn't seem to be his own.
"Another little hero come to play?" the villain sneered.
Kirishima gritted his teeth. His hands clenched into fists, his arms hardening instinctively. "Let the kid go."
The villain chuckled, dragging the flat of the knife along the child's tear-streaked cheek. "You know what the problem with heroes is?" he mused. "They think they get to decide who lives and who dies."
Kirishima took a step forward. The villain moved the blade lower, pressing against the child's throat.
"Uh-uh," he tutted. "Move again, and this kid gets a new smile."
Kirishima froze.
This was different. This wasn't like training. It wasn't like sparring against Bakugo, or even fighting villains under the supervision of pros. There was no safety net. No guarantee that things would turn out okay. One wrong move, and this kid would die.
His hands trembled. He was hesitating.
The villain laughed. "See? That's the thing about heroes. You hesitate. You hesitate because you think there's a right way to do things. A line you won't cross." He leaned in closer to the child, his voice a whisper. "But me? I don't hesitate."
The kid whimpered.
And just like that, something in Kirishima shattered.
There was no hesitation. No thinking. Only movement.
His body hardened to its limit as he lunged, the air cracking with the force of his charge. The villain barely had time to react before Kirishima's fist connected with his ribs, sending him crashing into the metal shelves behind him. Tools and debris rained down, but Kirishima didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
He allowed himself a small moment to help the child lay on the ground before he speed blitzed his way toward the villain, stopping close to him to beat the shit out of him.
The villain coughed, blood splattering from his lips. "That all you got?"
Kirishima didn't answer. He grabbed the man by the collar and drove his hardened skull into his face, feeling bone crunch beneath the impact. The villain roared in pain, slashing wildly with his knife. The blade scraped against Kirishima's arm, but it didn't cut deep enough—not deep enough to stop him.
He slammed the villain into the concrete floor. Again. Again. His vision blurred red. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. The villain had tried to hurt a kid. Had been ready to kill them like it was nothing. That wasn't something you walked away from.
A weak, broken laugh bubbled from the villain's bloodied lips. "That's it," he croaked. "That's the monster. That's what I wanted to see."
Kirishima's fist hovered over his face, trembling. His breathing was ragged, his knuckles already slick with blood.
Monster.
The word echoed in his skull.
He gritted his teeth and let the villain go, shoving him against the ground. He forced himself to breathe—to steady his racing heart—to remember why he was here.
The kid.
He turned, rushing to untie the child's bindings. Their small hands clung to him the moment they were free, sobs shaking their frail body. Kirishima held them tight, whispering reassurances even as his own body trembled.
The sirens wailed in the distance. He didn't remember calling the police, but maybe someone had. Maybe the fight had been loud enough to draw attention.
He looked down at the villain—beaten, bloody, barely conscious. The man was smiling.
"You'll see," he rasped. "You'll see what you are soon enough."
Kirishima didn't answer. He just held the kid tighter as the sirens closed in.
Maybe he already knew.