Kirishima ran.
He didn't know where he was going—just that he couldn't stay.
The sound of the training hall, of Iida hitting the ground, of the gasps and shouts that followed—it all blurred together, hammering against his skull like a relentless drumbeat. His legs burned, his breath came in short, panicked bursts, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
The halls of UA twisted around him, unfamiliar despite all the time he'd spent there. The posters of past heroes lining the walls felt like they were watching him, their frozen expressions unreadable. Judgmental. He turned a corner too fast, his shoulder slamming into the wall, but he barely registered the pain. He kept running.
Out of the dorms. Past the gates. Into the streets of Musutafu.
Cold air hit his face. It was late, but the city still pulsed with life—headlights streaking past, distant voices murmuring, the hum of civilization moving forward like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just nearly broken one of his friends in half.
His hands shook. He clenched them into fists to stop it.
Iida wasn't moving.
Kirishima stumbled into an alleyway, the world spinning around him. His back hit the brick wall, and he slid down until he was sitting on the damp pavement. His chest rose and fell in uneven shudders. He pressed his forehead to his knees.
What had he done?
His quirk wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a shield, a wall, a protector.
Not a weapon.
But it had felt good, hadn't it? That power, that force—it had coursed through his veins like fire, and for a moment, he'd felt invincible. Like no one could stop him. Like nothing could touch him.
And that terrified him.
His breathing hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't stop the memories from clawing their way in.
—
A boy sat on the ground, clutching his knee where it had scraped against the pavement. Kirishima stood over him, hands shaking. He hadn't meant to push him that hard.
"You're a freak!" the boy shouted, eyes brimming with tears. "Why do you always go too far?!"
Kirishima had opened his mouth to apologize, but nothing came out. His throat was dry. His chest ached.
He hadn't meant to.
He just… didn't want to be weak.
—
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself out of the memory, but it was like a dam had broken.
—
Another scene. Younger, smaller, watching TV. Heroes flashed across the screen—strong, confident, unshaken by anything. He had stared at them in awe, fingers curling into fists.
"I wanna be like that," he had whispered.
But deep down, he had wondered.
Was there really a hero inside him? Or was he just pretending?
—
Kirishima dug his fingers into his scalp, pressing hard enough to hurt, to ground himself. The city around him felt too big, too open. He had always thought of UA as home, but now even the streets of Musutafu felt foreign. He didn't belong here.
Not after what he had done.
Maybe not ever.
The temptation to keep running was strong. Just disappear into the city, become another nameless face in the crowd. No more expectations. No more control slipping through his fingers. No more hurting the people he cared about.
His chest tightened.
Aizawa's voice whispered in the back of his mind. "The first time you step outside the rules, it's for the right reasons. But every time after that, it gets easier."
Kirishima squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know if he was still a hero anymore.
He just knew that right now, he was lost.
So he did the only thing that he could right now.
He walked.
He didn't know where he was going. The streets blurred together, flickering neon signs casting ghostly colors against rain-slick pavement. The city felt stretched, unfamiliar, like he had stepped into a different world—one where he didn't belong.
He kept his head down, hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn't wearing his hero uniform anymore, just a hoodie pulled low over his face. Without it, he didn't feel like Red Riot. Hell, he didn't even feel like himself.
His feet carried him forward, step after step, but his mind wasn't in the present. It was stuck somewhere else, somewhere distant.
—
The first time he ever threw a punch in a real fight, he had been twelve. A couple of older kids had cornered a younger one—some scrawny kid with glasses who didn't even try to run. Kirishima had stepped in without thinking.
"Hey! Leave him alone!"
The kids had laughed. "Or what?"
He hadn't known how to answer. He hadn't had a quirk back then, just a body too soft, hands too weak. But he had thrown a punch anyway, clumsy and unpracticed.
And they had beaten him into the dirt for it.
He had laid there afterward, face pressed against the concrete, blood pooling in his mouth. He had felt it then—that same powerlessness, that same sinking weight in his chest. He had wanted to be strong.
But he wasn't.
Not then.
—
A car horn jolted him back to the present. He had stepped too close to the street, a taxi screeching past him. He barely reacted, just stumbled back onto the sidewalk, blinking. He hadn't even noticed where he was going.
He let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to his forehead. He needed to focus. Needed to—
His fingers brushed against his temple, and he flinched. His skin was still rough there, hardened without him meaning to.
His quirk had never acted on its own before.
But it had in the fight with Iida.
He could still feel the moment his fist connected—the raw impact, the energy that had surged through his bones, the way Iida had crumpled under his strength. He had taken in that force, absorbed it, wielded it like it was nothing.
And for a second—just one fleeting second—he had liked it.
Kirishima's stomach turned. He shoved the thought away, kept walking.
The streets grew emptier the further he went. He passed rundown shops, closed-up stalls, alleyways filled with things he didn't want to look at. This wasn't the part of Musutafu he knew.
Maybe that was why he had ended up here.
Because nothing here knew him either.
UA felt like another lifetime ago.
He didn't know if he could go back.