The cherry blossoms were just beginning to paint the training grounds with delicate strokes of pink. Winter's harsh grip had finally loosened, and a palpable sense of renewal hung in the air. Class 1-A, usually confined to the sterile environment of the indoor gym, stretched their limbs, enjoying the freedom of open space. Aizawa, his expression as impassive as ever, stood before them.
"Today," he announced, his voice a low rumble, "we're taking advantage of the weather. Track drills, sparring, and combat analysis. To make things… interesting, several pro heroes will be observing."
A murmur rippled through the class. The pressure was on. They trained rigorously, pushing themselves under the watchful eyes of the visiting heroes. Bakugo exploded with fiery aggression, Midoriya strategized with quiet intensity, and the others followed suit, each striving to showcase their progress.
Then Endeavor arrived. His presence was a suffocating blanket of heat and expectation. He barely acknowledged the other students, his gaze laser-focused on Shoto.
"Shoto," Endeavor barked, his voice echoing across the training grounds, "your ice is weak. Your fire is hesitant. You need to push yourself harder. A true hero leaves no room for weakness."
Shoto's face remained stoic, but inside, a familiar coldness began to creep in. He tried to focus on his training, but Endeavor's words were a constant, stinging barrage. Every mistake, every hesitation, was met with a harsh critique, a reminder of his inadequacy.
Finally, Shoto reached his breaking point. During a sparring match with Bakugo, Endeavor's relentless commentary shattered his focus. He made a misstep, Bakugo landed a blow, and the match was over. Endeavor's scornful laughter was the final straw.
Without a word, Shoto turned and fled. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to escape the suffocating pressure of his father's expectations. He ended up in a narrow alleyway, the brick walls closing in around him. The scent of stale garbage and damp earth filled his nostrils.
He wanted to cry, to release the pent-up frustration and pain, but the memory of his father's words echoed in his mind: "Heroes don't cry. Crying is a sign of weakness." He bit down hard on his lip, desperately trying to suppress the tears that threatened to spill.
However He wasn't alone.
A voice, laced with a chilling amusement, broke the silence. "Well, well, what do we have here? The prodigal son having a little meltdown?"
Shoto looked up, startled. Leaning against the opposite wall, shrouded in shadow, was Dabi. His stitched-together skin and piercing turquoise eyes were unmistakable. Shoto felt a surge of fear, but it was quickly followed by a strange sense of resignation. He was too emotionally drained to fight.
"What are you doing here?" Dabi asked, his voice a low drawl.
Shoto didn't answer immediately. "Needed to… clear my head," he mumbled, finally finding his voice. "My dad was being an ass."
Dabi smirked. "So the old man hasn't changed, huh? How pathetic." He pushed himself off the wall and took a step closer. "You know my real name, kid?"
Shoto shook his head, confusion clouding his features. "No."
Dabi's smirk widened into a predatory grin. "Does Touya ring a bell?"
Shoto's eyes widened in disbelief. His breath caught in his throat. "What? No… way…" he whispered, the words barely audible.
"Yep," Dabi confirmed, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "It's me. The one and only."
Shoto struggled to process the information. Touya… his older brother, presumed dead after a tragic accident years ago. Now, here he was, a villain, standing before him in a dingy alleyway.
"Has Dad ever told you not to cry?" Shoto asked, the question tumbling out before he could stop himself.
Dabi's expression softened slightly, a flicker of something akin to sympathy crossing his features. "Many times. Apparently, something about heroes not crying, which I think is bullshit. Why?"
"He told me not to," Shoto confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "He doesn't think I'm good enough."
Dabi sat down next to him, the proximity surprisingly comforting. "Cry if you want," he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "As for the flaming trash… I'll deal with him." He placed an arm around Shoto's shoulders, and Shoto, overwhelmed by emotion, finally broke down, tears streaming down his face.