A city bathed in neon lights. The streets of Tokyo hum with life—workers trudging home, night owls basking in artificial glow, and criminals lurking in the shadows.
A hooded figure perches above an alleyway, watching. His presence is unnoticed, but his intent is clear.
Below, a group of thugs back a woman into a corner. Her silver hair and red eyes made her eye candy for thugs like these, She is no ordinary civilian.
She is the former pro hero
REVERIE
Eri Aizawa,[27] a beloved humanitarian and social celebrity, grips her purse tightly, eyes darting for an escape, she doesn't want to fight with these goons, she could take maybe two or three on but these goons were too big and it looked like their quirks are pretty much all offensive type, which is bothersome.
One of the men steps forward. A glint of a knife. A smirk of confidence.
Then—a blur.
The hooded figure descends like a phantom. In an instant, he drives his fist into the nearest thug, sending him crashing against the alley wall like an action movie poster.
Silence.
The goons stare, stunned. They were caught off guard.
"Who the hell are you?!" one of them yells.
The figure says nothing. Another thug lunges at him.
A sidestep.
A hook.
It was loud enough to make Eri wince a bit, it was as if all the ribs of the goon were shattered.
Knocked out cold.
A third thug, more cunning, unleashes a quirk—poison mist seeps from his fingertips. His true target isn't the hero, but Eri.
The hooded figure moves to intercept, but—a sudden misstep.
One of the unconscious goons collapses against his leg, delaying him for just a second. It's enough.
The poison attack was already in motion.
He doesn't hesitate. Instead of dodging, he throws himself in front of the blast, shielding Eri with his body.
A sharp pain. Toxic burns sear his back. But he grits his teeth and fights through it.
He stood up on his feet, turned around, and released his killing intent, the thugs froze in fear...
In a matter of moments, the remaining thugs are down.
Eri stares at him in awe. She recollects herself as she notices the burn on his back she takes a step forward to inspect him and help his injuries.
The hooded figure holds his hand out as if telling her to stop.
"You're hurt." her voice full of concern
"It's nothing." the figure mentioned
She steps closer, concern in her eyes. "I should be thanking you."
"I'm just doing what's right." His voice is firm, certain.
But she doesn't let it go. "Still… I'm grateful."
Their eyes meet.
A moment of silence. There was a feeling a dreamy moment and they both felt it too.
The city noise fades into nothing.
She leans in. So does he.
Their lips are just about to touch—
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The shrill blare of an alarm clock shattered the Dream.
Tetsuo's eyes snapped open. He groaned.
'no...' he was in despair.
For a moment, the dream still clung to him—the rush of battle, the weight of heroism, Eri's eyes locked onto his. Her face had been so close.
But as he blinked, it all faded, replaced by the dull glow of his All Might-themed nightlight and the cluttered chaos of his bedroom.
6:45 AM.
"Dammit," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
This wasn't the first time. These dreams had been coming often. Always the same—a faceless hero, stepping up when no one else would. The kind of hero from the old days.
But this was real life.
And real-life heroes weren't like that anymore.
With a groan, he threw off his blanket and sat up.
He looked around. His room was practically a museum of heroes.
The walls were lined with collector's posters of retired heroes like Creati and Alien Queen
and the all-time favorites Deku, Red Riot, and Shoto,
The shelves overflowed with old hero figurines, signed merchandise, and out-of-print magazines from that time when heroes weren't just government workers but legends.
Most kids his age had moved on from this kind of stuff. Hero culture was different now. More corporate. More… sterile.
But Tetsuo couldn't stop himself from idolizing the past.
His eyes flickered to the biggest poster on his wall—Reverie, in her old hero gear. The golden embroidery on her white cloak, the faint glow of her healing touch.
Eri hadn't been a combat hero, not really. But she had been a symbol of hope, a healer in the darkest times. And now?
Now, she was Dr. Eri—one of the world's leading pharmaceutical researchers.
Reverie was long gone. No more heroics. No more capes. Just a doctor in a lab coat.
And yet…
Tetsuo's face warmed slightly as he stared at her picture.
She was stunning.
"Ugh. What am I, twelve?" he muttered, shaking his head. He had been crushing on her since middle school. Hell, half the world probably had at some point.
Shaking off the lingering daze, he shuffled toward the window. Outside, the city was waking up. Billboards flashed advertisements for hero-run security agencies, offering subscription-based safety services.
A news broadcast echoed from the living room.
"…in today's headlines, Pro Hero Red Riot announced he will be retiring next year, stating that the modern role of heroes 'doesn't feel the same anymore.'"
Tetsuo sighed.
Even the legends were giving up.
He turned away and grabbed his phone. His social feed was flooded with debates.
"Why should our tax money go to pro-heroes when they're just glorified civil servants now?"
"Maybe if heroes still had that superstar status, crime wouldn't be creeping back up."
"Back in my day, we had heroes like Deku and Bakugo! Now all we get are bureaucrats in capes."
Tetsuo locked his screen and exhaled.
This was the world he lived in, the one where heroes weren't needed.
Heroes weren't symbols of justice anymore. They were just another part of the system.
And if that was the case…
Did being a hero even mean anything anymore?
Meanwhile...
Within The walls of Tartarus.
The Shigan Detention Center. Once, it held the most dangerous villain the world had ever known. Deep within its walls, behind thick steel bars and reinforced quirk-nullifying barriers, sat a man who once sat in the same place as that man.
A man whose name once struck fear into villains and commanded the world's respect.
The only one who pushed to surpass the Legendary All Might in his era.
Now?
Now, he was just another inmate.
The dim light flickered over his figure, casting an elongated shadow on the cold floor. He sat on the edge of his cot, back hunched, head lowered. His once-proud figure, sculpted from years of discipline, was now weathered with age and regret.
His hand rested on his knee—scarred, calloused, and still bearing the weight of his sins.
For years, this place had been the punishment he put himself into.
A sudden buzz echoed through the silence. The reinforced doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.
A guard stood in the doorway, arms crossed. His voice was curt, indifferent.
"Endeavor, you have a visitor."
The old man's breath hitched slightly.
"Hello, Dad," said the scared visitor.