[Chapter 1]

I traced the many faded scars across my wrist, a slideshow of scenarios playing in my mind's eye. The only tie between them was the simple fact that I was always living a different life.

I often wished I did.

In daydreams I was an attentive hero, always watching over civilians and bringing villains to justice. In nightmares, I was exacting revenge over the society that took me in, reveling in the cries of the pained, and laughing as the world burned.

In some daydreams too, I reminded myself.

A harsh sigh left my lips, and I tore my crimson-red eyes away from the person staring back at me in the mirror. I traipsed over to my bed and sat down on its plush, ruby comforter, smoothing out its many wrinkles with my hand.

The thought of today's upcoming events pricked at my nerves, and I curled my palms around the soft sheets underneath me to ground myself.

A startling yell tore me from my mind, but I silently thanked its owner for the distraction.

"Kasane, time to go!"

Instead of responding, I stood, grabbed my already packed bag, and let my eyes find my reflection once more.

Across the room, displayed on a tall mirror hanging on the wall, was a spitting image of myself.

The lanky figure staring back at me ran a hand through his pitch-black, tousled hair. A few stray strands poked out in random places, but they were mostly tame and fell no further than the tip of his ears.

I bared my teeth, and razor-sharp fangs glinted back at me; a slightly lighter line of flesh rose from the top of the left side of his lip, stopping a couple inches short of his eye.

Slowly, I lifted my left hand to the same spot, watching the boy in the mirror trace his scar the same way I traced mine.

"A reminder of who you belong to," the man who inflicted it had said.

To my right, a door clicked open.

"Hey, come on. We gotta go," a blonde, Hizashi Yamada, ushered before walking down the hallway, leaving my door ajar.

It was officially my first day at U.A, the most prestigious high school for aspiring pro heroes in Musutafu, Japan. Its famous off-white button-up shirt clung to my skin, as well as the school's characteristic deep-green slacks.

My current 'family' are teachers at the school, and given my circumstances, I'm forced to attend.

At last, I blinked, forcing myself to look elsewhere and hurry to catch up with my adoptive father; one of them, at least.

The other, with long charcoal-colored hair, was walking out of the front door by the time I had reached the living room.

Without a word, I followed him outside, shutting the door behind me. The first person to break the silence was Yamada, known by many as the Pro Hero Present Mic.

We had all settled into a mute yellow convertible, from which I've been told Yamada "Had to have."

It worked well enough for three occupants, given its four seats and comfortable beige leather.

Although the two in front of me had begun a conversation, it was easy to tune them out. Or it was until the end of a phrase cut through my shifting thoughts.

"...we should tell him now."

It was Yamada who had spoken, and suddenly I became attentive to the hushed back-and-forth between him and my other adoptive father, Shota Aizawa.

"Let it be for now, Zashi. He's stressed enough," Aizawa replied.

I was surprised to find my voice suddenly mixed in with the two. No doubt the bite behind my words came off more as an accusation to them than a question: "What do you have to tell me?"

I watched in the rearview mirror as Yamada muttered something before addressing me.

"Just a couple restrictions, is all. For a few days either Sho or I will have to be with you at all times as a precaution before the support department can finish making that monitor we mentioned a few days ago. With a couple exceptions, like the bathroom and whatnot."

Anger surged inside of me, and I fought to control my mouth in spite of it. I really should be used to this by now, given the same rules have applied to me since I was transferred from prison to my new household a mere three weeks ago.

Yamada was anxiously flicking his eyes from the road to the rearview mirror, as if he was trying to read my reaction. It wouldn't have worked regardless, since the mirror was pointed out the back window and not at me.

The rest of the drive was silent, and I desperately searched the passing scenery in hopes of dulling the frustration seeping through my veins.

When our vehicle pulled into the parking lot of U.A and my eyes landed on the grand mass of polished brick and viridian foliage, I stifled my excitement.

Despite whatever I wanted to be as a child, and perhaps still wanted to be deep down, I knew becoming a pro hero wasn't an obtainable goal for me. Not after three years ago.

Three years ago, when I was kidnapped from the streets, alone and scared.

Three years ago, when my innocent, selfless attitude was stripped away at its source.

Three years ago, when I was subjected to mental torture and an experimental serum that I now take a suppressor for every single day.

If I didn't, my mind would corrupt again. I'd turn back into who they turned me into. Whatever was injected into me altered my brain chemistry.

All the good inside my head, no matter how ingrained into me, transformed into hatred. Ruthlessness. Into evil.

Three years of training to be the ultimate puppet.

The ultimate assassin.

The ultimate villain.

Fueled by so much more emotion than any voluntary person could be fueled by.

"Kid."

I blinked, torn out of my thoughts.

"You're digging your nails into your wrist."

Both Yamada and Aizawa were staring at me, and I grew uncomfortable with the attention. Sensing this, they turned away and began exiting the car, with myself soon following suit.

Sure enough, there were four puffy red indentations in the shape of crescent moons leaping out against my pale olive tone, and dead skin hung from where I had inadvertently scraped it off in my stupor.

I picked at it while the two prepared to head inside, wondering which of them I was stuck with first. There was no point in arguing. I wanted to be trusted, but I was too unstable.

Sadness gripped at my heart, and I corrected my own thoughts. The serum was too uncertain.

"Come with me. I'm your homeroom teacher. Hizashi will escort you to all your other classes since he can afford to be late," Aizawa teased.

Yamada shot him a playful glare but silently split apart from our group to head to his own space. I kept two paces behind Aizawa the entire walk to his class, spending the time admiring the school's organization and cleanliness, as well as guessing at random passerbys' quirks.

By the time we reached his room, the 5-minute warning bell had already rung. A plaque labeled Class 1-A sat atop its large door. A couple students were already seated in their places chatting amongst themselves, but the majority of the seats were empty.

I started towards an empty desk, but a hand on my shoulder caused me to tense. I tilted my head to see Aizawa motioning me to the front of the classroom. In the corner next to the door sat a lone stool, presumably for me.

I quietly groaned before walking over and setting my bag down. The fewer people that noticed me, the better. Unfortunately, other students' eyes wandered around the room, occasionally landing on me. A brief show of perplexion would cross their face before they ignored me, which I was thankful for.

Even if I wanted to make friends, I'm sure Aizawa would pull me back up to the front. Not because he wouldn't want me to, but because of orders to keep an eye on me. I had a history of being unpredictable, granted that's not entirely my fault.

I lifted a hand to my neck, recalling the sting and biting pain from the injection of that odd, crystally black liquid three years ago. Aizawa shot me a glance, so I removed my hand and tried not to shudder now that the memories were floating through my head.

Another bell rang over the intercom, and I saw every desk had been filled. Some part of me hoped that was why I was sitting at the front instead of at a desk, and not because of my situation.

Aizawa introduced himself to the class and went on a spiel that I very quickly stopped listening to. A variety of individuals were in this class, and I was already aware of it being the main hero course for new entries at the school.

A couple individuals who caught my interest included a short boy with purple orbs on his head, a floating uniform, a girl with light-pink skin and two beige horns, and a figure resembling that of a crow at its head, but with a normal body.

Of course, those were all appearances of individuals with mutant quirks, or so I assumed. During my stay at an undisclosed facility for three years, captive by villains, reading material was sparse. However, the few options did include quirk history books, and they provided me with a good way to pass the time.

If I could remember correctly, my quirk would fall under the category of a mutant and emitter-type quirk, but not of transformation or accumulation-type quirks.

Mutant solely because of the fangs my quirk grants me, and an emitter type because of the basis of my quirk.

While polling through my knowledge, the class released a series of gasps and groans. It pulled my attention back to the present, and I was lucky enough to hear one of the students repeat what was going on.

"Apprehension Test on the first day?" someone questioned.

I inwardly groaned at the news. The year I was supposed to attempt the apprehension test that Aizawa was talking about was the same year I was kidnapped, meaning I was going into this blind.

In fact, I was going into the entirety of this year blind. I didn't take the entrance exam, nor was I recommended. I was just...here. On special orders, technically.

Guess we'll see what happens, I thought as I grabbed a gym uniform from Aizawa's desk and followed the mass of kids into our respective locker rooms.

I quickly grabbed a stall, whereas most of the other guys rough-housed and got ready in the open. On my way out of the stall, a green-haired boy almost stumbled into me.

"Watch it," I mumbled, not bothering to acknowledge his frantic apologies. As I walked to an open locker and shoved my clothes in temporarily, I caught many glances and side-eyes coming my way.

The scar, I realized, while fighting the urge to trace the beaten flesh with my fingertips.

Small groups of guys exited the locker rooms and made their way out to the field where Aizawa instructed us to meet, and I slipped out with one of them.

A red-haired boy and a blonde, both with spiky hair, were chatting rather loudly in front of me as we walked, and it quickly became apparent that the blonde had a bit of an ego.

He was going on relentlessly about his previous apprehension test scores and his quirk, which I learned involved controlling explosions.

After many smaller cliques of girls and boys had arrived, some quiet and some not so much, Aizawa began his instruction.

"Do you recall the basic tests you did in middle school? You will be taking those again, except the use of your quirk is allowed."

Excitement rippled through the crowd, and many students expressed their feelings to their neighbors. Some were sure the test would be easy, and others assumed it would be fun.

In a millisecond, Aizawa's hair and the long scarf around his neck were floating, his eyes glowing a brilliant cherry red. The yellow goggles around his neck were revealed by the lifting of his scarf, and the color clashed with the shades of grey and black that made up the rest of his hero costume.

He spoke with prominence, voice cold but sharp: "If you think this will be easy or fun, you don't deserve to be a hero. Oh, and I forgot to tell you--the person that comes in last gets expelled. I'm sorry to tell you that for the next three years, U.A will run you through the wringer. That's "Plus Ultra." Use your strength to overcome it all. So, bring it."

Fear webbed through me, but I trusted the fact that given my circumstances, I wouldn't be expelled for coming last. My quirk simply wasn't suited for physical work.

Just as I had panicked, many others around me did too. Shouts arose about various things--some worries, and some about this being unfair.

Aizawa gave a quick "Life isn't fair" before moving on.

Most students continued to tremble, but I caught a couple who presented unphased. Particularly the spiky-haired blonde, a tall girl with her sleek black hair tied back, and a dual-haired boy, also on the taller side.

I analyzed the latter for another moment before coming to a realization. A dull purple scar surrounded one of his eyes.

Shoto Todoroki.

A pain shot through my head, and I raised a hand to rub my temple. I was in the back of the crowd, and nobody seemed to notice me. Vivid images flashed through my head at lightning speed, and I caught only glimpses of them.

Enough to recognize the rusted ceiling and dark, malicious shadows prowling in the corners of the room, as well as the hollow, stain-ridden table I was chained to most of the day.

It was where intel on possible targets and important pro heroes and their kin was shoved down my throat until I could recite the most minute of details about random aspects of their lives.

Back in the facility.

They ceased after a few seconds, and I found myself crouched down with both of my hands on my head. The pain dulled and I rose, thankful to see that nobody noticed whatever that was.

Aizawa continued on to explain what we would be doing first, which was a ball throw. Apparently, the only difference between this test and the one from prior years was that we could now use our quirks.

He called on the blonde first.

"Bakugo, what was your score on the ball throw?"

The boy in question stepped forward, a snarky grin on his face as he responded with "54.7m."

Aizawa passed him a baseball that he pulled out of a bag behind him. "Try it again, but with your quirk this time."

Bakugo smirked and stepped into a white circle a a few meters in front of the crowd, preparing to launch the ball.

As he did, he screamed "Die!" and the ball flew into the distance, followed by a string of explosions.

A machine that Aizawa now held in his hand beeped, and the device read "705.2 meters" aloud.

A couple cheers rolled through the crowd, and I chewed on my lip, running over any possible way to use my quirk to an advantage here.

While I mulled over the possibility, a few others stepped up to the plate. A girl named Uraraka, shorter and clad in pink with brown bobbed hair, got infinity on hers, and I made the assumption that she could use gravity as an aid.

The same green-and-black-haired boy who almost ran me over in the locker rooms was called next, and I furrowed my brows when a red glow tinged the veins in his arm before he threw the ball.

It barely went anywhere -less than 50 meters - but that was because Aizawa had erased his quirk using his own: erasure. The boy, astonished and mumbling, was pulled in closer by Aizawa's binding cloth where the two shared in a hushed conversation.

Eventually he was put down, and the boy, named Midoriya, was given a redo. This time, at the last possible second, the streaks focused on his index finger and the ball was sent 705.3 meters, becoming the new high score.

Midoriya faced our teacher and clenched his fist, waving a dark-purple broken finger before whispering something.

Although there were a few "congrats" and a very dramatic grumble from Bakugo across the way, I couldn't help but focus on the kid's quirk.

Awfully similar to All Might, I reasoned.

Much of the past few years of my life had been devoted to besting All Might, so I was well versed in knowledge of his abilities.

"Kasane," Aizawa's dull voice announced.

I snapped my eyes forward, then slowly made my way towards the circle. Aizawa passed me a ball and an idea popped in my head.

Feeling the rows of eyes staring at my back, I wasted no time in inserting my fangs into my left wrist, ignoring the multitude of gasps sounding behind me.

Satisfied with the two lines of blood flowing down my wrist, I held the ball loosely in that same hand and watched as the blood reversed up my arm, sliding towards my hand.

In a matter of seconds, a thin coating of blood surrounded the ball, and I lifted my other palm up, watching as the mass rose into the air at my command.

It was propelled into the sky with a quick flick of my wrist, and I concentrated on keeping my energy on the veil of blood for as long as I could while simultaneously forcing the liquid to stay compressed around the ball.

The farther it traveled, the more energy I consumed, and the faultier my quirk grew.

When at last I lost control and it hit the ground, Aizawa's device read "508.4 meters."

Gingerly, I licked my wounds, the punctures on my skin healing almost immediately. With little effort, I willed the still damp blood on my arm into the air, admiring the fluorescent droplets before throwing them to the ground with another flick. The next downpour would wash any remnants of my presence.

A mixture of awe and guffaw met me when I finally turned around to head back into the group, and Aizawa addressed the others before I could squeeze myself back in with them.

"Shizuya Kasane. Quirk: Hemokinesis."

I glared at the man, content to keep my classmates relatively in the dark. Obviously, there was confusion as to why Aizawa already knew about me, and a few people seemed reluctant to come near me, but the ones who praised me were a nice change of pace.

Physically controlling blood outside of the body was most certainly not my specialty. In larger amounts and under more strenuous terms, it takes a lot out of me, so I steer away from it.

Even a task as seemingly small as using my blood as a basket to send that ball flying was starting to get to me, and a dull ache took its place in the back of my skull.

Altering the inner workings of my opponents was where I truly thrived. The only issue there is that altering the blood in someone is a dangerous game of balance.

Too much--death.

Too little--death.

Given my training back at the facility, I was rarely taught how to find that balance. Death was almost always the answer.

Ahead of me, Aizawa continued down his list of students. Twenty-one of us in total.

The first exercise was followed by a long list of physical tests. My quirk proved useless, and only my prior training served me any help.

We ran through the standing long jump, 50-meter dash, long-distance run, grip strength, repeated side-steps, seated toe-touch, and sit-ups portions of the test as quickly as possible.

The fact that most of my opponents in today's ranking had quirks that helped them with two or more of the tests was no surprise to me.

At last, when Aizawa threw a disc on the ground and a holographic rendition of our scores and rankings appeared, my position in 20th place made sense.

Izuku Midoriya came in last. He may have achieved a higher score on the ball throw, but neither of us were able to use our quirks on the rest of the tests and I've had significantly more training in endurance, strength, and technique than him.

In the end, that cemented my place in staying.

On the other hand, the boy was a wreck, muttering to himself relentlessly and shaking his head.

When Aizawa spoke, Midoriya flinched.

"I lied; nobody is getting expelled."

Midoriya's face relaxed immediately, and he placed a shaky hand over his heart. A horde of mixed feelings chorused through the air, but Aizawa's monotonous voice sliced through it all.

"It was merely a ploy to bring out the best in you all. I needed to be sure you would try your best and show me your competency. Now get dressed. Eight minutes until the bell."

The student body scattered, and I ambled through its midst until we arrived at the locker rooms and split into our respective corners, with myself back in a stall.

When I exited this time, Midoriya was not there to collide with me, and I breathed a sigh of relief, left my gym uniform in the locker I had claimed earlier, and walked back to class alone.

Since I had taken my sweet time, the bell rang just as I made it back to class, and a mass of bodies pushed past me to hurry to their next periods.

Aizawa waited until the last student had left before shutting the room's door and starting on some paperwork.

"So, Yamada's going to come get me?" I asked at last, annoyed by the silence.

Aizawa spared me no glance, but he did answer my question: "Yes. He should be here relatively soon. You're going to English next, then Modern Literature, lunch, Modern Hero Art History, Mathematics, and Heroics as your last class, since all those enrolled in the heroics course have an extra period after everyone else has left."

I nodded, though he couldn't see, and fiddled with the straps of my bag until Yamada burst through the door.

His energy was like a slap in the face. "Alright! You ready for some English, little listener?"

My brows raised and I offered no response before pushing past him to walk out of the door.

"Guess not..." he mumbled before telling Aizawa something and leading me to his class. I already knew that I would have the same people in all of my classes, and luckily, I had grown accustomed to Yamada's incessant yelling.

As we entered, I could tell the others were not so prepared, because his shouts caused grimaces of pain and yelps to ripple throughout the room during the entirety of class.

They'll learn, I reckoned, smiling inwardly at their antics. I have to admit, watching them suffer was entertaining.

Though as soon as the thought crossed my mind, I shut it down. Was it the serum or me?

These days I could never be sure, and it was taxing. No doubt Yamada and Aizawa noticed.

The next class went by quick enough, though Aizawa was forced to sit in the entire time. True enough to this morning, Yamada walked me to class, but Aizawa met me there. Apparently, he only had classes when he had us with him, since his was heroics specific.

I wished desperately to avoid the glares and stares of confusion from my classmates, given that I sat on a similar stool in the front corner of the room in every class I had so far, with Aizawa sat next to me after English.

While instruction was paused, he informed me of my lunch arrangements, which just included eating in the break room with the other teachers, near him and Yamada.

Soon enough it was time for said period, and I quietly followed him to the break room, only stopping once along the way to use the restroom.

Lunch was 50 minutes since there were so many kids in the school, which meant I had plenty of time to sit in the corner of the room, listen in on the conversations between the pro heroes, and finish up some homework I had acquired in English and Modern Literature.

Towards the beginning of lunch, heroes I recognized as Cementoss, Snipe, Midnight, Hound Dog, and of course Yamada and Aizawa sat at various places around the room eating. As time went on, the number dwindled until just me, Aizawa and Yamada remained.

With ten minutes left and nothing to do, I aimlessly dragged my eyes along the sandy beige walls, searching for nothing in particular. The floors were a simple light-brown tile with darker streaks mixed in.

The other two sat on a pine-green couch in front of a generic coffee table, food laid out in front of them. Yamada was digging in, but Aizawa had not touched much of his and was instead completing paperwork.

They had been having a quiet conversation the entire time, so I left them be and remained sitting at the dining-room style table that was shoved into the corner. A window was to my right.

When there were others in here, a couple elected to stand, but Midnight and Cementoss sat across from me. We had made small conversation, but it didn't venture outside of "how are you liking the school?"

I flipped a pencil in my hand repeatedly, dropping it every so often. Yamada's voice dragged me out of my head.

"Did Sho already tell you your schedule?" he asked, turning to face me.

I met his eyes and nodded, deciding on how much of a conversation I longed for. Just as his mouth opened, I cut him off.

"Why don't you trust me yet? People are scared of my quirk and annoyed because I'm treated differently." My voice held strong, but I knew I was overreacting. I had only been here half a day. The others likely didn't have much of an opinion of me, truthfully, but when I spoke, I was referring to society as a whole more than just to my class.

It took me a moment to decipher the pain in Yamada's eyes. Although I had only been with them a month, I liked him and Aizawa. I wished that I could confide in them the way I would my real family, if I knew them.

I was never a bad kid--never got up to trouble and always looked up to the heroes. Then the serum came along. I became a prisoner of my own mind--a mind that I since have never felt truly in control of.

Now, even with the suppressant, the serum still took over sometimes; it infected my mind and changed the way I saw things.

I've only had three weeks to adjust to the shift, and I'm sure my outbursts are a nuisance to my adoptive parents. Although I pray that they don't see it that way.

It hurt to not be myself. Though I'm not sure these days who myself is. The child I used to be is not the teen I was now. Too often I found myself defiant when others were resigned.

Seems not every change can be attributed to the serum, I mused. Part of me was changed by just growing up in that environment.

I was a locked box thrown in fire, charred at the edges, yet never relenting. A child turned analytical and cold, meant for expectations always out of reach. My old self was the rusted key.

And I never let it turn despite how much I wished I could.

Given time to process his thoughts, Yamada interrupted my own.

"It's just a precaution with the serum. It's not that we don't trust you, even if we can't entirely so soon. You know that" he paused, then continued, "I can see that you're a great kid at heart. The villains really just...complicated things. Things will get to be normal in time. We'll figure out how to expel the serum's effects from your system completely, surely."

His voice held sincerity, and I decided that I should try harder to get settled into my new life. I would always have struggles, cured or not, and I believe everyone here knows that.

I would remain scarred--a product of them. A frivolous young boy at heart whose circumstances threw him into the deep end.

But maybe, just maybe it wouldn't end up being all that bad.