The afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of Hawks’ agency, painting golden stripes across the floor of Aldon’s office. The usual hum of activity buzzed faintly from the hallway beyond his closed door—footsteps, voices, the occasional rustle of paperwork—but inside, the room was still. Peaceful.

  Aldon sat at his desk, pen in hand, a report half-finished before him. But his eyes weren’t on the paper. They were unfocused, distant, staring through the sunlight like it held something only he could see.

  His thoughts were far from the agency. They were with Touya.

  The past few weeks had been… surreal. Chaotic, yes. But more than that, they had been revealing. And impossible to ignore.

  He remembered that night like it had just happened—the smoky alley, the rush of blue fire, and the moment everything stopped. Dabi had tried to burn him alive, but Aldon hadn’t flinched. He couldn’t. Not when those fmes were so familiar. Not when those eyes—those broken, furious eyes—belonged to the boy he once loved. He still remembered the way Dabi’s voice cracked, how his fmes wavered the moment Aldon called him by his name. That first confrontation had nearly killed him… but it had also reignited a spark he thought he’d lost. Because even then, buried beneath the ashes, Touya had remembered him too.

  And after that... everything changed.

  He remembered the night Dabi actually showed up—barely a day after Aldon had handed him that crumpled note with his address. It was past midnight when a crash downstairs pulled him from sleep, and adrenaline had flooded his veins until he found Dabi slouched in his living room, wounded, trying to act like it was nothing. Aldon had patched him up, quiet hands and gentler words, surprised that Dabi had even let him close. It was the first night he’d truly seen past the vilin’s mask. And when Aldon told him he was always welcome, Dabi didn’t run. He stayed. That was the moment something shifted—when hope stopped feeling foolish.

  Even after that, the world didn’t pause for them .

  He thought back to the night Fat Gum had come over for dinner. Everything had felt easy for once—ughter, comfort, a rare moment of peace. Until that soft scrape on the balcony changed everything. Dabi had shown up, wounded again, uninvited but not unwelcome. Aldon had smuggled him upstairs like some fragile secret, tended to his injury while hiding him from a hero sitting just downstairs. Dabi had been alone in his room… and when Aldon returned, he was gone. The window left open, the space cold without him. But what struck Aldon most wasn’t the absence—it was what Dabi had left behind.

  A photo, once tucked neatly on a shelf, now rested on the bed. Their younger selves—Aldon, bright-eyed and smiling, and Touya, still whole. Still real. Dabi had touched it. Held it. Chosen not to ignore. A quiet moment of acknowledgment.

  More nights came, and the rhythm between them grew.

  He remembered the shift like it had only just happened—Dabi visiting more often, slipping in te at night, vanishing before dawn. No talk of vilins or heroes. Just the two of them, curled up on the couch with bad movies and burned pasta, like none of the rest existed. Aldon had almost started to believe in that quiet rhythm.

  But the illusion had shattered with the report of charred bodies. And then Snatch.

  Another hero, gone. Aldon had demanded answers, and Dabi—Touya—had given them without hesitation. “Yeah. That was me. So what?” That line haunted him more than the crime itself. The cruelty of it. The numbness.

  Their argument burned hotter than any fme—Aldon pushing, Dabi retreating, his walls crashing back into pce. And still, Aldon tried. He showed him the project, the rehabilitation pns, the future he was building… hoping Touya might see himself in it.

  Instead, Dabi vanished into the night with the st word: “You can’t help me. No one can.”

  But Aldon remembered waking up the next morning, not at his desk where he’d passed out, but tucked into bed. A note on the pillow beside him, written in Dabi’s hand.

  “You can try. Save me, firefly.”

  The memory was like a fragile fme.

  Even the simple things lingered.

  Aldon smiled faintly at yet another memory of their cooking night—Touya in an apron, grumbling about vegetables, stirring a pan like it might bite him. They’d cooked together, ughed, even shared a quiet meal without fmes or fear.

  They weren’t hero and vilin. Just two people trying—awkwardly, stubbornly—to find something normal again.

  And before leaving, Dabi had paused at the balcony and muttered, “Thanks, Aldon. For… tonight.”

  It was small. But Aldon held onto it like a spark.

  Some memories danced brighter than others.

  Aldon smiled faintly as memories from that rainy October night returned—Touya twirling him clumsily in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, the two of them dancing in the soft glow of falling rain and fireflies. It had been reckless and chaotic, but also intimate in a way Aldon couldn’t ignore.

  They hadn’t needed words. Dabi’s presence, his ughter, the quiet way he held Aldon close.

  And when Aldon had woken hours ter, curled in Dabi’s arms, the warmth still lingering between them, he knew the truth.

  He hadn’t stopped loving Touya.

  Not then. Not ever.

  Even the silliest moments stayed with him.

  Aldon chuckled under his breath, remembering that ridiculous night at the empty cinema—Dabi dragging him through a side door like some mischievous teenager, smirking like it was the greatest idea he’d ever had. They ended up watching Attack of the Cosmic Zombies 3—a low-budget disaster full of rubber suits, corny monologues, and fake blood. It was objectively awful.

  But Aldon had ughed until he cried.

  Dabi, lounging across two seats with popcorn he definitely didn’t pay for, had ughed with him, softer and freer than Aldon had ever heard. It didn’t feel like a vilin dragging a hero into trouble. It felt like… Touya. Like being kids again. Reckless, chaotic, but oddly comforting.

  It was stupid. Silly. Illegal.

  And somehow… one of Aldon’s favorite nights.

  But of all the memories, one remained heavier than the rest.

  He remembered the way Dabi had shown up that night—no balcony entrance, no smirk, no swagger. Just a soft knock on the front door and eyes full of everything he wasn’t saying. Blood had been dripping from the corner of his eye, soaking into his cheek like a wound that wouldn’t close. Aldon had pulled him inside without thinking.

  The memory clung to him like smoke. Dabi trembling in his arms, voice cracking as he muttered "He didn’t even recognize me..."—and Aldon, unable to do anything except hold him tighter. That moment, when Dabi leaned in and whispered "But you did", had carved itself into Aldon’s soul.

  Aldon blinked back to the present, his fingers curling slightly around the pen he’d forgotten he was holding. His chest ached with something tender, something quiet. He still couldn’t name what this was between them.

  He sighed, dropping the pen onto the desk and leaning back in his chair.

  It had been a few days since that night—the zoo, Dabi’s stupid grin in the penguin exhibit, the soft ughter, and that ridiculous moment in the aquarium where he tried to pass off a pufferfish as "majestic" just to cover up calling Aldon beautiful. And the morning after… Aldon’s cheeks warmed slightly at the memory. Waking up in his bed, his hand still loosely csped in Dabi’s.

  He hadn’t meant to fall asleep like that. He remembered shifting in the middle of the night, half-aware of warmth beside him and the faint scent of smoke and winter clinging to his sheets. But when morning light streamed through the curtains, it had taken him a second to realize he wasn’t dreaming.

  Dabi hadn’t left.

  He was still there, asleep, facing him. Their fingers intertwined, Dabi’s grip light but unwilling to let go.

  Aldon had barely dared to move, afraid any shift would shatter the fragile peace of that moment. Dabi’s breathing had been steady—deep, real. His face, always so guarded, looked younger then. Softer. The scars didn’t make him look broken. Not to Aldon.

  And when Dabi had stirred—just barely—his thumb brushed over Aldon’s hand before he let go.

  No words. No expnation. But it was something. Trust. Closeness Dabi was learning to allow.

  Aldon exhaled through his nose, his fingers ghosting over the tabletop where his notes still sat unfinished. How could he focus on work when all he could think about was the way Dabi’s hand had held his.

  It meant something. And they both knew it.

  The afternoon light shifted across Aldon’s face, warm and steady. What the hell was he supposed to do with all these feelings?

  A sharp buzz cut through the quiet.

  Aldon blinked, the sound dragging him out of his thoughts like a hook yanking him from deep water. He blinked again, slowly turning toward the source of the noise. His phone buzzed once more on the desk, screen alight. One name glowed against the bck:

  Endeavor.

  His stomach tensed before he could stop it. The name carried weight—of memories, regrets, and things left unsaid. He stared at it for a second longer than he meant to, thumb hovering above the screen. Then, with a small breath, he answered.

  “Hey.”

  “Aldon,” came the deep, gravelly voice on the other end. Gruff, controlled, but familiar in a way that still made something coil tight in Aldon’s chest. “You free this afternoon?”

  Aldon sat up straighter, instinct sharpening slightly. He knew that tone. Not urgent. Not commanding. Just... direct. “Depends. Why?”

  “I’ve got Shoto here,” Endeavor said after a pause. “He’s interning with me again. Brought a few friends along. Figured you might want to stop by. See him.”

  The mention of Shoto melted the tension almost instantly. A soft smile tugged at Aldon’s lips, his posture rexing. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.”

  Endeavor didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, almost begrudgingly, his voice softened—just a notch. “We’ll be here until te. Drop by when you can.”

  “I will,” Aldon said. “Thanks for calling.”

  The line went dead a second ter.

  Aldon set the phone down, the smile lingering. It had been a while since he’d seen Shoto—his quiet, guarded, fire-and-ice friend with the awkward charm.

  He stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt and sliding the phone into his back pocket. The golden afternoon sun had shifted across his desk, tracing slow shadows across the unfinished report he’d completely forgotten about. And honestly, he didn’t care.

  Not right now.

  Stepping into the hallway, Aldon moved with a lighter stride. The distant murmur of conversation filled the corridor—heroes discussing patrols, support staff shuffling papers, the soft flutter of wings coming from a familiar office just ahead.

  Hawks.

  Aldon stopped at the door, which was open just enough to see Hawks lounging as usual—legs crossed and propped up, keyboard ccking beneath one zy hand.

  Aldon knocked lightly on the frame. “Hey. Got a sec?”

  Hawks gnced up. A grin tugged at his mouth instantly. “For you? Always. What’s up?”

  “Endeavor called,” Aldon said, stepping into the room. “Shoto’s back interning at the agency. He invited me to stop by and say hi. I was wondering if I could duck out early?”

  Hawks leaned back, feathers rustling as he stretched. “Shoto, huh? Man, that kid’s been through it. Good to hear he’s doing the intern thing again.” He smirked. “Yeah, go ahead. Just promise me you won’t start running mental diagnostics on everyone while you’re there.”

  Aldon let out a short ugh. “No promises.”

  “Didn’t think so,” Hawks said with a wink. “Give the kid a high five from me. And don’t let Endeavor rope you into paperwork, you don’t work for him.”

  Aldon rolled his eyes. “I know, but again—no promises.”

  He turned to leave, the grin still pying at his lips. But the moment the door shut behind him, the smile softened into something quieter.

  It was good timing.

  He’d been drifting in memories all day—some sweet, some painful—and maybe seeing Shoto would help him reset. Something steady. Something simple.

  The door clicked shut behind Aldon.

  Hawks’ smile lingered for a heartbeat longer… and then faded, slow and quiet, like the settling dust of a conversation that didn’t say everything it meant to.

  The office returned to stillness. The soft whir of the air vents, the distant voices beyond the walls—all just noise now. He stared at the screen in front of him, blinking once, twice… but his eyes weren’t really reading anymore. The text blurred, lines of data forgotten.

  He waited. Counted a slow ten in his head. Made sure Aldon’s footsteps had faded completely before reaching for his phone.

  The contact was already there: Endeavor .No hesitation. He tapped it, brought the device to his ear, and leaned back in his chair, forcing his body to look as rexed as he didn’t feel.

  The line picked up with a familiar gravel-rough voice.

  “Hawks.”

  “Hey, hey,” Hawks chirped, voice sliding easily into that zy drawl of his. “How’s it going, old man? You breathing under all that paperwork, or should I send backup? Maybe one of those ergonomic neck pillows you keep pretending not to need.”

  A short huff. Dry, unimpressed. “I’m managing.”

  “Gd to hear it,” Hawks said, tapping his fingers lightly against the edge of the desk, his smile audible but paper-thin. “Say, uh… heard Angie’s heading over to your pce?”

  There was a pause—subtle, but sharp.

  “He is,” Endeavor replied, just a touch slower than before. “Why?”

  Hawks’ grin tightened. “Ah, no reason. Just makin’ sure he’s not ditching his duties to start a protection agency or something. You know how he is—gets that look in his eyes and suddenly decides the world needs another heartfelt project. Wouldn’t be the first time he disappeared on me to give someone in cuffs a motivational speech.”

  Endeavor grunted again, less amused this time. “He said you were fine with it.”

  “Totally,” Hawks said, voice still breezy but a beat too fast. “Just checking in. You know me—can’t help meddling. Occupational hazard.”

  A pause. Then, ftly: “Right. He’ll be here soon.”

  “Cool, cool. Catch you ter then.”

  The line clicked, the call ending as abruptly as it began.

  Hawks slowly lowered the phone onto the desk, letting it settle there with a soft thunk that echoed more than it should have in the quiet room. He stared at it for a moment, expression unreadable, then leaned back into his chair with a quiet exhale.

  His wings shifted behind him—restless.

  There was something in the way Aldon had smiled. It wasn’t the usual spark of inspiration. It was quieter. Heavier. Secretive.

  Hawks knew that look. The weight of a thoughts Aldon wouldn’t share. The half-second pauses before he answered questions. The way his eyes drifted when he thought no one was watching.

  He was hiding something.

  And Hawks… Hawks shouldn’t care as much as he did. Hell, he had no room to talk. He was neck-deep in lies himself—double-agent, secret ops, whispers behind closed doors. He’d made peace with that kind of life.

  But when it came to Aldon? It hit different.

  Maybe because Aldon was the one person who didn’t py those games. Who believed in people despite everything. And now he was carrying something.

  And Hawks didn’t know what it was.

  Didn’t know if it would break Aldon.

  Didn’t know if he’d be the one left picking up the pieces.

  He tilted his head back, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling he’d memorized a hundred times before, wings twitching faintly behind him.

  “You’re hiding something, Angie,” he murmured, voice softer now. Almost sad. “And I’m not sure if I should be worried…”

  A flicker of a smirk touched his lips, but it didn’t stay.

  Either way… he’d keep watching.

  Because Aldon might be a light—but even the brightest fmes cast shadows.

  The sleek gss doors of Endeavor’s agency slid open with a soft whoosh, the familiar hum of energy inside greeting Aldon like an old song. The cool air hit his face, sharp with the faint scent of scorched concrete, ozone, and antiseptic—soothing in a way only familiar battlefields could be.

  He took a breath.

  This pce had once been his second home, the steel and fire halls where he'd learned to carry weight and keep standing. It hadn’t been that long since he’d st walked these halls

  “Ay, Firefly!” one of the junior sidekicks called out from down the corridor, waving. “Didn’t expect to see you here again!”

  Aldon offered a soft smile, raising a hand in return. “Just visiting. Don’t worry, not here to steal your work.”

  He moved on, passing other familiar faces in the hallway—some nodding in greeting, others doing double takes before fshing surprised grins. It was nice. Aldon returned each one with a polite smile or pyful wink. It was strange how a pce could stay the same and still feel different. Less like a battlefield. More like a memory.

  He followed the distant sounds of movement and sparring to the practice room—a wide, high-ceilinged space reinforced for Quirk usage. The massive doors were cracked open just enough for him to slip through quietly.

  Endeavor stood near the far wall, arms crossed, observing the group in front of him with that same stone-faced intensity he always carried. Beside him stood Shoto, posture rexed but alert, and two other students Aldon immediately recognized from photos and Hero News reports: Izuku Midoriya and Katsuki Bakugo.

  A spark of warmth lit in Aldon’s chest the moment his eyes nded on Shoto.

  “There’s my favorite dual-element troublemaker,” Aldon said with a grin, walking across the floor.

  Shoto turned at the sound of his voice—and immediately, his expression softened in that subtle, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it way. “Aldon.”

  The greeting was simple, but the tone held genuine fondness. Shoto stepped forward, meeting Aldon halfway. They exchanged a quick, brotherly csp of hands—brief but grounding.

  “I didn’t expect you to actually come,” Shoto admitted, voice low.

  Aldon shrugged. “You say ‘Shoto’s at the agency,’ and of course I’m showing up. Like I’d miss a chance to see you outshine everyone else in training”

  Shoto almost—almost—smiled.

  Aldon then gnced over Shoto’s shoulder to the other two. “You gonna introduce me to your friends, or do I have to guess?”

  Shoto turned, gesturing calmly. “This is Midoriya Izuku, and Bakugo Katsuki. They’re in my css.”

  Midoriya stepped forward almost immediately, eyes wide with recognition and excitement. “You’re Firefly, right? I’ve read about some of your missions—especially the quieter ops during your time with Endeavor. You always kept a low profile, but your quirk analysis and support work are amazing! I didn’t realize you were part of his team.”

  Aldon blinked, then gave a soft ugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow, you really do your homework, huh? Yeah, I was around… mostly in the background. Paperwork, recon, support work. I never liked the spotlight much.”

  Midoriya’s eyes practically sparkled. “Still, your quirk is fascinating. ‘Encased Inferno,’ right? I read that you absorb fire and store it in a special internal system—but there’s a limit to how much you can hold before it gets dangerous?”

  Aldon’s brows lifted in surprise. “Okay, now I’m scared. How much did you read?”

  Midoriya flushed. “Ah—sorry! I just think it’s a really unique mechanic. Most fire quirks rely on generation, not absorption. Yours is more tactical, and it sounds like you had to design your fighting style completely around your limits.”

  Aldon chuckled, giving him a pyful nudge. “You’re not wrong. Took me years to stop nearly killing myself every time I used it.”

  Midoriya immediately perked up. “If you don’t mind… I’d love to ask more about how you manage heat regution and internal pressure bancing ter!”

  “Sure,” Aldon said with a warm smile. “Just promise not to publish it in a quirk journal without telling me first.”

  Midoriya ughed, nodding eagerly. “Deal!”

  Bakugo remained unmoved—arms crossed like iron bars welded to his chest, jaw tight, eyes narrowed like Aldon’s very presence was a personal offense. His gaze flicked toward Midoriya and Shoto, then back again with a sneer.

  “Tch. Don’t lump me in with them,” he snapped, voice sharp as flint. “We’re not friends.”

  Aldon raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “You must be Bakugo. I was part of the Kamino rescue mission,” he said lightly. “You’ve got that explosive vibe—strong stance, constant death gre... I’d bet you’re two seconds away from telling me to drop dead for breathing the same air.”

  Bakugo’s scowl deepened. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” Aldon said, folding his arms casually, “you’re kind of adorable when you’re all puffed up and defensive. Like an angry hedgehog with a superiority complex.”

  Bakugo sputtered—actually sputtered—his lips parting with some unformed retort before he snapped, “What did you just—?!”

  “Kacchan—!” Midoriya started, his tone half warning, half pleading.

  Aldon blinked, pausing mid-smirk. “Wait. Kacchan?”

  Bakugo’s head snapped toward him, heat practically radiating off his gre. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

  “Oh, rex. I wasn’t pnning on it.” Aldon held up his hands, amused. “But I am curious. Midoriya calls you that, and you don’t explode him into dust. Why’s that?”

  The question dropped like a pin in the room—sharp, unexpected, and surprisingly quiet.

  Bakugo blinked. Once. Twice.

  Midoriya awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, clearly unsure if he should interject.

  Shoto arched an eyebrow, mildly interested.

  Aldon tilted his head, keeping his tone light but pointed. “You hate me just mentioning the name, judging by the way you’re looking at me. And yet…” He nodded toward Midoriya. “He called you that. And you let him.”

  Bakugo opened his mouth—then paused. His brow furrowed like the thought had never really occurred to him before.

  “I—I don’t let—he just—! Shut up!” he snapped, voice cracking slightly, as if he’d been tripped into introspection against his will.

  Aldon grinned. “Mm-hm. Got it.”

  Shoto exhaled softly. “He grows on you,” he said ftly, “if you spend enough time with him.”

  “Like mold,” Aldon added without missing a beat.

  Midoriya covered his mouth, trying (and failing) to stifle a ugh.

  Bakugo looked between the three of them, utterly livid. “I do not grow on people like mold!”

  “Hmm.” Aldon tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Not mold, then. Maybe fungus?”

  “I’LL SHOW YOU FUNGUS—”

  Endeavor cleared his throat loudly from the far side of the room, and the tension snapped like a rubber band. Bakugo froze mid-lunge, fists still sparking slightly as he visibly fought to rein himself back into something resembling ‘disciplined hero.’ The sharpness in his eyes flicked away from Aldon and back toward focus.

  Aldon just smiled, wholly unbothered. That little reaction told him more than Bakugo would ever admit out loud. And he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t kind of adorable.

  He leaned slightly toward Shoto and whispered just loud enough to be heard, “He’s charming. Like an emotional ndmine.”

  Shoto blinked once. “Try sparring with him.”

  Aldon snorted. “No thanks. I like my limbs unbroken.”

  Midoriya let out a shaky ugh, clearly still recovering from the chaos. “This is… a very different kind of training session.”

  Bakugo growled low in his throat. “Keep talking and I’ll turn it into a real one, Deku.”

  Aldon tilted his head. “Deku?” He looked at Midoriya with a curious smile. “That is something everyone calls you?”

  Midoriya blinked. “Oh! Uh—actually, that’s my hero name.”

  “Really?” Aldon said, intrigued. “I figured it was another nickname. Sounds more like something a childhood bully would come up with.”

  Midoriya rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well… that’s because it was.”

  Aldon’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Seriously?”

  Midoriya nodded. “Yeah. Kacchan—came up with it back when we were kids. It used to mean someone useless, someone who couldn’t do anything.”

  Aldon gnced at Bakugo, who rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  “But,” Midoriya continued, his voice growing steadier, “someone told me it could also mean 'someone who never gives up.' So I took it. Made it mine. Now… it reminds me of how far I’ve come.”

  Aldon looked at him for a beat, expression softening. “That’s… honestly kind of badass.”

  Midoriya flushed, ducking his head. “Thank you.”

  Bakugo grunted. “He’s too soft.”

  “And yet here you are, letting him call you Kacchan like it’s the most natural thing in the world,” Aldon said with a smirk, folding his arms.

  Bakugo’s head snapped back toward him. “Don’t you start.”

  Aldon raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not! I’m just noticing a pattern. You bark at everyone who tries to get close—except him.” He nodded toward Midoriya. “He gets a pass.”

  Bakugo opened his mouth, then paused. His jaw clenched, but the comeback didn’t come.

  Aldon arched a brow. “Didn’t think about that, huh Kacchan ?”

  “Shut the hell up,” Bakugo lunged a step forward, sparks fring at his palms.

  “Wait—Kacchan!” Midoriya quickly stepped in, pcing a firm hand on Bakugo’s arm before looking back at Aldon with a tight, polite smile. “Um, could you… maybe not call him that?”

  Aldon blinked, a little surprised by the sudden shift in Midoriya’s tone. It wasn’t angry, not really. Just… protective. Personal.

  “It’s just—it’s what I’ve always called him,” Midoriya added quickly, voice softening. “It’s… kind of our thing. And he really doesn’t like it when other people use it like that.”

  Aldon’s teasing faded into something softer. The fire that usually radiated off Bakugo had dulled slightly. Settled. His gre remained, but it cked heat.

  Aldon’s voice quieted. “I get it. Some names aren’t meant to be shared.”

  His gaze dropped for a second, just long enough to let a different memory flicker at the edge of his thoughts—blue fire, a smirk behind cracked staples, and that voice calling him Firefly like it meant something only they could understand. The nickname Touya gave him—once a joke, now the name he wore as a hero.

  And how he still called Touya by his real name. Not Dabi. Never Dabi.

  And Touya never stopped him.

  Aldon’s chest tightened just a little. Funny, how names carried weight. History. A closeness no one else could touch.

  He refocused, offering Midoriya a warm smile. “Didn’t mean to step on anything. You two seem close.”

  Midoriya flushed. “We’ve known each other since we were little…”

  Bakugo didn’t interrupt. Didn’t deny it. He just stood there, scowling but saying nothing—letting Midoriya speak for them, letting the nickname go unchallenged from him .

  And that, more than anything, caught Aldon’s attention.

  He watched them quietly for a moment—Midoriya’s hand still on Bakugo’s arm, Bakugo not brushing it off. The way Bakugo’s body, always tense and ready to fight, eased just a fraction in Midoriya’s presence.

  It was subtle. Easy to miss.

  But Aldon saw it.

  He tilted his head slightly. “Huh…”

  “What?” Bakugo snapped, immediately back on the defensive.

  “Nothing,” Aldon said lightly, stepping back with a small, knowing smile. “Just seeing something I recognize.”

  Bakugo grumbled something unintelligible, but Midoriya gnced at Aldon with a flicker of understanding—like he knew exactly what he meant, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud.

  Aldon chuckled under his breath. “You two are fascinating.”

  “You’re annoying, ” Bakugo corrected, sparks still buzzing faintly.

  “I’ve been told,” Aldon replied, utterly unfazed and maybe, a little homesick for the one person who could say Firefly and make it sound like the only name in the world that mattered.

  “If the introductions are over,” Endeavor’s voice cut through the tension like a bde—firm, gravel-deep, “we were about to begin drills.”

  Aldon gave a cheeky salute. “Of course, sir. I’ll be good. I promise not to distract your interns by being overwhelmingly charming.”

  Endeavor stared at him. “You’ve already failed.”

  Aldon grinned, stepping off to the side and leaning casually against the reinforced gss wall. His arms folded loosely across his chest as he watched the three students move to their starting positions on the sparring mat.

  Shoto, calm and focused.

  Midoriya, brimming with nervous energy but sharp-eyed.

  And Bakugo—tense, fire in his bones, but with a strange stillness when Midoriya was near.

  So different. And yet somehow, they fit. There’s definitely more to that story.

  The moment the warm-ups ended, Endeavor stepped forward.

  “We’ll begin with hand-to-hand combat drills,” he announced, voice cutting across the room with practiced authority. “No Quirks. Focus on footwork, positioning, and control.”

  Bakugo made a sound like a scoff wrapped in a growl. “Tch. Waste of time.”

  Endeavor ignored him. “Deku,” he continued, “you’ve had solid combat instincts since before you could control your Quirk. You’ve improved.” His gaze slid to his son. “Shoto, your defense is solid, but you rely too much on range and quirk spacing. Close-range still needs work.”

  Then, his attention shifted to Aldon. “That’s why he’s here. Firefly’s been training with Mirko tely. He knows what it means to fight without relying on fmes. Watch closely.”

  Aldon stepped forward with a small, sheepish smile. “No pressure, huh?”

  He rolled his shoulders, cracking the stiffness out of his joints before moving into position across from Bakugo.

  “Of course you’re starting with me,” Bakugo muttered, cracking his knuckles. “Figures.”

  “No explosions,” Endeavor reminded firmly. “Pure technique.”

  Bakugo’s expression soured.

  Aldon dropped into a stance—light on his feet, arms loose but prepared. “Come on, Sparkplug. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Bakugo didn’t wait.

  He lunged forward like a bullet, movements fast and aggressive even without the bst-enhanced mobility he usually relied on. His footwork was clean, honed, but the absence of his explosions made it slightly less unpredictable.

  Still, Aldon barely dodged the first strike.

  Bakugo swept his leg low, trying to catch Aldon off-bance. Aldon jumped, twisting midair, and tried to counter with a heel aimed for Bakugo’s shoulder. Bakugo blocked with his forearm and shoved him back with raw force, eyes gleaming with thrill.

  “You’re not bad,” Bakugo said, circling, “for a backup dancer.”

  Aldon smirked. “You’ve clearly never seen me dance.”

  They cshed again—Bakugo throwing sharp jabs, each one fast and precise. Aldon weaved through them with practiced grace, looking for an opening. But Bakugo was relentless. His aggression pushed Aldon to stay defensive, using footwork Mirko drilled into him to stay just out of reach.

  Aldon finally ducked low, sweeping Bakugo’s leg out from under him—but Bakugo rolled with it, using the fall to unch a kick upward that caught Aldon in the side with surprising strength.

  Aldon staggered back, gritting his teeth. “Okay. You’re definitely not just angry noise.”

  Bakugo spat to the side, grinning. “Damn right.”

  They unched at each other again.

  This time, Aldon met him head-on, stepping into the strike instead of away from it. He grabbed Bakugo’s wrist, twisted, and used his own momentum to flip him over his hip—a move Mirko had made him drill a hundred times.

  Bakugo hit the mat with a grunt—but before Aldon could even register the win, Bakugo’s legs snapped up around his waist in a brutal lock, and they both tumbled.

  They wrestled briefly, controlled chaos on dispy as Aldon tried to pin him. Bakugo snarled and twisted, managing to shove Aldon off just enough to break the hold.

  Endeavor finally called it. “Break.”

  Both boys sat up, breathing hard.

  Aldon wiped sweat from his brow, smiling despite the ache in his ribs. “You’re like a damn grenade with fists.”

  Bakugo pushed to his feet, brushing dust off his pants. “You’re not terrible either. For a glowstick.”

  Aldon’s grin widened.

  Midoriya cpped lightly. “That was incredible! You adapted mid-fight really well.”

  “Thanks,” Aldon said, catching his breath. “Honestly? I thought I had him until he decided to suplex me with his thighs.”

  Midoriya flushed while Bakugo looked smug.

  Shoto handed Aldon a towel. “You held your own.”

  Aldon shrugged. “Mirko would still say I need to stop flinching when people yell.”

  “She’d be right,” Shoto replied dryly.

  “Deku and Shoto next,” Endeavor called, arms folded as his sharp gaze settled on both students. “No Quirks. Controlled combat only. You know what I expect.”

  Midoriya nodded seriously. “Yes, sir.”

  Shoto gave a simple, “Understood.”

  The air shifted as Shoto and Midoriya took their pces on the mat, standing across from one another in mirrored stances.

  Aldon leaned against the gss wall, nursing a sore shoulder from his earlier tumble with Bakugo. “Ooh, this should be good,” he murmured, his eyes flicking between the two.

  “Begin.”

  Midoriya was the first to move.

  He darted forward with impressive speed, aiming a quick jab toward Shoto’s side. Shoto blocked it cleanly, turning his body just enough to redirect the force. His movements were fluid—less aggressive than Bakugo’s, but precise, practiced. Every shift of weight had intent behind it.

  Midoriya adjusted immediately. He spun, sweeping a low kick toward Shoto’s ankle.

  Shoto jumped back, narrowly avoiding the strike, and countered with a short, controlled palm strike meant to push rather than injure.

  They reset.

  For a few seconds, it was just the sound of breath, feet against the mat, and the soft thud of contact as they traded blows—clean, efficient, controlled. Midoriya’s style was adaptive and analytical, reading Shoto’s movements in real time and responding with speed and agility. Shoto, by contrast, moved with the steady confidence of someone who’d fought through fire and ice both—measured, grounded, but far from slow.

  “They’re sharp,” Aldon said under his breath, watching Midoriya twist his body mid-lunge to evade a counter and re-center with a textbook-perfect stance. “I mean, damn.”

  “They’ve fought each other before,” Endeavor said from beside him, not looking away. “And trained more than most realize.”

  Aldon tilted his head. “You don’t say.”

  Midoriya darted in again, aiming a feint to the left. Shoto didn’t fall for it—instead, he stepped in close, knocking Midoriya’s arm aside and grabbing hold of his sleeve in a swift motion that looked dangerously close to a judo throw.

  But Midoriya moved with it. He turned into the momentum, dropped low, and slipped out of the grip before unching a backward elbow toward Shoto’s ribs.

  Shoto blocked it with both forearms, and the two pushed apart, breathing heavier now but never losing focus.

  Bakugo, still scowling nearby, muttered, “Deku’s holding back.”

  Aldon gnced at him. “You think?”

  Bakugo crossed his arms tighter. “He always does. Doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “But that control?” Aldon said, motioning toward the sparring match. “That’s not weakness. That’s discipline.”

  Bakugo didn’t answer. Just watched.

  Midoriya lunged again—but Shoto sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and this time fully committed to the throw.

  Midoriya hit the mat with a thud—but rolled with it expertly, popping back up into a crouch. He grinned, the fire of competition sparking in his eyes.

  Shoto didn’t smile, but the flicker of amusement was there in his posture.

  They stood off again.

  “Enough,” Endeavor said, voice firm. “Switch.”

  Both boys bowed to each other.

  Midoriya exhaled, sweat clinging to his hairline. “You’re getting faster, Todoroki.”

  “You’re still too nice,” Shoto replied, but there was no venom in his words.

  Aldon stepped forward, cpping his hands once. “That was beautiful. If I wasn’t nursing a bruised ego, I’d ask for a round two.”

  “Midoriya adapts well,” Endeavor said without turning. “His foundation in physical combat is strong. Todoroki is improving. He’s relying less on his Quirk as a crutch.”

  “Hey, don’t leave me out,” Bakugo growled.

  “You rely on explosions to move like a damn pinball,” Aldon replied with a smirk. “Still impressive though. You just kicked my ass.”

  Bakugo grunted but didn’t argue. Satisfied enough with the comment.

  Shoto walked past Aldon, pausing long enough to offer him a towel. “You still favor your right side when you dodge.”

  Aldon blinked. “That’s the takeaway? Not the part where I didn’t get blown across the room?”

  “You did well,” Shoto said calmly, before adding, “But you should fix that.”

  Aldon chuckled. “Thanks, Coach.”

  Endeavor called for cooldown drills, and the students began to stretch, the tension in the room cooling along with them.

  Aldon lingered at the edge of the mat, watching them—not just their strength, but their teamwork. The way they each brought something different to the table, the way they banced each other out.

  It reminded him of something. This was a new generation. A new kind of strength.