The rain came down in a steady, unrelenting curtain, the kind that soaked through shoes and coats and bones. A chill wind swept along the back alleys of Hurricane, Utah, trailing past the old signage of Fredbear’s Family Diner—a place of laughter and birthday balloons, now cast in the gray melancholy of an overcast afternoon.

  On the far side of the parking lot, nestled between a dumpster and the wall of the diner, sat a small boy. His dark green hair clung wetly to his face, and his arms were wrapped tight around his knees. His eyes—wide, fearful, and glassy—stared ahead, not at the road, but inward, as if he were still trying to wake up from a nightmare that hadn’t ended.

  Izuku Midoriya was seven years old. And he didn’t know where he was.

  Not really.

  He remembered falling. Or flying. Or something in between. A flash of light. The sound of something tearing—like cloth or time itself—and then, suddenly, cold concrete and the smell of wet asphalt. It wasn’t Musutafu anymore. There were no hover buses. No high-tech storefronts. And no heroes.

  No quirks.

  Only the distant buzz of a neon sign and the sound of animatronic laughter echoing from the diner behind him.

  His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and his fingers were white at the knuckles. He didn’t know what else to do but wait. Wait for someone to find him. Wait for something to explain itself. He was just a kid, after all.

  Then, mercifully, the door creaked open.

  A man in a pale yellow uniform stepped into the alleyway, grumbling under his breath as he took out a bag of trash. He nearly jumped when he saw Izuku.

  “Jesus, kid!” he gasped, stumbling backward. “You scared the hell outta me. What are you—?” He trailed off, seeing the boy’s state: drenched to the skin, shivering, shoelaces untied, and clearly too young to be out on his own.

  “You lost?” he asked more gently, crouching down.

  Izuku blinked. Then slowly nodded.

  The man sighed, setting the trash aside. “C’mon, let’s get you out of the rain.”

  The boy tensed, unsure for just a second—but something about the man’s expression reminded him of All Might. Tired, yes, but kind.

  The employee led him inside, through a back hallway that smelled faintly of grease and pizza sauce. The warm air hit Izuku like a wave, and his knees buckled for a second, but the man caught him and guided him to a nearby bench.

  A towel was thrown around his shoulders. Then, after a brief search behind the counter, the man returned with a green wristband—the kind meant to keep track of children in the restaurant.

  “You speak English, kid?” he asked.

  Izuku gave a small nod.

  “Alright. Good. This is a security bracelet.” He clipped it around Izuku’s wrist—it flashed briefly, then gave off a soft beep. “Means you’re not allowed to leave unless a grown-up signs you out. Company rules. You’re safe in here, okay?”

  Izuku stared at it, wide-eyed. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  The man smiled faintly. “Name’s Anthony. I’ll call my manager in a bit. But for now—how about a slice of pizza? On the house.”

  Izuku nodded again, a little quicker this time.

  The warmth of Fredbear’s Family Diner was like stepping into another world. Animatronics twitched and danced on the stage: a golden bear with a purple top hat, and a yellow rabbit strumming a guitar. Music piped in from overhead speakers—light, cheerful, and slightly off-key.

  Kids ran past with balloons in hand. Parents sat at booths, chatting over coffee and paper plates. And in the middle of it all, like a star in her own little orbit, was a girl with dark hair tied back in twin pigtails.

  Charlotte Emily.

  She noticed Izuku almost immediately. It wasn’t often that someone new showed up without a birthday badge or a party hat.

  “Hi,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  Izuku looked up, startled. He hesitated… then gave a small wave. “I—I’m Izuku.”

  “Charlie,” she replied with a grin. “Are you here with your parents?”

  His face fell. “...No.”

  Charlie’s grin faded into a thoughtful expression. “That’s okay. My dad’s the guy who built all of them.” She gestured to the animatronics. “He says I’m allowed to be here as long as I don’t mess with the wiring.”

  Izuku couldn’t help a small smile at that. “They’re… kinda amazing.”

  “You’re not scared of them?”

  “No.” His gaze lingered on Fredbear. “They look happy.”

  Charlie tilted her head, observing him. “You’re different. Most kids cry the first time they see Spring Bonnie blink.”

  “I guess I’ve seen scarier things,” Izuku murmured before he could stop himself.

  Charlie didn’t push. Instead, she took one of the free crayons from a nearby tray and passed him a blank coloring sheet. “You want to color with me?”

  He nodded.

  And for the first time since he woke up in this strange world, Izuku Midoriya began to feel just a little bit at home.

  The crayons scratched quietly against the paper, and for a while, the world was just that simple.

  Izuku carefully traced the outline of Fredbear with a soft green. It wasn’t the right color, but it was the color he liked. Charlie, meanwhile, had gone wild with the purples and pinks, coloring Spring Bonnie with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

  “So,” she asked without looking up, “where are you from?”

  Izuku hesitated. How do you explain his sudden arrival from Japan? He dissent even knows how it happened.

  “I… got lost,” he said softly, ducking his head. “I was somewhere else. Then I was here.”

  Charlie stopped coloring for a second, peering over at him. “Did your family get lost too?”

  He opened his mouth… then closed it.

  Charlie must have seen the look on his face, because she didn’t press. Instead, she set down her crayon and gave him a determined nod. “Then I’ll stay with you. Until they come back.”

  Izuku blinked, startled. “But… why?”

  She shrugged. “Because it’s what heroes do.”

  The words hit him like a punch to the heart. His throat tightened. She said it just like All Might would have.

  “But you don’t have to—” he started.

  “I want to,” Charlie interrupted, smiling. “Besides, I don’t like eating birthday cake alone. And you need a friend.”

  Izuku didn’t realize how badly he needed to hear those words until they were already out of her mouth. A shaky breath escaped him, and he nodded.

  “Okay.”

  They were inseparable the rest of the afternoon.

  Charlie showed him every inch of the restaurant—well, every inch her dad allowed her to explore. They played in the ball pit. They danced to Fredbear’s music. She showed him how the animatronics could “wave” on command when a technician wasn’t looking. Izuku laughed, genuinely, the sound high and bright.

  “See? I knew you could smile,” Charlie said, smug.

  “You made me,” he said, cheeks red. “You’re kinda like a hero too.”

  Charlie puffed up proudly. “My dad says I’m going to grow up and protect people. Maybe build robots like him, too. Only I’ll make sure none of them ever get mean.”

  Izuku tilted his head. “...Mean?”

  Her smile wavered for the first time. “Sometimes they don’t listen right. Like… the old ones. But it’s okay! Daddy’s fixing it. He always fixes everything.”

  Izuku nodded slowly. He didn’t fully understand, but her confidence was infectious.

  A staff member eventually noticed the two of them sticking together and mentioned to Anthony that “the new kid’s found himself a shadow.” Charlie didn’t mind. Izuku didn’t either.

  In this strange place and time, she was his anchor.

  But even warm places cast long shadows.

  The sun began to set, and the crowd thinned. The families with birthday hats left first, followed by the after school groups. Music still played, but it was softer now. Slower. And somewhere beyond the bright interior lights and dancing animatronics, something colder stirred.

  Izuku was helping Charlie stack pizza boxes near the front when the voices came.

  “Hey, Charlie! We saw your dad on TV again. Did he finally finish fixing the junkbots?”

  Three boys, a little older, a little louder than they should have been, pushed their way inside. They didn’t wear party badges, and their eyes didn’t hold any joy.

  Izuku stepped back as they approached, instinctively moving between them and Charlie.

  The tallest one grinned, mock-innocent. “We wanna show you something outside, Charlie. It's real cool.”

  “I’m not supposed to go out after dark,” she replied firmly.

  “What, are you scared?”

  “No,” she snapped.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Izuku didn’t like the way they loomed. Their laughter wasn’t real laughter—it was taunting, hollow.

  “Come on. Just real quick. It’s important.”

  Charlie tensed.

  And then, Izuku stepped forward. “I’ll go.”

  The boys blinked.

  Charlie spun toward him. “Izuku, no.”

  But he looked at her, calm and steady. “I’ll go see what they want. Just wait here, okay?”

  Charlie looked like she wanted to argue—but something in his eyes stopped her. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded.

  “I’ll get my dad if you’re not back in two minutes,” she whispered.

  Izuku gave her a thumbs-up, forced a smile.

  “Be careful.”

  He turned back to the boys. “Okay. Lead the way.”

  They looked at each other, then shrugged. “Sure, kid. C’mon.”

  They slipped through the side exit, laughing like it was all a game. Izuku followed, his stomach twisting. The rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed with puddles and streetlights.

  They turned the corner, leading him into the narrow alley behind the diner. It was dark. Quiet. Too quiet.

  Izuku slowed. “So… what did you want to show me?”

  The only answer was the sound of the heavy door closing behind him with a metallic clunk.

  Startled, Izuku spun around and rushed back toward the door, his small fists pounding against it. It wouldn't budge.

  “Hey! Let me back in!” he cried, voice cracking.

  No answer. No laughter now. Just silence.

  Unaware of the true danger creeping closer from the shadows, Izuku kept struggling with the door, too focused on getting back to Charlie—too innocent to realize he was already trapped.

  Izuku’s small fists beat against the door until they hurt, but the metal refused to give up. It rattled against its frame, sealed tightly from the inside. No one heard him. No one was coming.

  His breath came in ragged gasps.

  Stay calm. Think. Heroes think in situations like this.

  He remembered what All Might always said: "A real hero never gives up, even when things seem impossible."

  Swallowing his fear, Izuku stepped back from the door. Maybe if he found another entrance? A window? He turned and froze.

  Across the narrow alley, under the flickering light of a broken street lamp, stood a man.

  A man in purple.

  Grimy uniform. Sharp smile.

  Something about him set every instinct in Izuku’s body screaming.

  The man said nothing. He simply walked forward, slow, deliberate, the puddles splashing around his feet.

  Izuku stumbled back until his shoulders hit the locked door. His heart pounded painfully in his chest. He opened his mouth to yell, but no sound came out.

  The man stopped just a few feet away.

  “Hey there, little guy,” he said, his voice syrupy-sweet and wrong in every way.

  Izuku shook his head violently. “I—I have a bracelet! I can’t leave without a grown-up! I’m—I'm not supposed to!”

  The man crouched low, eye-level now, a glint of something cold and metallic slipping from his jacket sleeve.

  “That’s okay,” he said softly. “You won’t be leaving.”

  Izuku bolted to the side, trying to run past him but the man was faster.

  A hand clamped down on Izuku’s wrist, the neon bracelet blinking wildly as it struggled to send an alert that no one inside would ever see. Izuku kicked and struggled, but he was just a boy, small and drenched and scared.

  The man's grip tightened. He yanked Izuku off his feet effortlessly, dragging him toward the back of the alley where a beat-up purple car idled, exhaust snaking into the cold air.

  Izuku fought harder. Tears stung his eyes. Charlie. Anthony. Someone, please...

  In one desperate move, Izuku managed to wrench his arm halfway free—but the man reacted instantly, slamming him back against the brick wall. The blow knocked the breath from Izuku’s lungs. He slumped, dizzy, the world tilting around him.

  The last thing he saw was the man’s smile.

  And the rain started to fall again, as if mourning what was about to happen.

  The alley fell into silence.

  Inside the diner, Charlie watched the door anxiously, clutching her crayon-stained napkin in one hand. Two minutes had passed. Then three. Then five.

  Her stomach twisted.

  Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  She slid from her booth and bolted toward the employee hallway, looking for her dad, for Anthony—anyone.

  Behind the scenes, unnoticed by the living, a mechanical figure stirred in its glass box.

  The Security Puppet’s sensors—linked to every security bracelet in the building—began to beep wildly. Red lights flashed. A child registered as missing. The system override clicked on.

  The Puppet’s strings shuddered.

  Its eyes opened.

  The Puppet’s internal systems screamed in warning.

  Child lost. Security breach. Alert failure.

  The glass case it lived in—no, was trapped in—unlocked with a hiss of hydraulics. The marionette figure lurched forward, strings trailing behind it like frayed nerves, its wooden limbs creaking with urgency.

  Without hesitation, it darted down the hallway, its rails guiding it toward the exit.

  The world outside was a blur of cold and water. Rain poured anew, drenching the alley in shadow and mist. The Puppet’s sensors scanned desperately, tracing the signal of the green security bracelet—the beacon fading with every second.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  It was supposed to protect them.

  It was supposed to save them.

  The Puppet Limped into the alley and followed the trail and stopped.

  There, under the dying hum of the streetlamp, lay a small body.

  Soaked. Still.

  The neon green bracelet blinked dimly on a limp wrist.

  The Puppet floated closer, hands trembling.

  It tried.

  It tried to reach him.

  But it was too late.

  A thin thread of light—something invisible to the human eye—rose gently from Izuku’s chest. His soul, fragile and flickering, drifted uncertainty in the air.

  The Puppet reached out its wooden fingers.

  And the light responded.

  The bond formed in that moment was simple and absolute: a child who wanted to protect others, and a machine built to guard them. Their wills intertwined.

  Izuku’s small, broken soul merged with the Puppet, breathing a kind of life into the empty shell that had never been there before.

  The Puppet’s eyes glowed faintly. It picked up the tiny body with infinite gentleness, as if cradling something precious.

  A voice broke the silence.

  "—what the hell—?"

  A flashlight swept the alley.

  Henry Emily—engineer, father, founder—stepped out into the rain, called by the emergency alarms from inside the diner. He froze when he saw the scene before him: a child, barely older than his own daughter, lying still in the Puppet’s arms.

  Henry’s stomach dropped out from under him.

  “Oh God—no—” he whispered, rushing forward.

  The Puppet, recognizing an authorized adult, laid Izuku’s body down carefully on the wet concrete, then stepped back into the shadows, unseen as Henry collapsed to his knees.

  The man checked for a pulse, for breathing. There was none.

  Henry fumbled for the radio on his belt, hands shaking.

  “Anthony! Call the police—now! We—we have a—” His voice broke. “We have someone who died.”

  Inside, the diner’s lights dimmed, as if the building itself understood the tragedy unfolding.

  Children's laughter faded. Animatronic songs faltered.

  Fredbear and Spring Bonnie stood motionless on the stage, their plastic smiles suddenly monstrous in the dim light.

  The sirens came eventually.

  The flashing red and blue lights cast long, distorted shadows across the wet asphalt.

  A crowd gathered, employees whispering, parents ushering their children away hurriedly.

  Henry stood nearby, arms wrapped around a trembling Charlie, who had burst into tears when she realized Izuku wasn’t coming back inside.

  The paramedics lifted Izuku's body gently onto a stretcher, covering his small frame with a white sheet.

  No one noticed the Puppet high above them, perched in the rafters, its glowing eyes filled with grief.

  No one but Charlie, who glanced upward—and thought, for a moment, that she saw Izuku's face smiling down at her through the rain.

  And somewhere deep within the Puppet’s wooden heart, a promise was made:

  No child would ever be left alone again.

  Not while it still had strings to move.

  Not while it still had breath to give.

  The crime scene was quiet now.

  Extra's

  The flashing lights still painted the diner’s walls in pulsing colors, but the noise—the shouting, the weeping—had faded into low murmurs. A thin mist hung in the air, ghosting between the legs of police officers and EMTs as they went about their grim work.

  A pair of detectives stood over the covered stretcher where the boy's body rested.

  Detective Callahan, a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair and an old brown coat, scratched his chin thoughtfully. His younger partner, Detective Ruiz, thumbed through a notepad with a deepening frown.

  "No ID. No wallet. No labels on the clothes," Ruiz muttered. "Bracelet was from the restaurant security system, issued when he was brought in today. But other than that?"

  "Nothing," Callahan said gruffly. "It’s like he just... appeared."

  The medical examiner, a quiet woman with sharp eyes, joined them with a clipboard in hand.

  “You’re going to want to see this,” she said.

  She pulled back the sheet covering the boy’s head just enough to reveal the green hair, still matted and dripping with rainwater.

  “I checked for dye,” she said simply. “It’s not artificial. Follicles are pigmented naturally.”

  Callahan raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me a kid naturally has green hair?”

  “Genetically natural. No signs of chemical treatment.”

  Ruiz whistled low. “Weird. But not impossible.”

  “That’s not the part that concerns me,” the examiner continued, voice dropping.

  She held out a sheet of lab results. Genetic scans—standard operating procedure for unidentified minors.

  Ruiz skimmed it, then looked up, confused. “What’s this mean? ‘Irregular genetic markers’? ‘Unclassifiable traits’?”

  “It means,” the examiner said, folding her arms, “this kid’s DNA doesn’t match any known population profiles. He doesn’t fit the templates we use for North American, European, Asian, or African descent. It’s not just that he’s missing from the system.”

  She lowered her voice. “It’s like he’s not from here at all.”

  Callahan’s face darkened. “You check missing persons?”

  “Statewide, national, even cross-referenced international databases. Nothing. No reported missing child matching his description. No fingerprints in the system either.”

  “No parents listed when he was brought in?”

  The examiner shook her head. “The employee who found him said he just showed up in the rain. Alone.”

  Callahan rubbed his temples. "Great. So we’ve got a dead kid, no history, no parents, no origin. And DNA that’s... wrong."

  “Different,” corrected the examiner. “Not wrong. Just... different enough to be unsettling.”

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  Ruiz shifted uncomfortably. "What about the cause of death?"

  The examiner hesitated.

  "That's the other thing," she said, voice tight. "The body shows signs of asphyxiation—manual strangulation likely—but... there are no defensive wounds. None. No broken nails, no skin under his fingers, no bruising from a struggle. It's like..."

  She trailed off.

  "Like what?" Callahan pressed.

  The examiner stared down at the boy’s small, still face.

  “Like he didn’t fight back at all.”

  Across the parking lot, Henry Emily watched from a distance, arms folded across his chest.

  Charlie leaned against him, her small hands trembling. He hugged her tighter, but his mind was elsewhere—on the Puppet. On the way it had moved tonight.

  Too fast. Too aware.

  Machines weren’t supposed to feel grief.

  They weren’t supposed to chase children into the rain.

  Henry’s stomach twisted.

  He looked up at the stars hidden behind clouds and whispered under his breath.

  His gaze fell back to the diner, to the dark doorway where a little boy had walked out and never come back.

  And deep in the bowels of Fredbear’s Family Diner, in a forgotten maintenance room, the Puppet sat perfectly still, its hollow eyes reflecting nothing.

  Inside its frame, a new heartbeat had begun to echo.

  Slow. Fragile. Determined.