My hero academia:Am I worthy?

I see the empty facades of buildings, majestic and tall, but as I cling to them with my tendrils and fly past the clean windows, I see nothing alive. My suit, merged with the night, reflects only a dark image of myself on the glass that I never expected to see. This is my chance to become the hero I wanted to be since childhood.

Cutting through the air between the buildings below me, I observe a bright city whose light is visible from a bird's-eye view. Looking at this, I have the feeling that there is no soul behind the facades of these buildings. Everyone is afraid of each other, afraid of something new. Even when I hear about a change in order, forgetting the old customs, people still cling to them, even though they call themselves a new branch of human evolution. An enormous city in which I am just a dark green spot—a mere ant in a vast anthill. An anthill where people play the roles of heroes and villains. So little have people changed that they continue to believe in good or evil, when the illusion of this was long destroyed in the war of quirks that happened 80 years ago.

My path is accompanied by the wind, and my companion is the night, while only my dark alien friend helps me become who I dreamed of being. An amazing person, I'm literally in between a hero and a villain, even though my hands are stained with the blood of villains. But putting them in prison, they still manage to escape. Perhaps this was vengeance for one person untainted by blood and the dirt of society that deems me useless and unneeded.

How sad it is to know that I am a half-blood without a quirk but possessing a power capable of making people's lives better. Yet even this power without me is merely a chunk of black slime trying to survive in this vast world. I jump across roofs, hoping to find those who violate the order and help ordinary people who sacrifice their minds and muscles for the sake of selling themselves like cheap prostitutes in the labor market, which they call lawful ways of earning money.

I see hundreds, no, thousands of people filling the city's public transport, trying to reach their jobs on time in their suits with white shirts, black pants, and jackets that were designed six centuries ago by people they call quirkless and the previous step of evolution. Seeing them, and when they call themselves the perfect form of humanity, I can't help but ask:

"What have you done to consider yourself a perfect person?"

Sitting on a water tower, I gaze into the distance at the city surrounded by tall and beautiful buildings, much like the egos of the people I see every day on my bus ride to school. All the glances they cast at me after saving Fuyumi, whom I respect and will continue to respect for the support I sought everywhere, are ingrained in my mind. If I were in my current position at 11 years old, I would have locked myself in my room and never left, knowing that every person would point at me, calling me a reckless idiot wanting to be a hero.

The rumble of my thoughts is interrupted by a woman's scream, and my eyes widen as I follow her voice. I leap from one rooftop to another, seeing a bunch of grates built to prevent people from taking their own lives. Tendrils extend from my hands, and the woman's cries become increasingly clear, while my alien friend whispers to me to be faster and use the speed he can provide.

"Hurry up, we might be late because of your stubbornness," he whispers in the depths of my mind, trying to quicken my steps, but the sound continues to come from the woman until I hear the sound of a shattered bottle, which alerts me before I hear a loud and frantic:

"HELP!" she cries, and I finally find her. Alongside an old man who suspiciously resembles someone shown on television, and a middle-aged woman dressed in revealing clothing. It was easy to see that she was a representative of an ancient profession that has existed since the times of Ancient Rome, and looking at her, she wasn't a street courtesan. Prostitutes had their own hierarchy—these were the "Delicatae," elite courtesans who served wealthy patricians and could be well-educated.

Surrounded by robbers and street thugs approaching them like jackals to their prey, I drop down from the rooftop with a crash, landing on the ground and attracting everyone's attention. The bandits look at me, and on their faces is only a smirk mixed with sneers.

"Phantom, noble heart, look who has come," the first one smirks upon seeing me.

I tighten my fists, ready to fight them, continuing to listen to their mockery directed at me.

"Noble knight with a noble soul, protecting the prostitute and the old man feeding us empty promises while he enjoys himself to the fullest," the second one spat. From his tone, I can guess that he is a politician who decided to entertain himself by exploiting another young body.

"Is it fair to interfere in all this?" I ask myself, but they were trying to harm people, while the prostitute tightly held onto her client, fearing that her beautiful, well-groomed face would be marred by blows.

I tense my fists, realizing that there is no black and white in this situation. Some want justice, while others want to have fun without caring about others.

"Please help me," she pleaded with a trembling voice, looking at me with hope, while the politician lay on the ground with a broken head and blood flowing down his face, decorating it.

"..." Without waiting for my response, one of the robbers lunges at me with his fists, but his hopes of victory vanish as quickly as he steps in my direction. Tendrils burst from my hands, and with one massive punch, I use "Symbiote: Punch," throwing him into a trash bin with immense force. The others, seeing what I was capable of, use their quirks, but it doesn't last long. I pull them toward me, and with a couple of powerful punches to the face, they collapse, losing consciousness.

"That was quick; they are weak," my friend whispers ominously, although it is true. The woman looks at me with gratitude, and I, grabbing the three of them with my tendrils, throw them out of the alley, putting them on display for the whole street.

"Thank you so much." Slim legs, expensive clothes, well-groomed hair, but all this was a mask to hide her emptiness, entertaining herself with the wealthy who didn't care about people like her. All of this was temporary pleasure.

"..." I remained silent, not wanting to speak with her or the man lying there holding his head.

"He needs medical help," she said anxiously, but I couldn't care less, just like she didn't care about me. The moment I leave, she will view my act of nobility as something owed.

"After all, every hero saves people, especially the deceitful and hypocritical, right?" I asked myself, and turning away from her, I stepped away from that wicked place, clinging to the fire escape that gave me access to the rooftop, and hearing the wail of police sirens, I hurried to avoid being caught by the police and heroes. But what surprised me the most was the comment from that woman who shouted kind words in my direction.

"Monster, you could at least help!" Hearing this, my friend hissed with rage, trying to make me go back and show how ungrateful she was.

"Ungrateful monkey. You shouldn't tolerate such treatment; you don't deserve it," my friend said, but I didn't care about her words. Such disgusting filth was present every night, and if I paid attention to their words, I might as well lock myself in my room and cry about why I was like this.

I was tired of being weak, the one who had been pushed around since childhood. If I show them strength, they fear me, considering me a demon executing justice. If I were the hero they were used to seeing, they would immediately start praising me, saying how strong and kind I was, but the moment I turn away, they would smear my name behind my back, calling me a braggart and a coward.

Through the city's haze, I continued to move forward, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. The streetlights illuminated the streets where people lived their lives, unaware that something they feared—or despised—was lurking in the shadows.

"You should have taught her a lesson," the voice inside me hissed.

"Just one punch, just one lesson, and she would understand that you can't spit in the face of someone who saves her miserable life."

I ignored him. Too often, this voice urged me to take revenge, to prove that I was stronger, that I was not someone who could be humiliated and thrown in the dirt.

But deep down, I knew he was right.

I was tired of dealing with petty criminals; I needed bigger and more substantial prey to rid people of the fear of the psychos and maniacs that flooded the streets, committing murders for their disgusting and perverse fantasies. How am I different from them if I use their methods to achieve the heroism that is promoted everywhere I look on the streets?

Store shelves are filled with heroic merchandise. From clothing to food, with their faces, logos, and merchandise. All these smiling faces in heroic attire with slogans. I was once one of them, collecting cards, toys, and posters of All Might, but how deceived I was. Bright wrappers designed for children, and even foolish adults collect them, amassing pieces of plastic and paper and selling them for huge sums of money. This is just a belief system sold on television and the internet.

Landing on a rooftop, I was confronted by Mt. Lady, or rather, not her, but her billboard advertising hair shampoo. Who is it meant for—children or adults?

With a fake smile on her face and the slogan:

"Want to grow taller? Then my shampoo is just for you!!!"

I remember when she debuted on the first day; that same day, I received hate and disdain for saving someone while she received the public's love and recognition. People believed in heroes so much that without their costumes, they considered any other form of heroism as recklessness.

"Why did she join the ranks of heroes if she became a walking advertisement for products?" my friend wondered, as we are so different from them. All the heroism, interviews on talk shows, and promotional merchandise drove people crazy, and like mentally impaired children, they fought with each other over collectible editions.

How hypocritical I am, for as a child, I also begged and pleaded with my mother to buy me hero merchandise that just sat on my shelves. It was hard to judge me; I too fell for that advertising, even though I blame others for buying such products. But I was a child when the whole world seemed brighter, the grass greener, and the sky bluer. I fell for their tactics; they were effective, and this business, in the hands of a few people, dictated who would become the number one hero or a new pioneer, turning heroes into lab rats for their promotional experiments.

Neon painted the surrounding buildings, creating an illusion of technological progress, but remove those lights, and the buildings turn into chunks of concrete and glass. Among all these monotonous constructions, I ventured into the outskirts of the city that are not often remembered. Overwhelmed by despair, the smell of burning rubbish filled the air, tainting it with the stench of blood and vice. On the streets, women of easy virtue flitted about, selling themselves as cheap comforts for the most undemanding. Lupae or street prostitutes, often working in dark alleys or just outside the city gates, which have been open since ancient times, but nothing has changed since the beginning.

"Maybe we should take advantage of their services, relieve some stress, and unleash our lust?" my friend recommended, having read scientific articles about the benefits of intimacy for men.

I ignored my dark friend's words, merely snorting in response. My desires told me to relax and seek cheap pleasure, but I was still not a man; I was a young man. His voice was always persistent, whispering the most seductive thoughts to me, offering paths I had no intention of taking. Or… I didn't want to acknowledge that one day I might.

I walked across the rooftops, looking down at the dirty streets where silhouettes flitted between broken streetlights and graffiti in dark alleys. Some were looking for clients, some—prey. The city lived its life, ugly, cruel, full of cheap glamour and stinking back alleys that concealed the true essence of society.

And I was part of all this. Even if I didn't appear dark on the outside, deep within my doubts, I believed in the best that I could change. But possessing only this power was insufficient to make any difference. The girl with blue hair and a big, pure soul, whom I have loved unconditionally since childhood, and the woman with a sincere smile, who, through her presence and behavior, replaced my mother whom I still miss and yearn to see with all my heart.

A gust of wind rustled my jacket. At that moment, I heard heavy footsteps below. Voices. Arguments.

I descended lower, clinging to the fire escape. In a narrow alley, three people gathered—two men in dark suits and a girl in a bright but already tattered dress. She was young, hardly older than me. Her long hair fell over her face, hiding her tear-streaked eyes.

"You know you owe us," a huge man with harsh features towered over the fragile girl, who was just my age, but fate's misfortune had reached her life much earlier than she thought in these vile jungles.

"I've worked off all my debt; please, I don't want to go back there," her voice faltered. Her legs trembled in front of him, and the weak, fragile girl couldn't do anything to fight back.

I felt genuine pity for her, but nothing bad had happened yet—no acts of violence—until the next words from this brute pushed me over the edge.

"You returned all the money, but not the interest, babe. We're not a charity organization. Work it off, or you'll be punished." The girl recoiled, but the tall one grabbed her by the wrist. She screamed. With weak arms, she tried to strike them, but all that was left was the scratching of a cat being forcibly taken.

"Please, I don't want to," she pleaded, falling to her knees before them, but her tears evoked no pity in them, only further excited them in front of the defenseless girl.

"Your tears won't help you." He stretched out his palm, ready to strike her, but I caught his hand with a tendril just a meter from her face, revealing my position. All eyes, including the girl's, were focused on me.

"I'll give 100,000¥ for the head of this bastard. Catch him!" shouted the man with sharp features. I didn't wait for further developments and jumped down from the wall, charging into battle. Standing in a stance, I fought with one who had the quirk of giant fists. He tried to hit me but failed, and I tried to hit his face but he defended against my blows. With a tendril, I grabbed his leg and threw him with such force that, hitting his head against the fire escape, he lost consciousness.

"I'll give 300,000¥ for his head; kill him!" he shouted again, and the two attacked me, trying to claim that money. But seizing one of them using [Symbiote: Slam], I grabbed his neck. He tried to resist, trying to pull my tendril from his throat, but I pulled him in and threw him over myself, breaking several bones, accompanied by a sickening crunch.

The third, seeing what happened to the second, tried to run, but I quickly caught up with him and knocked him out with a couple of strong punches to the face, then, grabbing him with my tendril, my friend threw him toward the trash bins, showing him where he belonged.

The leader tried to attack, but I grabbed him by the throat, lifting him into the air so that his legs dangled. Seeing his pathetic struggles to escape, I threw him against the wall and, grabbing his jacket, slammed him against the wall with force. He looked into my white lenses, and I turned my head toward the girl, who was watching me in fear for her life. Returning my gaze to him, he realized what I meant.

"We'll leave her alone. Please, spare me!" How pitiful he looked. In front of the girl, he was fearless, but seeing a larger predator, he became a pathetic coward who feared me.

I released him. But my inner anger screamed for justice and wanted to punish this man fittingly. Unable to stand it, I seized both his wrists, hearing his groans of pain. I squeezed his hands so tightly that I heard the crunch of bones, causing him to scream throughout the alley.

"AAAAAAA!!" — scaring everyone, including the girl, who pressed against the trash container.

That wasn't enough for me; I wanted more to ensure he would never dare threaten the weak.

"Enough, I beg you. I'll give you anything you want; just stop!"

"..." I remained silent, further frightening him. My lenses were tense and narrowed, making me appear like death in his eyes. He fell to his knees before me, trying to elicit my pity, and I lifted him, grabbing him by the jacket, forcing him to look me in the eyes. Pulling a piece of fabric lying in the trash toward me, I stuffed it in his mouth so he wouldn't scream as if he were being killed. Finally, he quieted down, and with one punch, I hit him in the jaw. He groaned, trying to suppress the pain, but with a second hit, I struck him squarely on the nose, breaking it and causing blood to flow. Grabbing his hands, I broke the fingers that had touched people, spreading his filth among them.

The final blow landed on his temple, finally freeing me from the annoying groans and crunches of his bones. He was alive but beaten so badly that he would think long and hard before messing with the defenseless again. I turned my body to check on the girl, but all I saw was fear in her eyes as she looked in my direction. I slowly stepped toward her to calm her, but she closed her eyes, afraid to meet mine.

Shrinking to seem smaller, she reminded me of the times when I was mocked. I wanted to help her, seeing myself in her. Her body was covered in bites, bruises, and hickeys left by people. I sincerely felt sorry for her and didn't want to scare her. I saw in her a younger version of myself, crying and without anyone to extend a hand. I realized that by ignoring her, I could make things worse, so I approached her even closer, trying to help, but in response, I heard:

"Don't touch me, please, leave me alone," she pleaded quietly, her words bringing back memories of when I naively considered Katsuki Bakugo my friend.

***

Lying on the street, 11-year-old Bakugo was tormenting Izuku, showcasing his superiority. Izuku, beaten by his classmates, cried, trying to peacefully resolve the dispute.

"Don't touch me, please, Kacchan, leave me alone," he begged, his body covered in bruises and burns.

"Your tears don't affect me, Deku," was the last thing Izuku saw before a blast from Bakugo's hands left him with a burn that would last a lifetime.

***

My memories were interrupted, and I looked at the girl with gray hair and cat ears with pity. I extended my hand, and sensing something was off, she opened her eyes and saw the outstretched hand.

The girl pressed herself against the wall, her body trembling, and her eyes darted back and forth as if she were searching for a way to escape. But salvation was already nearby. I kept my gaze on her; my outstretched hand remained still, patiently waiting. She looked at it, at my white lenses, behind which it was impossible to discern emotions.

Her breathing became erratic, her shoulders shaking. Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling onto her worn-out dress. In her eyes were fear, distrust… but also something else. Hope? Or maybe desperation that this wasn't a dream, that the nightmare continued?

Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she suddenly burst from her spot and, unable to hold herself back any longer, fell into my arms.

She clung to me, pressing against me with all her strength, as if I were the only thing keeping her grounded in reality. Her fingers gripped my leather jacket tightly, and her chest heaved with sobs.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" she whispered through her tears, clutching the fabric of my clothing. I hugged her with my arms around her dirty, tattered dress, which felt unpleasant to the touch, but I didn't complain, continuing to comfort her.

My words were useless, and I kept listening to her sobs, even though it hurt to hear such tears and despair from someone my age—something I had never heard from my peers before.

"I just wanted to smile and laugh… with my friends and learn. I didn't want this life," she cried. Her sobs were incoherent, but I understood what she meant. It pained me, but I comforted her in every way I could.

"They hurt me there. I don't want to go back," she continued to shiver in my arms, like a cornered animal that had lost all hope. I felt her fingers clenching my jacket, her body shaking with sobs. She was afraid. Afraid of me, afraid of them, afraid of life itself, which had treated her so cruelly.

I didn't know what to say. What words could help now? What words could erase her fear?

My inner voice was silent, observing. Usually, it would speak, whisper, demand, but now it was quiet. Perhaps it understood that there are moments when words are meaningless.

I simply held her. Not moving. Not rushing her. Let her decide what to do next.

Minutes passed before her sobs began to subside. She dared to pull away a little, lifted her head, and looked at me.

"Please, take me home. I'm afraid someone will see me and send me back there." Her legs had lost all strength, and I caught her, preventing her from falling. She had weakened. Holding her in a princess carry felt awkward, but I didn't care about my embarrassment when a person's life was at stake. She curled into my chest, seeking warmth in the cold night. With both hands, she clutched my hand, holding onto something bright in her life. I was torn between taking her to the hospital or the police, where she would receive help. With feeble hands, she grabbed my shoulders and looked into my eyes, finally finding hope.

"I... want to go home," she whispered, relaxing against my chest, searching for warmth. I silently nodded to her, walking away from the alley and leaving those people to rot in the grime.

"I'll show you the way."

"..." I nodded to her, unable to respond. I walked through the dirty streets, glancing around. Grimy façades of buildings surrounded us. The smell of burning garbage assaulted my nose, making it unpleasant to breathe the poisoned air. I was haunted by a question that had been bothering me since I entered this hell.

"Is it possible that among all the heroes in this city, none of them are in this neighborhood?" I asked myself while the girl named Tsumika pointed the way with her finger, showing which direction to go to reach her home. I was afraid to imagine what would happen to her when her parents found out about her condition. I remained silent throughout the journey, trying not to scare her.

"There's my house," she said nervously, trying to say something but afraid. I didn't insist or oppose her, and as we climbed the stairs of the entrance, I saw where she lived. The sight didn't please me; I genuinely felt sorry that this girl lived in such conditions. She had stopped crying, and standing in front of her house, I knocked on the door. Her parents might hate me and consider me a monster who brought their daughter home, but the most important thing was that I brought her to a safe place—home.

The door creaked open, revealing an elderly woman. Her gray hair was gathered in a messy bun, and her face reflected exhaustion and years of pain. Deep wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth, but there was no anger or fear in her gaze—only caution and concern.

"Tsumika…" — her voice was hoarse, yet warm, filled with unexpressed relief. She looked at me—her height didn't allow her to see my face, but the white lenses of my mask made her uneasy. Her gaze flitted between me and the granddaughter I still held in my arms.

"Ba-san…" — Tsumika whispered, weakly clinging to me as if afraid that if she let go, she would end up back in that dark alley. The woman hurriedly stepped out, her hands reaching for her granddaughter, trembling but steady.

"My dear…" — she barely whispered, touching her fingers to Tsumika's face.

I carefully handed the girl over to her, feeling how Tsumika struggled to bear the weight of her own body. The grandmother embraced her tightly, but Tsumika only lowered her head, unable even to smile.

"Thank you," the woman whispered, finally meeting my gaze.

"Thank you for bringing her home." My eyes wandered around the hallway, and I noticed a photograph hanging by the mirror. There I saw Tsumika in her school uniform with her parents, but as I continued to look, I noticed her parents and a caption at the bottom that read:

"I miss you, Mom and Dad."

This touched me, and the elderly woman was the only one who cared for her. It pained me to see this, and meeting the elderly woman's gaze, she nodded and warmly hugged me, expressing her gratitude. I remained silent, not wanting to spoil the moment of reunion between grandmother and granddaughter.

"Thank you for bringing her home."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't let them fall.

"Please… come in… at least have some tea, I… I must thank you…"

I remained silent. The long day, soaked in dirt, blood, and screams, wore me out. In this city, no one thanked people like me. They feared me. Despised me. Considered me a monster. Tsumika had seen what I was capable of. I didn't want to ruin this moment with my presence and wanted to leave them alone.

But this woman didn't look at me with horror. Only with gratitude.

I stepped back, shaking my head and leaving them alone in the silence, disappearing like a shadow from Tsumika's life. But the most important thing was that I helped her and saved her, yet I didn't let this thought overshadow my mind. I could have taken pride in this for the rest of my life, but I chose not to.

"A true hero," my inner friend praised me, which momentarily made me smile before I returned home. I had prevented 17 crimes, and fatigue and hunger were taking their toll. It was too late—2 a.m.—and there was no one outside but me and my friend, who urged me to rest.

Sympathizing with my body and soul, which also pleaded with me to rest, I finally gave in to their words, finally reaching home before the start of a new day.