𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 - 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚x𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝑽𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏 MHA

★⋆𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏⋆★

𝙋𝙐𝘽𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙃𝙀𝘿― 7/18/23

𝙍𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙎𝙀𝘿― 7/16/25

丨-Chapter Fifteen ▬  Escalating priority-丨

-ꜱᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ -ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴅᴀʀ-

ʚ▬▬ι═ ═══ﺤ - Municipal Beach ─ 6:30 AM │

┆--Y/N POV--┆

"YOU WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH!"

The worst part about those words was the fact that you had only yourself to blame, and you couldn't differentiate the hatred between yours or something far worse emerging. 

You floated along the early morning breeze, half-bodied in the world, half ghosted from it as usual. The pier stretched ahead, long and empty, bleached in the soft morning light. Phantom State wrapped your skin like a shroud, meanwhile your body cloaked in a hoodie that flickered at the edges, as if reality was beginning to forget you existed. Not like you'd let that happen, every day you made sure the world knew your name.

Drifting to the edge of the gazebo at the pier's end, where the waves beneath rhythmically lapped and the cool wind curled through your hair, you exhaled shakily. One hand hovered above the rail, your fingers still twitching from remnants of adrenaline, or possibly rage. 

You stood there with muscles twitching under skin, like a fuse waiting to snap. And then with a sharp inhale, you screamed. Not words. Not curses. Just raw, unshaped sound.

It tore from your chest and broke across the beach, swallowed by the morning tide. The ocean didn't care. The seagulls didn't care. The world didn't care, so you kept screaming.

It started with syllables, then broke and bled into something uglier. Grief. Fury. Self-hatred. A wail that ended in a laugh, a pitiful laugh that then folded back into a painful gasp. Like you couldn't quite decide who you were performing for, yourself, or the ghosts of yourself still laughing in your head.

"𝑮𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎?" the Voice murmured from deep inside, flat and unimpressed. Some things never change, and that was the best of it.

"Not... nearly," you croaked with a tight chest and lowered your hands, which flopped bonelessly at your sides. They didn't feel like yours this morning, so why bother with the exertion? So you turned to leave the pier, ready to vanish back into the alleyways and tunnels where no one bothered to look.

But then, you stopped once your drooping eye caught a vibrant tuft of hair. There, on the far end of the beach, half-obscured by a dune and framed by scattered shrubs, was a familiar silhouette. Green hair. Neon red shoes. Hunched posture.

Midoriya. Why is he HERE!?

"𝑫𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?"

How should I know?

You tensed up, instinct jerking you back like an invincible shove.

He was training, again. And not the casual "hero poses on a cliffside" kind of training. He was drenched in sweat, hoodie tied around his waist, his palms scraped. His arms moved in rapid sequences, punches, footwork, dodges, like he was shadowboxing.