Crimson Murders

Chapter Forty-Four

The child of Death lands on a wet cement slab with a small grunt as he glances up at the person who had the audacity to shove him away. His sunglasses had fallen off when he had been pushed away. Through the heavy rain, he gets the chance to meet narrowed, dark hazel eyes—the same hazel eyes from a year ago. They are so full of anger and bloodlust that it sends shivers down his spine. The owner of the two irises has a pale face which is framed by the red locks of hair, knotted and oily from negligence and mistreatment. The woman is older than him, that much is known. He can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the creases on her forehead as if she spends the entire time frowning. Izuku knows her. He's met her before, a year ago. He remembers the day they met, he remembers who this woman is and what she has done. This is the woman who he and the police have been searching for the past year.

In an immediate reaction, he kicks her off of him. Quickly, he scrambles to his feet, splashing up water while gripping his scythe tightly. His eyes flick over to the number one hero and villain's fight for a split second which is drowned out by the harsh pounding of rain. He knows this is all fate and this fate he cannot fight against. The woman before him is grinning and twirling a kunai in her hands. Bloodlust shines in her eyes and for the first time in forever, he feels the fear of dying. The feeling of leaving and never being able to come back. Had he taken everything for granted? Now, he is staring down the only person—the only human—that can kill him.

Between them, the tension is thick—almost suffocating.

His grip on the scythe is tight, his knuckles white with tension as he licks his lips. His heart drumming harshly, heartbeat so loud he could hear it over the pounding rain and roaring thunder. His beating organ knocks against his ribcage harshly and for some reason, he can't concentrate, he can't calm himself down. All those days fearing the Corpses, all those days fearing what Bakugou could do to him, it was all coming back to him—crushing him like Muscular back in the training camp, but this time there's no coming back from it. He can't. This isn't something he can come back from!

Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.

So fast. So quick. It beats and beats harsher and harsher—never once slowing down. Cold sweat beads down his neck and back, sending chills down his spine as he feels suffocated by terror. Is this how everyone feels when he or she is staring down his or her death? Is this what this feeling is? Fear of dying? Has he taken the inability to die for granted? Why? Why had he? Aizawa-sensei, Recovery Girl, his mom—everyone who knows of his Championship for one of the Immortals—they've all told him. They all wanted him to make sure to preserve himself but his hero complex, his martyr complex, it all kept that from happening. Now, now he won't be able to come back this time. If he hadn't met Tsukauchi if he hadn't helped with that one case—would things be different? No. Knowing Fate, he won't allow this one moment to pass by. At this thought, his chest seems to tighten, his lungs screaming for air that they can't draw in. That's when realization dawns on him.

Oh god, he can't breathe. He can't breathe! Why can't he breathe?

His legs tremble as he stares into those eyes, those eyes which hold a murderous gleam that shines brightly—brighter than the sun itself. It doesn't take much to know. He recognizes it in an instant, having seen it so many times on so many different people. He hated the fact that he froze up, but he hasn't been killed yet. That's the thing that scares—no, the fact that she hasn't killed him yet terrifies him. She can kill him. Unlike anyone else he has met, she can kill him! She can keep him from living! She can damn his soul and he can't do anything about it. Death won't be able to bring him back. His guess is that she finds amusement in watching him shake like a leaf if that predatory and amused snarl is anything to go by. A wolf stalking its prey and ready to strike, but for some reason, it's decided to play with its food. His grip on the scythe slips a bit as sweat builds up in his palms.