Cold Instinct || Vigilante Deku

ⁿᵒ.1

— The Rejected —

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The world... It's too cruel, too hurtful yet no one seems to know what really is going on. It's a stage full of actors, he knows it... because, he can't be the only one, right?

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His eyes fluttered open to the pain his body had finally decided to acknowledge, blood was seeping through his black hoodie, his back was leaning against the cold, brick wall. With the lack of light, he wasn't sure how badly he had gotten himself injured, not that he cared though.

Letting out a dry cough after a hiss, he regained his posture, getting up from the ground as he used the wall for support, he fished his phone from his pocket, thankfully it had a zipper so he didn't have to worry about the piece of tech falling off.

"3.48 am..." He muttered and a sigh followed, it was way too soon to go back home, that is if you could call it that. His body was limping with each step, forcing him to make frequent stops to catch his breath, tomorrow was going to be a long, long day.

As he claimed up the stairs from outside the apartment building, built for in case a fire broke out, he occupied his head with the assignment that had been given by his teacher, an essay.

He was supposed to get it done over the weekend but he barely had the strength to get out of bed, he had even forgotten to eat, it wasn't like his parents would be there to remind him; his mother had been working non-stop, and as for his father, the man wanted to do nothing with his own flesh and blood.

The boy didn't blame him.

He blamed himself.

He was quirkless, rejected, and he merited nothing. It had been far too long since he had accepted that. With a sigh, he carefully opened the window, a hooted hiss escaped his bleeding lip as he jumped inside and fell on the floor.

"Dammit-!" he muttered in annoyance, a group of drug dealers had been going around, the word on the streets was that the thing was no ordinary drug, and those people weren't some petty criminals, they worked with the Yakuza. He had been trying to find them, investigating to the point he knew more than the people in charge, searching under every rock, but that wasn't enough.

Nothing he ever did was ever enough and it was getting on his nerves.

When he thought about it, this whole system, the way that the society works, thinks and acts was laughable. Everyone he came across was a hypocrite. Nothing they do or say made sense anymore.

People work day after day, but for what? Nothing ever seems to be enough, nothing ever is good enough. He knows that, better than anyone else! He tries every day, pushes himself to the point he breaks but in the end, it's not worth anything.

In fact nothing matters, people lie, he lies, to those around him and to himself. Saying he is just 'fine'. Even if he did want to get help, he knew he had no right to worry people, who was he to trouble them. At times, those thoughts said he was getting ahead of himself, nobody would actually worry for him.

People hated him, just because he didn't have a quirk. He had gotten used to the discrimination, the rejection, the abuse, the suicide baitings, it was a part of his daily life now, not like he had another choice.

He shook his head, ridding himself of the thoughts that made his mind foggy, why of all times would he think of this?! He growled, taking off his hoodie and his voice changer installed mask, throwing them aside. He weakly examined the wound on his torso, that guy with the blade-arm quirk sure had done a number on him.