{AN: I know some of you are edgelords and want a fic where the MC goes on a rampage, but the kids just traumatized. If you don't like it take your ass somewhere else and stop complaining to me, cuz I don't give any fucks. Better yet- You don't like my story? Go write your own.}
The holding cell at U.A. was a cage of sterile white, a place designed not just to contain but to calm. The walls reflected the harsh fluorescent light, cold and unyielding—much like the memories trapped in Takuma's mind. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant, a sharp chemical scent that stung the back of his throat and clung stubbornly to his clothes.
He sat on the thin mattress, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around himself like armor. The coarse fabric of the uniform itched under his fingertips. The faint hum of the ventilation system was the only sound cutting through the suffocating quiet, its rhythmic drone marking time in an otherwise empty space.
The nightmares were relentless. They came in waves—Aoi's blood pooling in the cracks of the broken concrete, the widening terror in her eyes, the cold cruelty of those men who had destroyed her—then left Takuma broken, hollow, a shadow of the boy who once dreamed without fear.
He closed his eyes, willing the images away, but they refused to fade, flashing behind his lids like shards of glass.
The door opened quietly.
"Good morning, Takuma," Dr. Hashimoto said, stepping inside with calm professionalism. She carried a clipboard but her eyes held something softer—a compassion earned over years of helping fractured minds piece themselves back together.
She didn't rush him. Instead, she took a seat across from him on the hard plastic chair, her voice low and steady, like a lifeline cast in a storm. "I want to talk about what you're feeling today."
Takuma didn't respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on a crack in the ceiling, tracing the erratic lines as if they might unravel the chaos in his head.
"You don't have to face this alone," she continued gently. "I know the pain runs deep."
His jaw clenched tight enough to hurt.
"They did worse than kill her," he whispered, voice brittle as dry leaves. "They… they had their way with her. Left her to bleed out like trash on the street. I stood there. I watched. I couldn't do a damn thing."
The words fell heavy between them, raw and unbearable.
Dr. Hashimoto nodded, but not with pity. Instead, there was a solemn respect in her eyes. "That isn't your fault. And your anger—your pain—that's your mind's way of protecting you."
Takuma finally looked at her, eyes sharp but guarded, like a caged animal sizing up an unfamiliar presence. "I don't want to be broken like that," he admitted. "But sometimes… I wonder if I already am."
Days slipped past, indistinguishable from one another, marked only by therapy sessions, routine medical check-ins, and the constant, almost imperceptible vibration of the Quirk limiter embedded in his restraints.
The device was small and subtle—a sleek band wrapped around his wrists and forearms. It wasn't designed to suffocate his power, but to dampen sudden surges, preventing any explosive loss of control. The staff at U.A. refused to take risks; his trauma could easily ignite dangerous outbursts. The limiter was their way of keeping him—and everyone else—safe.
Takuma's world shrank to that cell and the endless textbooks he devoured. Villain psychology. Criminal networks. The underworld's hidden hierarchies. His genius mind absorbed the material with unyielding hunger, dissecting patterns, motives, and histories with cold precision.
Knowledge was power, but it did little to heal the jagged edges of his soul.
His hands often trembled as the essence of the materials around him—the cold steel bars enclosing his cell, the rough grain of the concrete floor—seemed to pulse faintly beneath his skin. It was a constant reminder of his Quirk's strange, unpredictable connection to the world. A power that was still unfamiliar, fragile, and frightening.
Another therapy session.
Dr. Hashimoto observed him carefully, searching for cracks beneath his carefully constructed calm.
"Your mind is sharp," she said, voice gentle. "But trauma weighs heavy. Have you thought about how this might affect your relationships—with others?"
Takuma hesitated, struggling with the idea.
"Closer than my books? Closer than pain and loss? I don't know if I can."
A faint fissure appeared in his stoic mask. For a brief moment, vulnerability leaked through.
"I don't think I'm… clean. I feel contaminated."
She nodded slowly, her tone steady but kind.
"Trauma changes us. Yes. But it doesn't have to define us forever. There's space for healing—if you're willing to try."
One quiet afternoon, Aizawa came by. He didn't say much at first, just settled onto a bench outside the glass wall of the cell, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor breaking the silence.
After a long pause, he finally spoke, voice low and careful.
"You're not alone here, Takuma. We're watching. We're ready to help—when you're ready."
Takuma met his gaze.
"Trust doesn't come easy. Especially when the world has shown me its worst." Aizawa's eyes were steady, unwavering. "That's why you need someone by your side. Not just power, but guidance."
At night, when the lights dimmed and the staff retreated, Takuma was left with his thoughts.
He replayed memories over and over—some bitter, some faintly hopeful. He imagined a future where his rage was a tool, not a cage.
A future where he could open his heart without fear. But that future still felt far away—like a distant horizon beyond reach.
For now, the weight of silence pressed down on him, and he waited.