Aizawa stayed tense, ready to chase the kid down if he so much as twitched wrong. But the boy just stood there, arms loose at his sides, letting the scarf wrap him up without a word. No resistance. No panic.
Now this is a red flag if I've ever seen one.
"Hmm," the boy said casually, his voice too calm for someone bound by a pro hero. "Why am I detained, exactly, Mr. Hero?"
"You know damn well why," Aizawa muttered, already irritated.
"Oh, please do enlighten me," the kid replied, lips tugging into a polite smile—one that only made Aizawa more uneasy.
"What laws were broken by my activities tonight?"
Aizawa held his glare. "I've got the feeling talking to you is going to be a waste of time, given everything I've seen and heard. Now—where the hell are your parents?"
"I'm an orphan," the boy said plainly, like it was a weather report. Not even a trace of offense.
Well, this sucks.
Aizawa didn't let it show, but something in his posture eased for a second. He didn't speak. Instead, he turned away and pulled out his phone.
"Eraserhead. Reporting in. Location: warehouse district, plot 194-G. Two villains apprehended: one conscious, one out cold. No civilian casualties. One minor present… yeah. Kind of the problem."
A short pause. His voice turned flatter.
"No backup needed. Just get someone here for transport and cleanup. I'll hold position until you arrive."
He hung up, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled through his teeth. His eyes returned to the boy, still bound. Still standing there. Not squirming. Not protesting. Just… waiting.
"So," Aizawa began, tone cold and professional, "you hired known criminals to attack you. That's aiding and abetting under Article 62 of the Penal Code. You're not just a victim—you're complicit."
"I didn't know they were criminals. How was I supposed to? I found them through intermediaries. No criminal records were provided."
The answer came too fast.
Aizawa narrowed his eyes, thinking back to the weird little exchange before. Not once during that fight—or that twisted back-and-forth beforehand—had the kid called them villains. Not even once.
Is this whole thing a charade?
The kid's voice cut in again, almost bored: "This property is also legally mine. I have the title deed and municipal registration to prove it. I invited people in for personal combat trials, which—while odd—isn't illegal. Not unless you can prove an intent to cause bodily harm beyond mutual consent."
Aizawa's eyes narrowed. "Intent or not, this was reckless endangerment at the very least. Your actions fall under Article 208: causing injury. You let them bring weapons. That's attempted assault with a deadly weapon."
The kid shrugged lightly. "I didn't let them. I never said they could use weapons. They chose that themselves. And I didn't fight to kill—I fought to survive. If anything, they escalated, which would make me the victim under Article 36—self-defense, yes?"
"You're twisting things."
"No, I'm interpreting them. There's a difference. You're a hero, not a judge."
Aizawa gritted his teeth.
"This is bullshit and you know it."
"Well, it's not like I can argue with a Pro Hero," The kid just gave a shrug, the bindings shifting slightly as he moved. "Guess my dream of being a hero is officially dead, then. I was hoping to attend U.A. next year."
Aizawa froze.
His brow twitched beneath his hairline.
Does this brat know I am about to start teaching there? That shouldn't be possible… but then again, none of this situation makes sense.
"How old are you, exactly?" Aizawa asked, rubbing at the tension blooming in his forehead.
"Fourteen."
"You should be doing middle school homework, not staging deathmatches in abandoned warehouses. Where the hell did all this money come from?"
"Programming," the kid replied as casually as if describing the weather. "I graduated middle school by the time I was five."
Aizawa stared, deadpan. "Bullshit."
The boy didn't even argue. He just nodded toward an open locker across the room. "Check the documents. Knock yourself out."
Aizawa didn't bother asking why a kid had legal paperwork lined up like tax season. Deep down, he already knew.
He crossed the room slowly, keeping the kid in his periphery, and flipped through the stack of documents.
They weren't copies. They were originals—stamped, sealed, notarized.
The top folder contained property registration under the Real Estate Registration Act (不動産登記法)—warehouse plot #194-G, listed under the name Alex Silver, filed through a notary and stamped by the Tokyo Legal Affairs Bureau.
The next binder showed articles of incorporation under the Companies Act (会社法)—a tech firm registered in the name of a legal minor under a special exemption clause with trustee oversight, a rare but legitimate structure. Names of adult proxies were attached, as was an affidavit of income taxation through freelance programming.
It was… all legit.
Disturbingly legit.
Aizawa closed the folder, fingers tightening slightly.
Insane or not, you're too dangerous to be left unchecked. To yourself, if not to others.
"Alex Silver. That your legal name? Are you a foreign national?"
"Nope," the boy chirped. "Domestically born. Since I was orphaned and cognizant since birth, I chose my own name when I got legal recognition at age three."
Aizawa blinked. "Cognizant since birth?"
"Yup. Watched my mom abandon me on an orphanage step in real time. Quite the charming lady."
Aizawa stood silent. The folders felt heavier now.
He heard a faint shuffle behind him. Reflex took over.
He rolled to the side and came up smoothly, one hand on his scarf—
But the kid wasn't lunging.
He was just standing there, restraints hanging loose at his feet.
He adjusted his hair.
With a single motion, he peeled off the black wig and domino mask, revealing blond hair and red eyes beneath.
"Sorry about that. No matter how high-quality, they always make me itch." He dropped the disguise into the locker with an absent flick. "Don't let me distract you—please, keep checking."
He waved Aizawa off like he was fast-forwarding through an ad.
Aizawa's eyes narrowed. "How did you get out of the bindings?"
"I wiggled."
Aizawa frowned. He should've felt a pull. A strain. Something.
And yet, despite escaping… the kid hadn't gone for a hit. No sneak attack. No escape attempt.
He just stood there, stretching, like this was some post-workout cooldown.
Annoying…
"So," the kid said, arms folded behind his head, "what's your verdict, Mr. Eraserhead?"
Of course he knew my name all along.
It shouldn't have surprised him. And yet, hearing it in that tone grated like sandpaper.
Sirens were close now. The cops would be here any second.
"Should I call my lawyers and prepare for trial?" the kid added. "Or can we come to an understanding?"
Aizawa straightened. "You colluded with villains. Obstructed public safety operations. Created an environment of extreme risk—"
The boy raised a finger.
"Look. We both know I'm not exactly clean here. But do I really deserve juvie or the psych ward for trying to better myself?"
Aizawa studied him.
"Depends. What part of your quirk needs this kind of triggering?"
The smugness in the kid's face flickered, replaced by something flatter.
"A personal force field. It boosts strength, speed, and reaction time while active."
Aizawa's tone went dry. "How do you know this if you haven't awakened it yet?"
He shrugged. "I just do."
That earned a long pause. "And you're saying you exhausted every other option before staging a brawl with hired killers?"
"Yes," the boy said firmly. "I tested extreme stress, physical strain, high-pressure simulations, even hormone manipulation. Nothing worked."
Aizawa exhaled slowly. "Did you at least activate it tonight?"
"Unfortunately not. Maybe your presence interfered," the kid said, tapping his chin like a puzzled scientist. "Hard to say."
He didn't sound disappointed. He sounded like someone logging a failed result in a research journal.
He knew I was here from the start. Every move was calculated.
"And how do you fight so well?" Aizawa asked finally. "You don't move like some self-trained idiot."
"Talent," the kid said with a straight face. "And fourteen years of practice."
"…You've been training since you were born?"
"Yes."
No sarcasm. No hesitation.
The warehouse door clanged open, and uniformed officers burst in—guns drawn, eyes wide. Aizawa didn't move. He only sighed.
Is this really the right choice... fuck it, it's better than the alternative.
"I'm too tired for this shit... Fine. If only because I really don't want a maniac like you ending up on the wrong side of the law. Hell, I'll get someone smarter than me to deal with you—let them sort this mess while I wash my hands."
The kid gave a neat bow. "Thank you, sincerely."
"Yeah, yeah—save it. Go give your statement to the officers and get that wound checked out," Aizawa said, waving him off. "You better live where those documents say you do. If I find even a hint of forgery, I'll label you a villain myself."
"Feel free," the kid replied, as if Aizawa had offered to fact-check his resume.
They walked together toward the officers, who were loading the groaning Reptile and the unconscious Gambler into the back of a secured armored truck.
One of the detectives gave Aizawa a nod of acknowledgment. The other eyed Alex suspiciously.
Aizawa handed over a file of preliminary statements, half mumbled a summary, then turned to glance back at the kid—hair tousled, shirt torn, expression serene. The detective asked something. He answered politely.
Aizawa sighed once more.
God help me if the rest of the kids at U.A. this year are even half this insane.
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A.N - Aizawa became a teacher at UA one year before cannon begins. He began his teaching career by expelling his whole class on the first day. Will that change? Who knows...