Scorpion Chains and Vows

The fire didn't start with a bang. It started with a whisper, a crackle of heat that bloomed behind my sternum like a second heartbeat.

I was fourteen, quirkless, and standing in the middle of a junkyard that smelled like rust and old rain. Kacchan had just told me to jump off the roof. Not in those exact words, but close enough. I'd come here instead, to the place where discarded things went to rot, because it felt honest. Better to be surrounded by garbage than to pretend I wasn't one of it.

My hands were shaking. They always shook after he got done with me.

I picked up a piece of scrap metal, something that might've been a car door in another life, and I threw it. It clanged against a pile of broken washing machines and fell into the dirt. Not even a dent. Useless. Just like me.

"Stupid," I said out loud, because there was no one around to hear it. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

The heat behind my ribs pulsed. I'd felt it before, a few times, usually when I was scared or angry or both. I figured it was just my heart beating too fast, the way it did when Kacchan cornered me behind the school. But this time it didn't fade. It spread.

My fingers went numb first. Then my palms. I looked down and saw something moving under my skin, black lines like veins made of ink, crawling up my forearms. The air around me shimmered. Not like heat off asphalt in summer. Like the air itself was afraid.

And then the chain came.

It shot out of my right palm, a length of black iron links that moved like a living thing. It wrapped around the car door I'd thrown, yanked it back to me, and held it suspended in the air. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. The chain was attached to me, growing out of me, and it was hot enough that the metal it touched started to glow.

I dropped it. The chain retracted, sliding back into my skin like it had never been there. The car door hit the ground with a sound that echoed off the junk piles.

I stood there for a long time. Long enough that the sun started to set and the shadows got long and the smell of rust got into my clothes so deep I'd never wash it out.

When I finally walked home, I kept my hands in my pockets. I didn't look at anyone. I didn't say anything. But I could feel it, that heat, that thing, coiling in my chest like a snake waiting to strike.

I didn't know what it was. I didn't know why it had chosen me. But I knew one thing for certain.

I wasn't quirkless anymore.

And I was terrified.

The letter came three days later.

It was in a black envelope with gold lettering, the kind of thing you'd expect from a wedding invitation or a death notice. My mom handed it to me with shaking hands. She hadn't stopped shaking since I'd accidentally melted the kitchen sink.

"It's from the Hero Public Safety Commission," she said. Her voice was small. "They want you to come in for evaluation."

I opened the envelope. The paper inside was thick and expensive, the kind that felt like it cost more than our apartment. The words were formal, bureaucratic, but I read them three times anyway.

Midoriya Izuku. Quirk: Unknown. Classification: Pending. Mandatory evaluation scheduled for April 15th.

Below that, in smaller print: Due to the nature of your quirk manifestation, you are required to attend with a legal guardian. Please be advised that your case has been flagged for special review.

Special review. That didn't sound good.

"What does it mean?" my mom asked.

I didn't answer. I was too busy staring at the last line, the one that made my stomach drop.

In accordance with Article 7, Section 3 of the Quirk Regulation Act, you are hereby notified that your quirk has been classified as a Class S threat. All Class S individuals are subject to mandatory monitoring and, upon reaching the age of majority, will be assigned a government-approved partner to ensure public safety.

Government-approved partner.

I read it again. Then again.

"Mom," I said, very quietly. "What's a Class S threat?"

She didn't answer. She just looked at me with eyes that were already crying, and I understood that whatever was happening to me, it wasn't something I could hide from.

The evaluation took place in a building that looked like a bank but felt like a prison.

They put me in a white room with white walls and white lights and a chair that was bolted to the floor. A woman in a gray suit sat across from me. She had a clipboard and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Midoriya Izuku," she said. "Age fourteen. Quirk manifested three days ago. Initial classification: Class S. Is that correct?"

"I don't know what that means," I said.

She made a note. "It means your quirk has been deemed a potential threat to public safety. Class S quirks are those with the capacity for mass destruction, uncontrollable activation, or both. Your file indicates that your quirk manifested as a chain-like construct with thermal properties exceeding 3,000 degrees Celsius. Is that accurate?"

I thought about the car door. The way it had glowed. The way the air had shimmered.

"I guess," I said.

"Your quirk also appears to have a secondary manifestation. Something we're calling 'Hell Fire.' Can you tell me what that feels like?"

I didn't want to. But she was looking at me with those flat eyes, and I knew I didn't have a choice.

"It's hot," I said. "Not like normal heat. It's... alive. It wants to burn things. It wants to spread. When I get angry, or scared, it gets stronger. And the chain, it comes out of my skin. It moves on its own. I can control it, but only if I concentrate. If I don't..."

I trailed off.

"If you don't?" she prompted.

"People could get hurt."

She nodded and made another note. "That's consistent with our preliminary assessment. Your quirk has been designated as 'Scorpion's Hell Fire and Chain.' The name is provisional, but it will appear in your official records. Do you understand what that means?"

I shook my head.

"It means you're dangerous, Midoriya. It means you can't be left unsupervised. And it means that, as of today, you've been entered into the Class S Partnership Program."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

"What's the Class S Partnership Program?" I asked.

The woman smiled again, and this time it was worse than before.

"It means that when you turn eighteen, you'll be married. To someone the Commission chooses. Someone who can help control your quirk. Someone who can ensure you don't become a threat."

I stared at her. The heat in my chest pulsed, and I had to clench my fists to keep it from spreading.

"You're going to marry me off," I said. "Like I'm some kind of weapon."

"You are a weapon, Midoriya. The question is whether you'll be a controlled one or an uncontrolled one. The Commission prefers controlled."

She slid a piece of paper across the table. It had three names on it.

Yaoyorozu Momo. Jiro Kyoka. And a third name that had been crossed out so many times it was illegible.

"These are your assigned partners," the woman said. "You'll meet them when you turn eighteen. Until then, you'll be monitored, trained, and evaluated. If you pass, you'll be allowed to attend U.A. High School under special supervision. If you fail..."

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.

I looked at the names. Yaoyorozu Momo. Jiro Kyoka. Two girls I'd never met, two strangers who were going to be my wives because some bureaucrat had decided I was too dangerous to be alone.

The heat in my chest pulsed again. This time, I let it.

The chain shot out of my palm and wrapped around the table. The metal started to glow, then to melt, then to drip onto the floor in silver puddles.

The woman didn't flinch. She just made another note.

"Impressive," she said. "You'll do well."

I wanted to burn her. I wanted to burn the whole building down. But I didn't. I pulled the chain back, and the heat faded, and I sat there in the white room with my hands in my lap and my heart pounding in my ears.

"Can I go home now?" I asked.

"Not yet," she said. "There's someone you need to meet."

They took me to a different room. This one had a window, and through it I could see a garden. Cherry blossoms. Pink petals falling like snow. It was beautiful, and I hated it.

The door opened, and a girl walked in.

She was my age, maybe a little older. Her hair was black and straight and fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, calm, and when she looked at me, I felt like she was seeing something I couldn't.

"Midoriya Izuku," she said. Her voice was soft but steady. "I'm Yaoyorozu Momo. It's nice to meet you."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. She was wearing a school uniform, a nice one, the kind that cost more than my mom made in a month. And she was looking at me like I was a person, not a threat.

"I know this is strange," she said. "It's strange for me too. But I wanted to meet you before... before everything."

"Before we get married," I said. The words tasted like ash.

She didn't flinch. "Yes. Before that."

She sat down across from me. She didn't have a clipboard. She didn't have a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She just sat there, and she waited.

"I don't want to marry you," I said. "I don't want to marry anyone. I don't even know you."

"I know," she said. "I don't want to marry you either. Not because of you. Because of the situation. But we don't have a choice, do we?"

"No," I said. "We don't."

She nodded. Then she did something I didn't expect. She reached across the table and took my hand.

Her fingers were warm. Not hot, not burning, just warm. Human.

"I'm scared too," she said. "But I think we can help each other. I think we can figure this out."

I looked at her hand. At the way it fit around mine. At the way the heat in my chest didn't pulse, didn't spread, didn't try to burn her.

"Okay," I said. "Okay."

It was the first time I'd said that word without feeling like a liar.

The second girl was different.

Jiro Kyoka didn't sit down. She stood by the window, her arms crossed, her earphone jacks twitching like they wanted to stab something. She had purple hair and sharp eyes and a scowl that could cut glass.

"So you're the Class S," she said. "The one who's gonna get us all killed."

"I'm not going to kill anyone," I said.

"Tell that to the car door you melted."

I didn't have an answer for that.

She turned to look at me, and for a second, I saw something underneath the scowl. Something tired. Something scared.

"I didn't ask for this," she said. "I didn't ask to be someone's babysitter. I didn't ask to be married off to some... some..."

"Freak," I said. "You can say it. I've heard it before."

She blinked. Then, slowly, she uncrossed her arms.

"I wasn't going to say freak," she said. "I was going to say stranger. But freak works too, I guess."

She walked over and sat down next to Momo. Not across from me. Next to her. Like they were already a team, and I was the outsider.

"I don't trust you," she said. "I don't trust the Commission. I don't trust any of this. But Momo says you're not a bad guy, and I trust her. So here's the deal. You keep your fire under control, you don't hurt anyone, and we'll figure this out together. Deal?"

She held out her hand. I took it.

"Deal," I said.

Her hand was cold. Not like ice, not like death, just cool. The opposite of mine. The opposite of everything I was.

Maybe that was the point.

The training started the next day.

They put me in a facility outside the city, a place with high walls and no windows and guards who carried guns that shot foam, not bullets. The foam was supposed to neutralize quirks. I found out later that it didn't work on me. Nothing worked on me.

My instructor was a man named Mr. Kondo. He had a quirk that let him create barriers, and he used them to keep me contained while I practiced. The first day, I melted through six of them. The second day, twelve. By the end of the week, he stopped using barriers and started using a fire extinguisher.

"You're getting stronger," he said, after I'd accidentally set the training room on fire for the third time. "That's good. But you need to learn control. Power without control is just destruction."

"I know," I said. "I'm trying."

"Trying isn't good enough. You're a Class S. If you lose control, people die. Do you understand that?"

I understood. I understood it every time I looked at my hands and saw the black lines crawling under my skin. I understood it every time I woke up from a nightmare where I'd burned down my own house, my own mother, my own life.

"I understand," I said.

"Good. Then let's try again."

We tried again. And again. And again.

The chain got easier to control. The fire got easier to contain. But it never went away. It was always there, coiling in my chest, waiting for a moment of weakness.

Momo visited me every weekend.

She brought books, mostly. Books about quirk theory, about hero law, about the history of Class S individuals and the partnerships that had been created to contain them. She read them out loud while I practiced, her voice steady and calm, a counterpoint to the chaos inside me.

"Did you know," she said one day, "that there have only been twelve Class S quirks recorded in the last century?"

"No," I said. I was busy trying to keep my chain from melting the floor.

"Twelve. And of those twelve, seven went rogue. They had to be... contained."

"Contained," I repeated. "You mean killed."

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

"I'm not going to go rogue," I said.

"I know," she said. "But the Commission doesn't. That's why they assigned me and Kyoka to you. We're not just your partners. We're your handlers."

The word hit me like a punch to the gut.

"Handlers," I said. "Like I'm an animal."

"Like you're a weapon," she said. "A weapon that needs to be aimed. I don't like it any more than you do. But it's the truth."

She closed the book and looked at me. Her eyes were dark and serious and sad.

"I don't want to handle you, Izuku. I want to help you. But I can't do that if you don't trust me."

"I do trust you," I said.

"Do you?"

I thought about it. I thought about the way she held my hand. The way she read to me. The way she looked at me like I was a person, not a threat.

"Yeah," I said. "I do."

She smiled. It was the first real smile I'd seen from her.

"Good," she said. "Then let's figure this out together."

Kyoka was harder to win over.

She didn't visit every weekend. She came when she felt like it, which wasn't often. And when she did come, she didn't bring books. She brought her guitar.

"I'm not here to babysit you," she said, the first time she showed up. "I'm here to practice. If you want to talk, talk. If you don't, don't. I don't care."

She sat in the corner and played. Her music was loud and angry and beautiful, and it filled the training room in a way that made the fire in my chest feel less like a curse and more like a song.

"What's that one called?" I asked, after she'd finished.

"Hellfire," she said. "I wrote it last week. Seemed appropriate."

I laughed. It was the first time I'd laughed in months.

"You wrote a song about me?"

"I wrote a song about fire," she said. "You just happen to be on fire."

She started playing again. This time, I listened. And for a few minutes, I forgot about the chain, about the heat, about the Commission and the marriage and the future that had been decided for me without my consent.

I just listened.

The years passed.

I grew taller. My control got better. The chain became an extension of my arm, the fire a tool I could wield instead of a curse I had to contain. I learned to fight. I learned to fly. I learned to be something other than afraid.

Momo and Kyoka grew too. Momo became sharper, more confident, more sure of herself. Kyoka became softer, more open, more willing to let people in. They became my partners in every sense of the word. Not just the ones the Commission had chosen for me. The ones I would have chosen for myself.

But the marriage still hung over us like a sword.

We didn't talk about it. Not directly. We talked about everything else. Training. School. The future. But not the wedding. Not the ceremony that would bind us together whether we wanted it or not.

Until the night before we turned eighteen.

We were sitting on the roof of the facility, looking at the stars. Momo had brought a blanket. Kyoka had brought her guitar. I had brought nothing but myself, which was all I had ever had.

"So," Kyoka said. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Momo agreed.

I didn't say anything. I just looked at the stars and tried to remember what it felt like to be free.

"I don't want to do this," Kyoka said. "Not because of you. Because of them. Because of the Commission. Because of the law that says we have to."

"I know," I said.

"But I will," she continued. "Because if I don't, they'll assign someone else. Someone who doesn't know you. Someone who might hurt you. And I won't let that happen."

She looked at me, and her eyes were fierce and soft at the same time.

"I won't let anyone hurt you," she said. "Not even yourself."

Momo reached over and took my hand. Kyoka took the other.

"We're in this together," Momo said. "All three of us. Whatever happens next, we face it together."

I looked at them. At their hands. At their faces. At the stars behind them.

"Together," I said.

And for the first time, I believed it.

The wedding was small.

Just us, a judge, and two witnesses who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. No flowers. No music. No families. Just three people standing in a room, saying words they'd been told to say.

I do.

I do.

I do.

The judge pronounced us married. Kyoka rolled her eyes. Momo smiled. I stood there, feeling the chain coil in my chest, and wondered if this was what it felt like to be a weapon that had finally been aimed.

We moved into an apartment near U.A. High School. It was small and cramped and ours. Momo decorated it with books and plants. Kyoka filled it with music. I filled it with silence, mostly, because I didn't know what else to do.

But it was ours. And that was something.

The first night, we sat on the floor because we didn't have furniture yet. We ate takeout from containers and talked about nothing. It was awkward. It was strange. It was the most normal thing I'd ever done.

"So," Kyoka said, after a long silence. "What now?"

"I don't know," I said. "I guess we go to school. We train. We become heroes."

"And we're married," Momo added. "We're married, and we're going to be heroes, and we're going to figure out how to make this work."

She said it like it was a fact. Like it was inevitable. Like there was no other option.

Maybe there wasn't.

"Okay," I said. "Let's figure it out."

Kyoka snorted. "You say that a lot."

"It's all I've got."

She looked at me, and for a second, her scowl softened.

"It's enough," she said. "For now."

We finished our takeout. We spread blankets on the floor. We slept in a pile, the three of us, because there was only one bed and none of us wanted to be alone.

In the morning, we would start our new lives. We would go to U.A. We would train to be heroes. We would face whatever the world threw at us, together.

But that night, we just slept. And for the first time in years, I didn't dream of fire.

U.A. was everything I'd ever wanted and everything I'd ever feared.

The gates were huge. The building was huge. The expectations were huge. I walked through the entrance with Momo on one side and Kyoka on the other, and I felt like I was walking into a different world.

"This is it," Momo said. "This is where we become heroes."

"Or where we die trying," Kyoka muttered.

"Kyoka," Momo said.

"What? It's true."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. The chain in my chest pulsed, but it wasn't angry. It was... excited.

We found our classroom. 1-A. The door was massive, the kind of thing you'd expect from a school for giants. I reached for the handle, and then I stopped.

"What's wrong?" Momo asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I just... I've been waiting for this my whole life. And now that it's here, I'm scared."

"Me too," she said.

"Me three," Kyoka added.

I looked at them. My wives. My partners. My friends.

"Together?" I asked.

"Together," they said.

I opened the door.

The classroom was full of people. Loud people. Angry people. People with quirks that made mine look tame. And in the middle of it all, standing on a desk and screaming at someone, was Kacchan.

He saw me. His eyes went wide. Then they went narrow.

"Deku," he said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I didn't answer. I just walked to my seat, Momo and Kyoka following behind me, and sat down.

The chain in my chest coiled. The fire burned. And for the first time, I didn't try to hide it.

I was here. I was married. I was dangerous.

And I was ready.

The first day of school was a disaster.

Not because of Kacchan, though he tried his best. Not because of the teachers, though they looked at me like I was a bomb waiting to explode. It was a disaster because I couldn't stop thinking about the chain.

It was there, always there, coiled in my chest like a second heart. Every time someone bumped into me, every time someone raised their voice, I felt it pulse. I felt it want. And I had to fight to keep it contained.

"Are you okay?" Momo asked, during lunch. We were sitting on the roof, away from everyone else, because we didn't know where else to go.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're not," Kyoka said. "You've been twitching all day. Your hands keep clenching. You're not fine."

I looked at my hands. They were clenched. I hadn't noticed.

"It's the chain," I said. "It wants to come out. It always wants to come out."

"Then let it," Kyoka said.

I stared at her. "What?"

"Let it out. Here. Now. There's no one around. Let it out, and then put it back. Practice."

"She's right," Momo said. "You can't keep it contained forever. You need to learn to release it in controlled bursts."

I looked at them. At their faces. At the trust in their eyes.

"Okay," I said.

I stood up. I held out my hand. And I let the chain come.

It shot out of my palm, black and gleaming, and wrapped around the railing of the roof. The metal started to glow. The air shimmered. But I didn't let it spread. I held it there, a single link, a single moment of release.

Then I pulled it back.

"Good," Momo said. "That was good."

"Again," Kyoka said.

I did it again. And again. And again. Until the chain felt less like a curse and more like a tool. Until the fire felt less like a threat and more like a gift.

Until I felt, for the first time, like I might actually belong here.

The weeks passed. The training got harder. The chain got stronger. And the fire got hotter.

But I got better. I learned to use it. I learned to control it. I learned to make it part of me instead of something I was fighting against.

Momo and Kyoka were there every step of the way. Momo with her books and her calm and her unshakeable faith in me. Kyoka with her music and her sharp tongue and her refusal to let me give up.

They were my wives. They were my partners. They were my best friends.

And I was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this arranged marriage thing wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

Then the League of Villains attacked.

It was supposed to be a simple training exercise. Rescue training at the USJ. We were supposed to learn how to save people, how to be heroes. Instead, we learned how to survive.

The villains came through a portal. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They wanted to kill All Might, and they didn't care who got in their way.

I was in the flood zone when it happened. I'd been paired with Kyoka and a boy named Mineta, and we'd been thrown into the water by a villain with a warp quirk. Kyoka used her earphone jacks to send a pulse through the water, stunning the villains long enough for us to get to shore. Mineta used his sticky balls to trap them. And I...

I used the chain.

It came out of my palm like a living thing, wrapping around villains, throwing them, burning them. The fire spread from my hands to the water, turning it to steam, turning the flood zone into a sauna. I could feel the heat in my chest, the rage, the fear, the need to protect.

And I let it out.

By the time we reached the central plaza, I was covered in soot and sweat and something that might have been blood. The chain was still out, coiled around my arm like a snake. The fire was still burning, low and hot, in my chest.

I saw Kacchan fighting. I saw Todoroki freezing villains. I saw All Might, in his skinny form, facing down a monster with a exposed brain and a beak.

And I saw Shigaraki Tomura, the leader of the League of Villains, reaching for Momo.

She was on the ground, her leg twisted, her face pale. She'd been trying to create something, a weapon, a shield, anything. But she was too slow. Too hurt. Too scared.

Shigaraki's hand reached for her. His quirk was decay. One touch, and she'd be dust.

The chain shot out before I could think.

It wrapped around Shigaraki's wrist and yanked him back. He screamed. The chain was hot, hotter than I'd ever made it, and it was burning him. Burning through his skin, through his flesh, through the hand that had killed so many people.

"You," he said, his voice a rasp. "You're the one. The Class S. The Scorpion."

"I'm the one who's going to stop you," I said.

I pulled the chain tighter. The fire spread. Shigaraki screamed again, and this time it was a sound of pure agony.

And then All Might was there, and the monster was down, and the villains were retreating through their portal, and it was over.

I retracted the chain. I fell to my knees. Momo crawled over to me, her leg dragging behind her, and wrapped her arms around my neck.

"You saved me," she said. "You saved me."

"I'll always save you," I said. "I'll always save both of you."

Kyoka appeared at my side, her earphone jacks dangling, her face streaked with tears.

"That was stupid," she said. "That was so stupid. You could have died."

"I didn't," I said.

"You could have."

"I didn't."

She punched my arm. Then she hugged me. Then she cried.

We sat there, the three of us, in the middle of the ruined USJ, and we held each other. And for the first time, I understood what it meant to be a weapon that had been aimed.

It meant protecting the people you loved.

It meant burning for them.

It meant being exactly what you were, and not being ashamed of it.

The aftermath was a blur.

There were doctors. There were questions. There were looks, the kind of looks that said "we knew you were dangerous" and "we were right to be afraid."

But there were also Momo and Kyoka. There was the way they held my hands. There was the way they stood beside me, even when the Commission tried to separate us.

"You can't," Momo said, to the woman in the gray suit. "You can't take him away from us."

"He's a Class S threat," the woman said. "He's too dangerous to be left in the general population."

"He saved us," Kyoka said. "He saved all of us. He's not a threat. He's a hero."

The woman looked at me. Her eyes were flat. Her smile was gone.

"He's a weapon," she said. "And weapons don't get to be heroes."

I felt the chain pulse. I felt the fire burn. But I didn't let it out. I held it in, because I knew that if I didn't, I'd prove her right.

"I'm not a weapon," I said. "I'm a person. And I'm going to be a hero. Whether you like it or not."

The woman stared at me. Then she made a note. Then she left.

Momo and Kyoka stayed.

They always stayed.

We went back to school. We went back to training. We went back to our little apartment, with its books and its music and its silence.

But something had changed.

I wasn't just a Class S threat anymore. I wasn't just a weapon to be aimed. I was a hero. A real hero. And I had the scars to prove it.

The chain was still there. The fire was still burning. But they weren't curses anymore. They were gifts. Gifts I could use to protect the people I loved.

And I loved them. Momo and Kyoka. My wives. My partners. My heroes.

I loved them more than I'd ever loved anything.

The future was still uncertain. The Commission was still watching. The League of Villains was still out there, plotting, waiting, ready to strike again.

But I wasn't afraid anymore.

I was ready.

I was the Scorpion. And I was going to burn.

The night after the USJ, we sat on the roof of our apartment building.

Momo had made tea. Kyoka had brought her guitar. I had brought nothing but myself, which was all I had ever had.

"You did good today," Kyoka said. "Stupid, but good."

"I know," I said.

"You could have died."

"I know."

"But you didn't."

"I know."

She strummed a chord. It was soft, sad, beautiful.

"I wrote a new song," she said. "About you. About us. About what happened."

"What's it called?"

"Scorpion."

I laughed. It hurt, because my ribs were still bruised, but I laughed.

"You keep writing songs about me."

"You keep doing things worth writing about."

Momo handed me a cup of tea. Her fingers brushed mine, and I felt the warmth, the human warmth, the kind that had nothing to do with fire.

"We're going to be okay," she said. "All of us. We're going to figure this out."

"How do you know?"

She smiled. It was the smile I'd seen the first time we met, the one that said she saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself.

"Because we're together," she said. "And together, we can do anything."

I looked at her. I looked at Kyoka. I looked at the stars.

"Together," I said.

And for the first time, I believed it.

The chain coiled in my chest. The fire burned. But it wasn't a curse anymore. It was a promise.

A promise to protect. A promise to fight. A promise to love.

I was Midoriya Izuku. I was the Scorpion. I was a husband, a hero, a weapon, a person.

And I was just getting started.