Chapter 15: Stray

Kirishima kept walking, his thoughts a tangled mess of guilt, doubt, and something else he couldn't name. The city stretched on around him, indifferent, its neon lights casting long, distorted shadows on the rain-slick pavement.

He didn't know where he was going. Maybe he didn't want to know.

His hoodie was damp from the mist clinging to the air, the scent of asphalt and exhaust thick in his lungs. The further he wandered, the more the streets changed—storefronts gave way to shuttered buildings, bright signs replaced by flickering bulbs. This wasn't the Musutafu he knew. The heroes rarely came here.

And maybe that was why he had ended up here.

A sudden noise snapped him out of his daze. A scuffle. Muffled voices. The unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground.

Kirishima froze.

It was coming from a narrow alley just ahead. He could hear ragged breathing, the scrape of shoes on concrete. Then a pained grunt, cut off too quickly.

His instincts screamed at him to move.

But he wasn't a hero right now. He wasn't even sure if he was one anymore.

He took a step forward anyway.

Peering into the alley, he saw three figures. One was on the ground, slumped against the wall, his hoodie torn and dark with something that looked like blood. The other two loomed over him—one was going through the downed man's pockets, the other cracking his knuckles, shifting his weight like he was waiting for an excuse to hit him again.

Something in Kirishima's chest tightened.

He clenched his fists.

A hero would call for backup, assess the situation, wait for the proper authorities.

A vigilante wouldn't think twice.

For a moment, he didn't know which one he was anymore.

Then he moved.

His feet hit the pavement before he could think twice. "Hey!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the murky air. The two attackers snapped their heads up, eyes narrowing. "Leave him alone."

The man going through the pockets scoffed. "Oh yeah? And who the hell are you?"

Kirishima hesitated. He wasn't wearing his uniform. He wasn't Red Riot right now. He wasn't even sure he wanted to be.

But none of that mattered.

"Doesn't matter," he said. His fingers curled, the familiar shift of hardening skin crawling up his arms. "You're gonna walk away. Now."

The bigger of the two—knuckle-cracker—snorted. "Or what?"

Kirishima exhaled slowly. The memory of Iida hitting the ground flashed behind his eyes, and his stomach twisted. But his resolve didn't waver.

His body moved on instinct, the way it always had in a fight. He stepped forward, putting himself between the man on the ground and the ones looming over him. His quirk flared at the edges of his skin, sharper than before, like it wanted to be used.

Knuckle-cracker sneered and swung first. A mistake.

Kirishima blocked the punch with an armored forearm, the impact ringing through his bones but leaving him standing. He didn't hesitate—his counter was fast, efficient, sending the guy stumbling back. His partner cursed and lunged, but Kirishima had already shifted, dodging to the side before driving a fist into his stomach.

The fight didn't last long.

The two men scrambled back, shooting him wary glares before bolting out of the alley. Kirishima didn't chase them. His hands were still clenched, his breathing heavier than it should've been.

It had been easy. Too easy.

A groan from behind him made him turn. The man on the ground was trying to sit up, wincing as he touched the cut on his forehead.

"You okay?" Kirishima asked, stepping closer.

The man looked up at him, expression unreadable. "You ain't a hero, are you?"

Kirishima stiffened.

The man let out a breath, shaking his head. "Didn't think so." He wiped at the blood on his face, pushing himself to his feet. "But you've got the look of someone who doesn't know what the hell they are anymore."

"Almost like me if I say so"

Kirishima's mouth opened, but no words came out.

The man gave him a long, searching look before nodding to himself. "You ever wanna figure that out, find me again."

Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Kirishima standing there, heart hammering, thoughts more tangled than ever.

He didn't know if he was still a hero.

But maybe, just maybe, he was something else.

Kirishima didn't go back to UA that night.

He told himself he would—he just needed time. Just needed to clear his head. But the truth was, he wasn't sure if he could walk through those doors again. If he could look his friends in the eye after what he had done to Iida.

So instead, he wandered.

The rain had started up again, a soft drizzle that dampened his hair and made the pavement shine. He walked without direction, through streets he didn't recognize, past people who didn't recognize him.

That should have been comforting.

Instead, it made him feel even more lost.

At some point, he found himself near an old train yard, rusted tracks stretching into the distance like veins through the city. It was quiet here, abandoned. Forgotten.

And yet, he wasn't alone.

A figure stood near one of the train cars, hood drawn low, cigarette burning between their fingers. Kirishima recognized the silhouette immediately.

The man from the alley.

The stranger turned his head slightly, as if he had expected Kirishima to find him. "Took you long enough."

Kirishima swallowed, stepping forward. "Who are you?"

The man exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching him through half-lidded eyes. "Someone who's been where you are."

Kirishima frowned. "And where's that?"

A smirk. "At a crossroads."

Kirishima clenched his fists, his heartbeat loud in his ears. "You said I should find you if I wanted to figure things out."

The man nodded. "So tell me, kid. What do you want?"

Kirishima hesitated.

Then, quietly, "I don't know anymore."

The man studied him for a long moment, then flicked his cigarette away. "Then let's start there."