Day nineteen of suspension, and Dante was losing his mind.

  He lay sprawled on the living room couch, a pillow pressed over his face, muttering curses in Italian that would've made his mother proud—or furious, depending on her mood that day.

  "Merda. Che vita di merda. Sono bloccato qui come un idiota—"

  "Dante." Chiara's voice cut through his spiral. She stood in the doorway, dish towel in hand, expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. "If you're that bored, go outside."

  He lifted the pillow just enough to glare at her with one eye. "It's boring outside too."

  "Then suffer in silence." She yanked the pillow away entirely and tossed it across the room. "You're making the whole apartment depressing."

  Dante groaned and flopped back against the cushions. "It's been nineteen days, Chiara. Nineteen. The same routine. Wake up, eat, stare at walls, sleep. I'm going insane."

  "Dramatic," Marco called from the kitchen, though there was laughter in his voice.

  Chiara sighed and returned to washing dishes. Dante grabbed another pillow and buried his face in it, letting out a long, muffled scream.

  Marco appeared in the doorway a moment later, still wearing his work clothes—button-up shirt, slacks, the faint smell of coffee and printer ink clinging to him. He had something in his hand.

  "Catch."

  He tossed a small box at Dante.

  Dante caught it reflexively, sitting up. "What's this?"

  "Matchsticks." Marco leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You said you're bored. So build something."

  Dante stared at the box. "Build... with matchsticks?"

  "Yep. And if you can make something that doesn't collapse in ten seconds, I'll give you this." Marco pulled a second, sleeker box from his pocket and held it up. It was black, about the size of a smartphone, with a faint blue glow along the edges.

  Dante's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

  "Hologram city builder. Interactive, educational, way more fun than moping on the couch." Marco's smirk widened. "But you have to earn it."

  Chiara leaned out from the kitchen, eyebrows raised. "You're bribing him with toys now?"

  "It's called positive reinforcement," Marco said without looking away from Dante. "So, deal?"

  Dante looked at the matchstick box, then at the hologram device, then back at Marco.

  "Deal."

  An hour later, the coffee table was covered in matchsticks.

  Dante sat cross-legged on the floor, brow furrowed in concentration, carefully balancing tiny wooden sticks into what was supposed to be a shed. It had collapsed three times already. Marco and Chiara sat on the couch behind him, offering commentary that ranged from helpful to outright mocking.

  "You need more support on the left side," Marco said.

  "No, the foundation's uneven," Chiara countered. "Start over."

  "I'm not starting over," Dante muttered, adjusting a support beam with the precision of a surgeon. "This is going to work."

  The structure wobbled.

  "It's going to fall," Chiara said.

  "It's not going to—"

  Collapse.

  The matchsticks tumbled across the table in a cascade of tiny wooden chaos.

  Dante stared at the wreckage. "I hate this."

  "Try again," Marco said, grinning.

  "You're enjoying this."

  "Absolutely."

  Dante grumbled something in Italian and started rebuilding.

  By the fifth attempt, he'd figured it out. The trick was in the angles—how the beams distributed weight, how the foundation needed to be wider than the roof, how patience mattered more than speed.

  When the shed finally stood—small, crooked, but standing—Dante leaned back and stared at it like he'd just built the Colosseum.

  "There," he said quietly. "I made something."

  Marco tossed him the hologram device. "Congrats, kid. You earned it."

  Dante caught it, turning the sleek box over in his hands. It was lighter than he expected, the surface smooth and cool. He pressed the activation button on the side.

  A hologram flickered to life above the device—a grid of glowing blue lines, dozens of modular building pieces floating in midair. Beams, walls, supports, foundations. Each one labeled with structural data, material type, weight distribution.

  Dante's eyes widened.

  "This is..." He rotated the hologram, watching the pieces shift and reconfigure. "This is incredible."

  Marco smiled. "Thought you'd like it. It's got tutorials, challenges, even real-world construction scenarios. Figured it'd keep you busy."

  Chiara ruffled Dante's hair as she passed. "And maybe teach you something useful for once."

  "Thanks, Marco," Dante said, still staring at the hologram. "This is... really great."

  "Don't mention it." Marco leaned back on the couch, stretching his arms behind his head. "Just try not to break it."

  They settled into a comfortable silence. Marco pulled out his phone. Chiara disappeared into the kitchen. Dante fiddled with the hologram, building and rebuilding, losing himself in the mechanics of it.

  For the first time in nineteen days, he wasn't bored.

  An hour later, Dante switched the hologram off and turned on the TV.

  The news was in full swing—some hero raid on a warehouse, minor villain apprehended, the usual. Dante only half-watched, still thinking about the matchstick shed and the hologram structures.

  Then the broadcast shifted.

  "—breaking news from Musutafu. A sludge-based villain has taken a hostage near the downtown shopping district. Multiple pro heroes are on the scene—"

  Dante sat up.

  The screen showed chaos. A massive, writhing blob of green sludge—easily the size of a small building—had engulfed someone. A kid. Blond hair, wild eyes, explosions erupting from his hands in desperate bursts.

  The camera panned.

  Another kid was running toward the villain. Shorter. Green hair. No hesitation.

  Dante froze.

  Midoriya.

  The kid he met on the street. The one with the notebook and the bright eyes.

  He was running toward a villain.

  What the hell is he doing?

  The broadcast cut to shaky phone footage. The green-haired kid—Midoriya—threw his backpack at the sludge villain's eye. The villain recoiled, just for a second, and the blond kid got a breath of air.

  Then All Might arrived.

  The number one hero crashed onto the scene like a force of nature, fist already cocked back, grin wide and blinding. One punch. That's all it took. The sludge villain exploded outward in a shower of green muck, the hostage tumbling free.

  The crowd erupted in cheers.

  Dante stared at the screen.

  At least in Japan, the heroes actually show up.

  The thought was bitter. Familiar.

  In Italy, there were not many heroes. Not the kind that showed up on TV with smiles and catchphrases. In Italy, there were only shadows—families like his, who kept order through fear and violence because no one else would.

  Or could.

  He thought of his family.

  Dante exhaled slowly, pushing the memory down, locking it away where it couldn't reach him. He muttered something under his breath in Italian—half prayer, half curse—and turned off the TV.

  The apartment was quiet again.

  Too quiet.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  Dante opened the door to find three people standing on the doorstep.

  Two of them were HPSC agents—a man and a woman, both in dark suits, both wearing expressions that said they'd rather be doing literally anything else. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with graying hair and the kind of face that looked permanently disapproving. The woman was younger, sharper, with cold eyes and a tablet tucked under one arm.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The third man looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

  He stood slightly behind the agents, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slouched in a way that suggested he'd given up on posture years ago. His black hair was a mess—shoulder-length, tangled, like he'd forgotten what a comb was. A faint scar cut beneath his right eye, and stubble shadowed his jaw. He wore a white button-down shirt and a plain blue tie, but on him, the professional attire looked like a costume he'd been forced into.

  A black messenger bag hung from one shoulder. His other hand held a phone, thumb lazily scrolling through something. He didn't look up.

  Dante blinked. "Uh... can I help you?"

  The male agent pulled out a badge. "Hero Public Safety Commission. We're here to speak with Dante Corvo."

  "That's me."

  "We'd like to ask you some questions. May we come in?"

  Dante hesitated, then stepped aside. "Sure."

  The agents entered first, moving with the kind of stiff formality that made the small apartment feel even smaller. The third man—the one who looked like he'd been dragged here against his will—followed last, still scrolling through his phone.

  Marco and Chiara appeared from the kitchen almost immediately.

  "Who are you?" Chiara's voice was sharp, her body language tense. Marco stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

  The female agent flashed her badge. "Hero Public Safety Commission. We're conducting a follow-up investigation into the quirk usage incident at your ward's school."

  "We already answered your questions," Marco said flatly.

  "This is a more in-depth assessment," the male agent said. "We'd like to bring Dante to our local branch for evaluation."

  "Absolutely not," Chiara said immediately. "You can ask whatever you need to ask right here."

  "Ma'am, this is standard procedure—"

  "I don't care." Chiara stepped forward, jaw set. "He's a minor. He's been through enough. If you want to talk to him, you do it here, in front of us."

  The male agent's expression hardened. "We have the authority to—"

  "We'll cooperate." The third man finally spoke.

  His voice was low, rough, like gravel scraping over concrete. He pocketed his phone and looked at Marco and Chiara for the first time, his half-lidded eyes tired but not unkind.

  "This doesn't have to be difficult," he said. "It's just an evaluation. No one's accusing him of anything. But if you refuse, it looks worse. So let's just get this over with."

  Marco and Chiara exchanged a look.

  "Who are you?" Marco asked.

  The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a hero license, flipping it open.

  Eraserhead. Pro Hero.

  "Shota Aizawa," he said. "I'm here to observe. Make sure things stay professional."

  Marco stared at him. Then at the agents. Then back at Aizawa.

  "Fine," he said finally. "But if anything happens to him—"

  "It won't," Aizawa said, his tone flat but certain.

  Chiara looked at Dante, her expression tight with worry. "Be careful. If they push you too hard, you don't have to answer."

  Dante nodded. "I'll be fine."

  He grabbed his jacket and followed the agents out the door.

  Behind him, he heard Chiara whisper to Marco, "He's been through so much already. He doesn't deserve this."

  Marco's reply was quieter. "I know."

  The door closed.

  The local HPSC branch was a squat, gray building tucked between a pharmacy and a convenience store. Inside, it smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. The walls were bare except for posters about quirk regulations and hero conduct.

  They led Dante to a small interrogation room—white walls, metal table, uncomfortable chairs. The kind of room designed to make you feel trapped.

  The male agent, whom he'd introduced as Agent Kuroda, sat across from Dante. The female agent—Agent Sato stood near the door, tablet in hand. Aizawa leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

  Kuroda pulled out a recorder and set it on the table.

  "State your name for the record."

  "Dante Corvo."

  "Age?"

  "Fourteen."

  "Quirk?"

  Dante hesitated. "Pandemonium Pact."

  Sato made a note on her tablet. Kuroda leaned forward, hands folded on the table.

  "Tell us what happened on the day of the incident."

  Dante exhaled slowly. "A girl—Akari Tanaka—was threatening another student with her quirk. I stopped her."

  "How?"

  "I grabbed her wrist."

  "And broke it."

  "I didn't mean to break it. I just... grabbed her. My quirk was active. I didn't realize how hard I was holding."

  Kuroda's expression didn't change. "Your quirk was active. Why?"

  "Because she was about to hurt someone."

  "And you felt it was your responsibility to intervene?"

  Dante frowned. "I felt it was the right thing to do."

  "The right thing," Kuroda repeated slowly. "Interesting. When you transformed—when you activated your quirk—did you feel a sense of power? Control?"

  "No."

  "Did you feel... connected to the darkness? Like it was part of you?"

  Dante stared at him. "What?"

  "When you grabbed Akari Tanaka," Kuroda continued, his tone clinical, "did you want to hurt her? Did you want to hear her bones snap?"

  The room went silent.

  Dante's jaw tightened. "No. I didn't want to hurt her. I wanted to stop her."

  "But you did hurt her."

  "I know."

  "And you didn't stop. Not until the fire alarm went off."

  "I let go as soon as I realized—"

  "Did you?" Kuroda tilted his head. "Witnesses say you held her for several seconds. That you stared at her. That your expression was... detached. Like you didn't care."

  Dante's hands curled into fists under the table. "That's how my quirk works. It makes me detached. I can't control that."

  "Can't you?"

  "No."

  Sato stepped forward, her voice sharper. "Your quirk is classified as potentially dangerous, Dante. Sensory deprivation, emotional manipulation, intangibility—these are abilities that could be weaponized. Do you understand that?"

  "I understand that," Dante said flatly. "But I'm not a weapon."

  "Then what are you?"

  Dante looked at her. "A kid who made a mistake."

  Kuroda leaned back in his chair, studying Dante with cold, assessing eyes. "A mistake. And yet, Akari Tanaka—the victim—has connections. Her family runs a hero agency. They're well-respected. Influential."

  Dante's stomach twisted.

  "Are you saying—"

  "I'm saying," Kuroda interrupted, "that this situation is complicated. A student with a dangerous quirk attacks a girl from a prominent hero family. The optics aren't good."

  "I didn't attack her—"

  "And yet, she's the one with the bruised wrist."

  Dante's breath came faster. His hands shook slightly. The numbness from Limbo was gone, replaced by something sharper—anger, frustration, the creeping realization that they weren't here to investigate.

  They were here to find a villain.

  "That's enough."

  Aizawa's voice cut through the room like a blade.

  Kuroda turned, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

  Aizawa pushed off the wall and stepped forward, his expression dark. "He answered your questions. Stop trying to twist his words into something they're not."

  "We're conducting an investigation—"

  "You're conducting a witch hunt," Aizawa said flatly. "And you're doing it because a rich family wants someone to blame. I've seen the footage. I've read the reports. The girl used her quirk first. The quirkless kid was the real victim. Dante intervened. End of story."

  Sato's eyes narrowed. "With all due respect, Eraserhead, this doesn't concern you—"

  "It does when you're treating a traumatized kid like a villain." Aizawa's voice was low, dangerous. "He's fourteen. He made a mistake. He's taking responsibility for it. What more do you want?"

  Kuroda's jaw tightened. "We want to ensure he's not a threat."

  "Then let him demonstrate his quirk and move on." Aizawa's eyes glowed faintly red—just for a second, a warning. "Or are you planning to keep him here all night until he says what you want to hear?"

  The agents exchanged a glance.

  Finally, Kuroda sighed. "Fine. Demonstrate your quirk, Dante. Show us what you can do."

  Dante stood in the center of the room.

  His heart pounded. His hands were clammy. He hated this—hated being watched, evaluated, judged.

  But he did as he was told.

  He raised his right hand, palm open, and concentrated.

  A small portal flickered to life—no bigger than his palm, spinning lazily in midair. It was orange, glowing faintly, edges shimmering like heat waves.

  He reached through it.

  On the other side—somewhere cold, somewhere wrong—his fingers brushed against something solid. Something that felt like stone and shadow and emptiness all at once.

  He pulled.

  The transformation rippled through him like ice water flooding his veins.

  His skin shifted—mottled blue-gray, rough like stone, shot through with dark veins. His eyes sank into hollow pits, reflecting nothing. Shadows coiled off his shoulders and arms, writhing slowly in the still air.

  The room changed.

  Sound died. The hum of the fluorescent lights vanished. The faint buzz of the air conditioning cut out. Even the sound of breathing—Kuroda's, Sato's, Aizawa's—faded to nothing.

  The light dimmed. Colors bled out, leaving everything washed in shades of gray and sickly blue.

  The air turned heavy. Oppressive. Wrong.

  Kuroda shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Sato took a step back, her grip tightening on her tablet.

  Even Aizawa's expression tightened, though he didn't move.

  Dante's voice came out hollow, distant, like it was echoing from the bottom of a well.

  "This is Limbo Shade," he said, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. "Within a certain distance, I dampen sound and light. I can make it fully dark if I want. I can phase through solid matter for three seconds at a time. And everyone nearby feels... numb. Lethargic. Afraid."

  He turned his hollow gaze toward the agents.

  "I don't mean for it to happen. It's just how the quirk works."

  Sato's hand trembled slightly. Kuroda's jaw was tight.

  Dante let the transformation drop.

  The world snapped back—color, sound, warmth. There was light now. The air conditioning hummed. Breathing became audible again.

  Dante stood there, hands at his sides, chest rising and falling slowly.

  And he felt nothing.

  No guilt. No anger. No fear.

  Just the cold, clinical detachment that always followed Limbo.

  He bowed stiffly. "I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable. That's just how my quirk works. I can't feel emotions for an hour or two after I use it. Sometimes longer."

  Kuroda stared at him. Sato made notes on her tablet, her hand still shaking slightly.

  Aizawa's expression softened, just a fraction.

  "Is that why you didn't react in the classroom?" Aizawa asked quietly.

  Dante nodded. "I couldn't. I didn't... I didn't understand why Kaito was afraid until later. After the numbness wore off."

  Silence.

  Then Kuroda cleared his throat. "What are your goals, Dante? What do you plan to do with a quirk like this?"

  Dante looked at him, expression blank. "I'm not sure, maybe- Construction."

  Both agents blinked.

  "Construction?" Sato repeated.

  "Yeah." Dante's voice was still flat, emotionless. "I want a hero license so I can use my quirk legally. In construction. Building things. I can lift heavy materials in my other forms. Use Limbo to work in collapsed buildings where humans can't go. I can be useful that way."

  Kuroda frowned. "You don't want to be more? Maybe to be a hero? with your quirk!" Dante cut him off

  "I don't know what I want," Dante said honestly. "But I know I can build things. And that feels... better. More real."

  Aizawa's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

  "Rational," he muttered.

  Kuroda and Sato exchanged a glance.

  Finally, Kuroda sighed. "Alright. Based on this evaluation, we're issuing a formal warning. No further quirk usage outside of sanctioned environments. Any additional incidents will result in more severe consequences. Understood?"

  "Understood."

  "You're free to go." Dante turned toward the door.

  Its over

  Kuroda's voice stopped him. "For what it's worth, kid... try to stay out of trouble." The words were condescending. Dismissive.

  Dante didn't respond. He just walked out.

  Aizawa followed.

  Outside, the air was cool and damp. The sun had set, leaving the streets bathed in the orange glow of streetlights. A faint drizzle had started—not quite rain, just enough to make the pavement glisten.

  Dante stood on the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring at nothing. His reflection wavered in a puddle at his feet—distorted, barely recognizable.

  Aizawa stopped beside him, pulling out his phone and checking something before pocketing it again.

  "You okay?"

  Dante shrugged. "I don't feel anything right now. Ask me in two hours."

  Aizawa was quiet for a moment, then let out a short breath through his nose—something that might've been a laugh if it had more energy behind it. "Your quirk's a pain in the ass."

  "Yeah."

  They stood in silence. A car passed, tires hissing against wet asphalt. Somewhere down the street, a convenience store's automatic doors chimed as someone entered.

  Aizawa shifted his weight, glancing at Dante out of the corner of his eye. The kid looked tired. Hollow. Like he'd been wrung out and left to dry.

  "They're not going to bother you again," Aizawa said finally. "Not unless you give them a reason. So don't."

  Dante nodded slowly.

  "And your quirk—" Aizawa paused, choosing his words. "—it's dangerous. You know that. But dangerous doesn't mean bad. It just means you need to be careful. More careful than most."

  Dante's jaw tightened slightly. "I know."

  "Do you?" Aizawa's tone wasn't harsh, just direct. "Because from where I'm standing, you jumped into a situation without thinking about the consequences. The girl was out of line, yeah. But you could've called a teacher. Could've pulled the other kid away instead of grabbing her."

  Dante looked down at the puddle. "I wasn't thinking. I just... reacted."

  "That's the problem." Aizawa crossed his arms. "You've got a quirk that affects people around you—makes them afraid, makes you detached. If you're going to use it, you need to be smarter about when and how. Otherwise, you're just going to keep hurting people. Even when you're trying to help."

  The words weren't cruel. Just honest.

  Dante swallowed hard. "Yeah. I get it."

  Aizawa studied him for a moment longer, then sighed and started walking. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

  Dante fell into step beside him, hands still in his pockets, hood pulled up against the drizzle.

  They walked in silence for a block.

  Then Aizawa spoke again, voice quieter. "For what it's worth... you did try to do the right thing. You just went about it wrong. That's fixable."

  Dante glanced at him, surprised.

  Aizawa didn't look back. Just kept walking, shoulders hunched against the damp, hands in his pockets, looking as tired as Dante felt.

  "Get some rest, kid. And stay out of trouble."

  "I'll try."

  "Good enough."

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.