A/N: I LIED AGAIN!
I read this cool fanfic on AO3 called "Things Unknown But Longed For Still" by Lilahri. It was so awesome that it gave me motivation to give a shit about my own fanfic. So here you go, chapter for you!
(??? POV)
The silence in the agency office is deafening.
Normally, I wouldn't have noticed. Background hum of ceiling lights, the buzz of the coffee machine someone forgot to turn off, the occasional chatter from the lobby — those used to fill the air like a warm blanket. But now, it all feels hollow. Empty. Like someone took a bite out of the world and left a cold void behind.
And in that void, there's only me.
I stare at the stack of paperwork in front of me. It's high. Sloppy. Lopsided. Like some cruel monument built to honor the mundane aftermath of hero work. Normally, I'd grumble about it while Strikeline leaned over my shoulder with that tired smile and some offhand comment like "Paperwork's the real villain here, huh?"
He'd say that every time. Like it was some inside joke we weren't tired of yet.
But now he's not here.
And the joke isn't funny anymore.
I just sit there, staring, the silence pressing against my ears. The weight of it finally drives me to act — not productively, not wisely — just emotionally.
"Who the hell did this?!" I shout, and the sound cracks the stillness like a whip.
My fist slams down on the desk, a raw reaction with no filter. The tremor knocks the whole tower of files off. Pages scatter like startled birds, flapping to the ground in messy piles.
I don't even move to pick them up.
I sit there, knuckles aching, heart racing. Eyes burning.
Why would someone take him? Who could take him?
Strikeline wasn't All Might-tier or anything, but he was strong. Smart. Careful. There's no way this was just a run-in gone wrong. Something about the way they worded it in the official report has been sitting in my gut like acid.
"No confirmed visual. No witnesses. Body unaccounted for. Status: Missing."
"Missing." They use that word like it's supposed to offer hope.
It doesn't.
I close my eyes. I can still see his last text from earlier that night:
"Should be a quiet patrol. Grab dinner after?"
We never had dinner.
I wipe my face with my sleeve and let out a breath. Then I open the laptop on the desk. His laptop. No one's officially locked it yet. No investigators. No tech support. Everyone's assuming it's just another vanishing.
I'm not assuming anything.
The startup sound feels weirdly loud. Familiar. I click through his folders. Routine reports, patrol logs, case files. Organized like always.
But I'm looking for the alley.
I remember the report number. 14B. Eastern Naruhata. He was sent there after a disturbance report pinged his comms. Just a bunch of thugs, right? That's what they all said.
But how do thugs take down a pro?
I dig deeper. Surveillance data. He always downloaded clips from street cams into a local archive. Most heroes didn't bother. He was always a little old-school like that.
And there — buried in the folder labeled "Shift Logs — March" — I find something. A single video file, timestamped only a few hours before he went missing.
I click it.
It's grainy footage from a side camera. A back-alley angle. At first, nothing. Just the usual loiterers. Then movement. Fast. Blurred.
People falling. One by one.
And then a shadow moves across the far end of the frame.
Not a man. A kid.
I pause it. Zoom in. Enhancing doesn't do much, but the figure's shape becomes clear. Short. Slim. Wearing some kind of suit. Dark. Jagged. Something that absorbs light more than reflects it. A mask. Maybe goggles. Hard to tell.
But the worst part?
He's not fighting. He's moving. Like a ghost. Like a phantom sliding through the alley, untouched, unfazed. Efficient.
And then it cuts out. Corrupted.
I replay the footage four times.
This doesn't make sense. No known villain has a profile that fits. The Hero Registry has no intel on a teenage operative with that kind of speed and precision. And what kind of child does this?
The last frame keeps playing in my mind. The way the bodies slump. Like the fight was over before it began. Like they never stood a chance.
And if Strikeline saw this...
I grip the edge of the desk. My mind's racing.
This wasn't just some fluke. Someone sent that kid. Someone trained him.
Someone made him into a weapon.
And if they can erase a pro without a trace, then no one is safe.
This isn't over.
This can't be over.
I won't let it be.
I start copying everything — footage, audio, location pings — onto a flash drive.
No more sitting on my hands.
If the Commission's going to wait around hoping Strikeline just waltzes back through the door, then fine.
I'll move without them.
Whatever did this... whoever did this...
I'm going to find out.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My first stop was the police department.
If anyone knew anything, it'd be the thugs.
They were the last people to see the alley before that explosion of violence. And they were still alive. Which made them the best lead I had.
The front lobby was nearly empty. Just the soft whir of the vending machine and the flicker of overhead lights. The night-duty officer behind the desk straightened as I entered, offering a polite nod.
"Energi. Didn't expect to see you this late."
"I need to talk to the suspects from the alley incident," I said, getting straight to the point.
He raised a brow. "The ones from 14B? You think they know something?"
I kept my voice even. "There was someone else there. Someone strong enough to take down all three of them—and fast. I need to know who it was."
He hesitated, then sighed. "You can try, but they've been… off. Like they hit their heads too hard or something."
I frowned. "You're saying they don't remember?"
"They say they don't. Honestly, it's like trying to question blackout drunks. Concussions. Shock. Maybe even a quirk-based effect—we're not sure yet."
I didn't wait for more. "I'll try anyway."
I had to.
The holding area was colder than the lobby. Steel bars and concrete. Clinical lighting. The faint hum of the HVAC system only made it feel more sterile.
Three of them. All street-level punks. The kind who usually mouth off just for sport.
Not tonight.
One leaned against the wall with his arms folded, blank-faced. Another sat on the edge of the cot, staring at the floor. The third was curled in the corner, hugging his knees. None of them looked particularly brave.
The one by the wall squinted at me first. "What's this, a hero?"
"What the hell's he want?" muttered the one on the bed.
I stopped in front of the bars, arms crossed. Didn't say anything for a moment. Just let the silence stretch, let them look at me.
Then I spoke.
"There was someone else in that alley," I said. "Not one of you. A kid. Who was he?"
The bed-sitter scoffed. "Man, we've told you people. We don't remember nothin'. Got jumped. Next thing we know, we're in the hospital."
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't lie to me."
The one against the wall shrugged, noncommittal. "You think we'd be in here if we could tell you? Shit, we'd be throwing that guy under the bus in a heartbeat."
"What's the last thing you remember?" I asked.
The guy on the bed shifted, clearly annoyed. "I was drinking with these two and a few more near the alley. We were gonna score some quick cash, maybe jack a purse. Next thing I know, I'm lying in a hospital bed with half my ribs taped up."
"That's it?" I asked.
"Yeah. Blackout. Like lights out in a blink. No sound, no warning."
"You said there were a few more. Where are they?"
He shrugged. "No idea, haven't seen them."
I glanced toward the one in the corner. He hadn't said a word yet, just sat curled into himself.
"You?" I asked.
He didn't answer at first.
Then he looked up slowly. His eyes were glassy. Bloodshot. Haunted.
"I saw something," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
The other two turned toward him, surprised.
"What?" I pressed, stepping closer.
He hesitated, then said, "It wasn't a person. Or—it was, but it wasn't right. There were... hands. Not real ones. Like shadows. Like smoke. Cold. I couldn't move."
The guy at the wall snorted. "This again?"
"I saw it," the one in the corner snapped, suddenly frantic. "The kid didn't even touch me. I just felt something pass through me. And then it was like I wasn't in my body anymore. Just… blank."
He stopped. Shivered.
I stared at him for a moment, heartbeat steady, mind racing.
He remembered something.
A shape. A sensation. A hint of what that thing was.
Not a brute. Not a thug with a flashy quirk.
Something targeted. Surgical.
This wasn't a random act of street violence. This was execution.
And whoever did it had the power to erase three people from consciousness like flipping a switch.
The guy on the bed sighed and leaned back against the wall. "He's been going on about that 'ghost kid' shit since they brought us in."
I ignored him, still watching the one in the corner.
"You said he was a kid?" I asked. "How old?"
"Don't know. Young. Couldn't see him right. Armor. Pale. No sound. Just eyes. Blue eyes."
That stopped me.
I took a step back.
That was too specific to be fake.
"You sure?"
He nodded. "They weren't angry. Just... empty."
That word sat heavy in my gut.
Empty.
I looked at all three of them one last time. Whatever happened to them, they weren't faking it.
And if there really was a kid...
Then this wasn't just some rogue vigilante.
This was a ghost.
And I was going to find him.