The forest sprawling beyond the Hosu city limits was restless that night. It breathed with a heavy, cloying dampness, its leaves rustling in a rhythmic, almost predatory fashion. The air reeked of copper—the unmistakable, sickly-sweet iron scent of fresh blood that Shota Aizawa could recognize out of a thousand different scents. To him, it wasn't just a smell; it was a herald of paperwork and tragedy.
The flashlights of the Forensic Science Team sliced through the nocturnal gloom in sharp, clinical white cones. Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi stood slightly to the side, pressing his palm to his face as if trying to physically rub away the crushing exhaustion of the last seventy-two hours. Standing beside him was Monika Kaniyashiki, a high-ranking investigator on an exchange program from the Osaka Police Department.
She looked impeccably composed despite the grim surroundings: a flawless dark pantsuit and a sharp, short haircut featuring two symmetrical buns tied at the back. Their deep red hue gave her hairstyle a silhouette strikingly reminiscent of a crab—a subtle nod to her Quirk. Her ability allowed her to transform her fingers into organic shears, capable of snipping through reinforced steel at close range. In Osaka, she was a legend—the "Iron Claw of Justice"—possessing deductive skills as sharp as her blades. Her "Osaka grit" was palpable, an icy contrast to the humid forest air. Monika crouched low, her eyes narrowing as she examined the bark of a towering cedar where something that had been a living, breathing human only five hours ago now clung in tattered remnants.
—The medical examiners have concluded their primary on-site inspection," Tsukauchi's voice sounded muffled, heavy with regret. "Estimated time of death: approximately five hours ago. The victim was a forty-two-year-old male, a local office clerk with no criminal record or notable Quirk. He was out for his daily jog. He was literally torn to pieces... and scattered across the upper branches like a grisly warning."
Aizawa, huddling deeper into the gray folds of his worn capture scarf, stepped into the light. His eyes, bloodshot from chronic sleep deprivation and the strain of his Erasure Quirk, scanned the perimeter with predatory focus.
—An ordinary animal doesn't display this level of systematic brutality,— Aizawa cut in, his voice a low rasp. —This wasn't a hunt for sustenance. Look at the precision of the strikes. It's either uncontrollable, drug-induced rage or a deliberate, monstrous display of power.
A local forest ranger approached the group, clutching a rugged tablet to his chest. His knuckles were white, and his face lacked any semblance of color.
—Detective, I... I pulled the data from the motion sensors and the wildlife migration cameras. We set them up to monitor the deer population... but they caught this instead.
The group huddled around the small, flickering screen. On the grainy footage, washed in the eerie green of infrared light, a shadow flickered with impossible speed. The creature moved on all fours, yet a hauntingly human grace lingered in its silhouette. Its skin was pitch black, broken by jagged stripes resembling those of a tiger. But the most grotesque feature—the one that made even the seasoned officers recoil—was the head. The upper part of the cranium was missing, exposing a raw, pulsating brain that seemed to throb with every movement.
—This is no longer a human being,— Monika whispered, the cold notes of traumatic memory sharpening her voice. She knew this "anatomical signature" all too well. —Detective, this looks like the terminal stage of a Trigger overdose. But this is a new, terrifyingly aggressive variant. The cranium is exposed because the skeletal structure literally cannot keep up with the hyper-accelerated pace of the Quirk's mutation.
—Trigger?— Tsukauchi's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. "That filth is evolving again."
Monika nodded, her expression darkening into a mask of grim resolve. A few years ago in Osaka, she had been on the front lines of a Trigger epidemic. She remembered how ordinary citizens were forcibly turned into "Instant Villains"—grotesque parodies of humanity whose Quirks were boosted to catastrophic levels, incinerating their personalities and leaving only mindless husks. Working alongside Fat Gum, she had seen Trigger cause bones to shatter and skin to darken as the body warped to accommodate the surge of power. But this... this "Tiger" was something beyond their previous records.
—But there's a discrepancy,— Monika added, tapping the corner of the frame. "Look at the timeline. Thirty minutes before this murder, there was a chaotic incident at a Lawson market a few kilometers away. What began as a standard robbery by low-level thugs spiraled into a massacre. This creature appeared out of nowhere and, according to witnesses, was relentlessly pursuing a youth wearing a mask. Curiously, the two thugs were neutralized not by heroes, but by a civilian intervention.
Aizawa's head snapped up, his interest piqued.
—The market incident? Principal Nezu mentioned it. One of my U.A. students was involved—Taiko. He was passing by and intervened. I initially dismissed it as a boy seeking trouble, but now... it seems he stumbled into a hunt. This 'Tiger' wasn't looking for a jogger. It was hunting that masked youth.
The detectives began connecting the jagged dots: the market, the gas station, the forest. The chronological chain was hardening. The creature was stalking one specific target with singular focus, but it had snapped, venting its primal frustration on an accidental victim—the jogger who simply existed in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Stepping aside, Monika noticed a local patrolman shifting nervously, his eyes darting toward his precinct chief. She approached him with the predatory directness that made her famous in Osaka.
—Officer, you're twitching. You look like you've swallowed a bug. Speak up.
The policeman hesitated, fidgeting with his cap. His superior tensed, attempting to step between them.
—It's... it's not related to the homicide, Detective,— the patrolman stammered.
—In an investigation of this magnitude, everything is related,— Aizawa intervened, his gaze turning dangerously cold. "If you're hiding something, you're an accomplice to that monster.
—A few hours ago, at the gas station, we detained a kid,— the officer whispered, his voice trembling. —A boy with a cat-like Quirk—ears and a tail. We suspected he was linked to the market attack and brought him in. He wouldn't speak. No name, no ID. But then... Okutami-sama arrived. A high-profile donor and sponsor of our precinct.
The precinct chief tried to interrupt, but Tsukauchi silenced him with a sharp, authoritative gesture.
—Okutami-sama pressured the department,— the policeman confessed. —He called it a 'boyish prank' and threatened our careers if we tarnished his family's reputation. We... we bypassed protocol. We released the boy without a formal report.
Tsukauchi froze. His Truth-Teller Quirk didn't just notify him of the lie; it made him feel the oily, sordid weight of the corruption. He exhaled slowly, a sound of such pure frustration that the patrolman recoiled.
—A boyish prank? How could you be so stupid to buy into that?— Monika repeated, her fingers snapping together with a metallic clang that sounded like a guillotine. —In Osaka, badges fly off faster than fish scales for this kind of negligence. You traded key evidence for a donor's favor. While you were bowing to Okutami's wallet, a monster was turning a man inside out in the woods. Tsukauchi-san, if that boy ends up dead, the blood won't just be on the creature's claws—it'll be on your precinct's ledger.
Monika gave a bitter, sharp smile and looked at Aizawa.
—So, the prime witness is being chauffeured home in a limo while we're bagging what's left of a jogger? Haaaa...— she sighed. —What did the boy look like? Was he showing signs of Quirk-exhaustion?
—N-no, Officer. He looked stable. Human. Just with the ears and tail—the same traits as that thing on the video. We thought... maybe they are related?
Shota Aizawa tightened his capture scarf, the fabric humming with tension. "Money won't shield him from what's coming," he snapped. "And it certainly won't shield the Okutamis from me."
The raid on the Okutami penthouse was a masterclass in tactical efficiency. SWAT teams, supported by Pro Heroes, stormed the sterile hallways, the crimson glint of laser sights cutting through the luxury of the top-floor residence.
Aizawa entered with the second wave. By the time he reached the private office, the operatives had already lowered their rifles. Okutami-sama was seated in his massive, hand-stitched leather chair. His head was tilted back, eyes staring vacantly at the gold-leaf ceiling.
—He's cold,— an operative reported.
—Clear,— others shouted, moving through the rooms.
Aizawa approached the body, pressing two fingers to the man's carotid artery. The skin was still tepid, but the life had long since fled. There were no marks of struggle, no bruises, no blood. The expensive suit was perfectly ironed. It looked like a natural death—a heart attack—if not for the smartphone lying on the plush carpet.
—He tried to call 110,— Aizawa noted, using his scarf to lift the device. —Emergency services. He felt it coming but didn't have the strength to hit 'dial'."
While the forensics team began their grim choreography, Aizawa paced the room. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the sterile chill of a morgue.
—No forced entry. No biological traces,— Tsukauchi mused. —If this was a Quirk, it was internal. Something that induces cardiac arrest instantly. But where is the son? Where is the 'Tiger'?
Aizawa stopped at a wall covered in diplomas and maritime awards. There were no family mementos here. Only photos of enormous port cranes, shipping terminals, and cargo vessels. In the center, Okutami-sama was seen smashing a bottle of champagne against a bulk carrier. He looked at the ship with more love than any father should have for cold steel.
—His business was logistics,— Tsukauchi said, opening a folder. —Port Hosu. He controlled the flow of thousands of containers. The perfect infrastructure for smuggling Trigger components or bio-engineered samples.
But Aizawa's intuition, honed by years of underground heroics, told him otherwise. This wasn't just a drug bust. It felt like something deeper—something anatomical.
—Aizawa, look.
On the oak desk sat a single frame. A youth with vibrant, aquamarine hair leaned nonchalantly against a supercar. His gaze was hollow, icy, looking past the camera. Okutami-sama stood beside him, hands behind his back, looking like a stranger at his own son's side.
—There's no warmth in this family,— Tsukauchi noted. —Just a cold, industrial silence.
In a hidden drawer, they found a set of electronic keys. —The underground garage,— Tsukauchi signaled his team. —Check every car. We need any trace of that creature.
Aizawa felt the familiar burn of dry-eye. He was losing sleep over a mystery that grew more convoluted by the hour.
—I'm done here,— Aizawa grunted, turning for the door. —Call me when you find the kid with the aquamarine hair. But if this is just another corporate cover-up, don't waste my time.
Leaving the penthouse, Aizawa stared at his reflection in the elevator's polished chrome. He thought of his student, Taiko. Rational, yet impulsive enough to act. If the aquamarine-haired boy was the target, and Taiko was nearby, it wasn't a coincidence. It was a collision of destinies.
Trigger is a blunt instrument—an explosion. What happened tonight was surgery. Someone didn't just boost a Quirk; they rewired a soul.
The Port of Hosu greeted Monika Kaniyashiki with a symphony of industrial chaos. The hum of massive diesel engines, the rhythmic clank of steel, and the mournful horns of ships merged into a pulse-pounding rhythm. Even at 3:00 AM, the terminals were alive, bathed in the sickly yellow glare of floodlights.
—I can't believe we're wasting time on a logistics audit,— grumbled Sergeant Sato, the local detective assigned to her. He lit a cigarette, shielding the flame from the biting sea breeze. —We have a shredded jogger and a dead tycoon, and we're here counting crates. What's the angle, Kaniyashiki?
Monika didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the senior port manager approaching them.
—The angle, Sato-san, is that monsters like the 'Tiger' require a cage and a laboratory. Trigger doesn't just fall from the sky. It's imported. In Osaka, we searched the slums for months, only to find the factory was hidden in a plain-sight supermarket warehouse. The Port is the heart of Hosu. If there's a poison in this city, it's being pumped from here.
The manager, Mr. Ito, appeared like a ghost from the shadows of a crane. He wore an immaculate hard hat and glasses that caught the yellow light, masking his eyes. He smiled a thin, oily smile as he reviewed their warrant.
—A tragedy indeed. Okutami-sama was a visionary,— Ito said, his voice as flat as a pre-recorded message. —We will cooperate fully. Search what you must. We have nothing to hide except our peerless efficiency.
He gestured for them to proceed but followed them like a spectral shadow.
—Open Sector C-12,— Monika commanded. —The last recorded cargo under Okutami's private seal.
Sato pried open the heavy latch of the designated container. He let out a sharp whistle.
—Officer... this isn't drugs.
Monika stepped inside. Instead of chemical vats, the container was lined with crates of high-end industrial tech: precision servos, ultra-density polymers, and reinforced plating. The markings on the crates made her heart skip a beat.
DETNERAT CORP.
—Detnerat?— Sato scratched his head. —The lifestyle and hero-support giant? Why is their tech moving through a private, unlogged channel?
Ito adjusted his glasses. —Detnerat is a primary partner of the Port. Their CEO holds a significant stake in our operations. They supply equipment to U.A. and Shiketsu. Surely you aren't suggesting that hero-support gear is contraband?
Monika bit her lip. Detnerat was untouchable. Their gear was in the hands of every major Pro Hero. If they were involved, the case had just ascended into the stratosphere of political conspiracy.
Suddenly, the ground groaned. A low, guttural rumble vibrated through the asphalt, followed by the agonizing screech of twisting metal. A few hundred meters away, a massive loading crane—a hundred-ton steel titan—shuddered. Its primary support snapped like a dry twig.
—Get back!— Sato yelled, lunging for cover.
The enormous structure tipped with terrifying grace, crashing into the pier. A hanging container broke free, obliterating the deck of a moored bulk carrier. Sirens erupted, their wail mixing with the roar of falling debris.
In the blinding flash of a short circuit, Monika saw it. Atop the neighboring crane stood a silhouette. A two-meter-long, pitch-black form with a striped tail.
And as the smoke cleared, she realized with a jolt of terror: the Tiger wasn't alone. Another shadow stood beside it, eyes glowing with a cold, unnatural light.