Three days.
The announcement came at 6 AM on a Monday.
She woke up to it.
Notifications. Everywhere.
The news. Social media. The Hero Commission's official statement.
FORMER NUMBER ONE HERO TOSHINORI YAGI (ALL MIGHT) PASSES PEACEFULLY AT AGE 68
She sat in bed.
Phone in hand.
Read it.
Read it again.
The world was waking up to what a handful of people had been carrying for three days.
She got up.
Made coffee she didn't drink.
Watched the news.
Every channel. All of them. The same footage playing on loop. All Might in his prime. The smile. The saves. The wars. The retirement speech where he'd pointed at the camera and said Next, it's your turn.
Tributes were already flooding in.
Heroes. Civilians. Government officials. International statements.
The commission had announced a private funeral. Limited attendance. Immediate family. Close colleagues. Select students.
The rest of the hero community was organizing public memorials. Vigils. Moments of silence across all agencies at noon.
She sat on her couch.
Watched the screen.
A clip of young All Might. Maybe twenty. Bright-eyed. That enormous smile already in place.
A clip of the final battle against All For One. The United States of Smash. The moment the world changed.
A clip of him teaching. At U.A. Laughing with students.
She turned it off.
The silence was worse.
She turned it back on.
The agency was different that day.
Quieter. Not empty—they were still operational, crime didn't stop—but muted. Everyone moving carefully. Speaking softly when they spoke at all.
The break room had a photo of All Might taped to the wall. Flowers underneath it. Notes.
She didn't know who'd started it.
But people kept adding to it.
She stood there for a moment.
Looking at the photo. The classic one. The smile. The peace sign.
I am here.
She went to her desk.
There was work. There was always work.
But nobody was pushing hard today.
At noon the entire building stopped.
Moment of silence.
She stood with everyone else.
In the operations floor.
Still.
Quiet.
Thinking about a man she'd never met.
Who'd saved the world before she was born.
Who'd kept saving it until his body gave out.
Whose legacy was every person standing in this room.
The silence held for exactly sixty seconds.
Then life continued.
The funeral was at two.
Private. Somewhere outside the city. The commission hadn't released the location.
She wasn't invited.
Obviously she wasn't invited.
She was rank 79. Six weeks at the agency. She'd met All Might exactly never times.
But Bakugo was invited.
Of course he was.
He'd left at noon. Suit. Black. She'd seen him in the hallway. Had looked away quickly. Given him the space of not being observed.
Kirishima had gone too.
And Kaminari. And Mina. And Sero.
Most of Class 1-A.
The building felt empty without them.
She did paperwork.
Filed reports.
Helped coordinate the evening patrols.
At four she checked the news.
Footage from outside the funeral location. Distant. Respectful. The cameras had stayed back.
But you could see them arriving.
Deku. In a suit that looked slightly too formal. Like he'd never gotten used to wearing suits.
Endeavor. Grim. His son beside him.
Aizawa. Present Mic.
Former students. Current heroes.
Recovery Girl in a wheelchair.
Bakugo.
The camera had caught him for maybe three seconds.
Getting out of a car. Walking toward the entrance. His face completely closed.
She watched it.
Put her phone down.
Went back to work.
The city was strange that evening.
She went on patrol. Zone 3. Solo.
The streets were quieter than normal.
Fewer people. Those who were out moved differently. Slower. Deliberate.
Every screen she passed was showing something about All Might.
She walked past a bar. The TV inside was playing old battle footage. Patrons watching in silence.
A convenience store had a photo in the window. Someone had left flowers.
At a crosswalk she stood next to a woman maybe in her sixties. The woman was crying quietly. Just standing there. Tears on her face. Staring at nothing.
Amaya didn't say anything.
Some grief you didn't interrupt.
Her earpiece was quiet.
Dispatch was running minimal chatter. Just the essentials.
No incidents.
Across the entire city.
Nothing.
Like even the villains understood.
Not out of respect necessarily. Though maybe some of that too.
But out of survival.
Because the heroes burying their teacher today were the ones who'd fought a war. Who'd won. Who'd proven exactly what they were capable of when pushed.
And today—
Today they were all carrying something sharp.
Something that would come out wrong if provoked.
Even the stupid criminals understood that.
So the city was quiet.
She finished her patrol.
Checked in.
Headed back to the agency.
She got back at eight.
The building was emptier now.
Skeleton crew. Night shift preparing. Everyone else had gone home.
She changed in the locker room.
Came back out.
Started to head for the exit.
Stopped.
The light was on in his office.
She could see it. Under the door. That thin line of yellow against the dark hallway.
She stood there.
She should leave.
She should absolutely leave.
Go home. Give him space. Let him grieve privately the way he'd want to.
She started walking toward the exit.
Made it three steps.
Turned around.
Took the elevator.
Top floor.
The hallway was dark except for the light from his office.
She walked toward it.
Slowly. Quietly.
The door was slightly open.
She could see through the gap.
He was sitting at his desk.
Not working.
Just sitting.
His jacket was off. Thrown over the chair. Tie loosened. Shirt sleeves rolled up.
There was a glass on his desk.
Whiskey probably. He kept a bottle in the bottom drawer. She'd seen it once when he'd pulled out files.
He wasn't drinking.
Just staring at the glass.
His face was—
She'd never seen his face like that.
Open. Unguarded.
Sad.
Angry.
Like both things at once and neither thing was winning.
His jaw was tight. His hands were on the desk. Flat. Pressing down like he was holding himself there. Keeping himself in the chair instead of doing whatever else his body wanted to do.
She watched him.
She shouldn't be watching him.
This wasn't for her.
His shoulders moved.
Just slightly.
A breath that wasn't quite steady.
He put his head in his hands.
And she saw it.
The crack.
The moment where the thing he'd been holding together for three days started to come apart.
His shoulders shook once.
Just once.
She should leave.
She opened the door.
Stepped inside.
He looked up.
Fast.
His face shifted immediately.
Back to controlled. Back to closed.
But she'd seen it.
And he knew she'd seen it.
They stared at each other.
His eyes were red.
Not crying now. But he had been.
Recently.
"What are you doing here," he said.
Not angry. Just... flat. Exhausted.
She didn't have an answer.
Should have thought of an answer.
"I—"
She stopped.
Started again.
"I saw the light."
He looked at her.
Waiting.
"I wanted to make sure you were—"
"I'm fine."
The default answer.
The lie they both used.
"Okay," she said.
She should leave now.
She didn't leave.
Just stood there.
In his office.
At eight PM.
While he sat at his desk with red eyes and a glass of whiskey he wasn't drinking.
"You should go home," he said.
"Yeah."
She didn't move.
He exhaled.
Looked away. Out the window. At the city below.
The silence stretched.
"He was—" Bakugo stopped.
Started again.
"He was a pain in the ass."
She waited.
"Stubborn. Reckless. Threw himself into things without thinking. Got himself hurt. Made everyone around him worry." His voice was flat. Controlled. "Wouldn't listen. Wouldn't stop. Even when his body was failing. Even when he should've quit years ago."
He looked at the glass.
"He just kept going."
The anger in his voice wasn't for All Might.
It was for the unfairness of it. The inevitability. The fact that even legends die.
"He sounds like someone else I know," she said.
Quietly.
Bakugo's eyes snapped to her.
She held his gaze.
Something moved in his expression.
Almost a smile.
Not quite.
"Shut up, Tsukino."
But there was no heat in it.
She took a step closer.
Then another.
Came around the desk.
Stood next to him.
Too close.
Inappropriately close.
But she was already here.
Already doing this.
Might as well commit.
He was looking up at her now. Confused. Wary.
She didn't think.
If she thought she'd stop.
She leaned down.
Kissed his cheek.
Soft. Brief.
Just her lips against his skin.
The smell of caramel and whiskey and something underneath that was just him.
His face was warm.
Slightly rough from stubble.
She pulled back.
His eyes were wide.
She'd surprised him.
Genuinely surprised him.
Her face was on fire.
Her brain was screaming.
She turned.
Walked toward the door.
Fast.
"Tsukino—"
She didn't stop.
Kept walking.
Hit the hallway.
Kept going.
To the elevator.
Pressed the button.
Pressed it again.
The doors opened.
She got in.
Pressed the lobby button approximately seven times.
The doors closed.
She leaned against the wall.
Put her face in her hands.
"Oh god."
The elevator descended.
She'd just—
She'd just kissed him.
On the cheek.
While he was grieving.
In his office.
Without asking.
Without thinking.
Just—
Did it.
"Oh god."
The elevator dinged.
Lobby.
She walked out.
Fast.
Through the front doors.
Into the night.
Walked three blocks before she stopped.
Leaned against a building.
Put her hands on her knees.
Breathed.
What had she—
Why had she—
Her phone buzzed.
She looked at it.
Unknown number.
She knew that number.
She didn't open it.
Couldn't.
Not yet.
Just stood there.
On a random street.
At eight thirty PM.
Having just kissed her boss.
Her grieving boss.
On the cheek.
And run away.
She was so fired.
She was so completely fired.
She started walking home.
Fast.
Her face still burning.
The feeling of his skin against her lips.
The smell.
The warmth.
The look in his eyes when she'd pulled back.
Confusion. Surprise.
Something else she didn't want to name.
She got home.
Locked the door.
Leaned against it.
Slid down to the floor.
Sat there.
In the dark.
Her phone buzzed again.
She looked at it.
The message was still unread.
From him.
She opened it.
Go home. Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.
That was it.
No anger.
No—
Just that.
She stared at it.
Typed: I'm sorry.
Deleted it.
Typed: I shouldn't have—
Deleted it.
Typed: Okay.
Sent it.
Put her phone down.
Looked at the ceiling.
The plushie was on the couch.
She looked at it.
"Don't," she said.
It said nothing.
"Don't look at me like that."
It continued looking.
She got up.
Grabbed it.
Sat back down on the floor.
Held it.
"I kissed him," she said.
The plushie absorbed this information.
"On the cheek. Not—not on the mouth. Just the cheek." She paused. "He was sad. And I just—I didn't think. I just did it."
Silence.
"And then I ran away like a coward."
Silence.
"He texted me. He said we'll talk tomorrow." She looked at the embroidered face. "That's bad right? That's a 'you're fired' conversation."
The plushie maintained its scowl.
"I'm going to be fired. For inappropriate conduct. For—" She stopped.
Put her face in the plushie.
"For being completely insane."
She sat there.
On the floor of her apartment.
Holding a plushie of the man she'd just kissed.
The real version of.
Who'd buried his mentor today.
Who was sitting in his office alone.
Drinking or not drinking.
Grieving.
While she—
"I'm the worst person alive," she told the plushie.
It disagreed silently.
She didn't believe it.
She got up eventually.
Went to bed.
Lay there.
Stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow.
They'd talk tomorrow.
She'd apologize.
He'd fire her.
She'd leave.
Find another agency.
Probably move cities.
Change her name.
Become a hermit.
Live in the mountains.
Never see another human again.
...
She closed her eyes.
Felt his cheek against her lips.
Warm.
Real.
Human.
She'd done it.
She'd actually done it.
And she couldn't even regret it properly.
Because for that one second—
That brief, stupid, impulsive second—
It had felt right.
...
Tomorrow was going to be terrible.