Dante walked without direction. He didn't need one. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, hood pulled low against the afternoon chill. The suspension didn't start until tomorrow, but going back to that apartment right now, sitting in the silence, feeling Marco and Chiara's careful concern pressing against him—felt impossible.

  So he walked.

  The city moved around him in its usual rhythm. Salarymen hurried past with briefcases. A mother scolded her child for running too far ahead. Somewhere in the distance, a train clattered along elevated tracks. No one looked at him. No one cared.

  Good.

  He passed a small park tucked between apartment buildings—the kind of place that only existed because the city planners needed to fill space. A few benches. A sad patch of grass. A sandbox where a handful of kids played, their laughter high and careless.

  Dante stopped.

  One kid—maybe five or six—was building something in the sand. A castle, probably, though it looked more like a lumpy hill with a stick poking out of the top. The kid didn't care. He just kept patting the sand with chubby hands, tongue stuck out in concentration, completely absorbed in his work.

  Dante's chest tightened.

  Marco used to do that. Back when we were kids. Back when...

  He shook his head and sat down on the nearest bench, pulling his hood lower. The numbness from the Limbo transformation had mostly faded, but its ghost still clung to him—a dull, hollow ache where emotions should be. He could think about feelings, recognize them in the abstract, but actually feeling them was like trying to grasp smoke.

  It would pass. It always did.

  He just had to wait.

  The bench creaked as someone sat down beside him.

  Dante glanced over.

  The construction worker.

  The same one he'd seen nearly every morning on his way to school—the man with the rocky, inhuman face and no visible eyes, just smooth ridges of stone where features should be. Today, though, he wasn't alone. A little girl sat in his lap, maybe three years old, giggling as her father made exaggerated faces. His face shifted and cracked in ways that shouldn't have been funny but somehow were, at least to her.

  "Young man," the worker said, his voice surprisingly warm despite the gravel texture of it. "I've seen you around. You walk past the site every morning, yeah? Always staring."

  Dante stiffened. "I wasn't—"

  "Relax, kid. I'm not accusing you of anything." The man chuckled, a sound like stones grinding together. His daughter squirmed in his arms, reaching for his face, and he gently redirected her hands. "You just seem like you've got a lot on your mind. Thought I'd check in."

  Dante didn't know what to say to that.

  The silence stretched. The little girl's giggles filled the gap.

  "I got suspended," Dante said finally, the words coming out flat and automatic.

  "Ah." The man nodded slowly. "That's why you're out here instead of at school?"

  "Yeah."

  "Want to talk about it?"

  Dante hesitated. He didn't usually talk to strangers. Didn't talk to anyone, really, except Marco and Chiara. But something about the man's tone—calm, nonjudgmental, like he'd seen worse and wasn't fazed—made the words come easier.

  "Someone was bullying a classmate," Dante said quietly. "A quirkless kid. They were going to hurt him. I stopped them."

  "And?"

  "And I used my quirk. Broke someone's wrist." He looked down at his hands, still tucked in his pockets. "I guess my intentions don't matter when I turn into a monster."

  The man was quiet for a moment. His daughter wiggled in his lap, reaching for a bug crawling across the bench. He gently steered her away from it.

  "You see this face?" the man said finally, gesturing to himself. "Not exactly hero material, huh? Can't smile right. Can't emote. Kids used to run from me when I walked down the street. Hell, some adults still do."

  Dante glanced at him, unsure where this was going.

  "I wanted to be a hero once," the man continued. "Thought I could make a difference. Trained for it, even. But the agencies didn't want me. Too scary-looking, they said. Bad for PR. So I became a construction worker instead." He shrugged, the motion easy and unbothered. "And you know what? I help more people now than I ever would've in a costume."

  Dante frowned. "How?"

  "I build homes. Schools. Hospitals. Places people actually need." The man's tone was matter-of-fact, no bitterness in it. "Being a hero isn't about the title, kid. It's about doing what's right when it needs doing. Its something that will not get you love or praise or acceptance. You stopped someone from getting hurt. That's more than most people would do."

  "But everyone's scared of me now. I lost my self- this curse.. perhaps I'm just a monster that has the illusion of control."

  "Sure, Maybe." The man's daughter reached for his face again, and this time he let her pat his rocky cheek. "But fear and respect aren't as different as you think. You did the right thing. That's what matters. Life is but an illusion of control. It could have been worse if you hadn’t stepped in. An injured kid and ruined life for another."

  Dante looked at him—really looked. The man's face was unreadable, but his posture was relaxed, his voice steady. He wasn't lying. He genuinely believed what he was saying.

  "Do you regret it?" Dante asked. "Not being a hero?"

  The man laughed—a low, rumbling sound that made his daughter giggle. "Not even a little. I get to go home to this every night." He bounced his daughter gently on his knee, and she squealed with delight. "That's worth more than any hero ranking."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Dante didn't respond. He just stared at the sandbox, at the kid still building his castle, completely oblivious to how fragile it was. How easily it could be destroyed.

  "You're young," the man said, standing up and adjusting his daughter in his arms. "You've got time to figure out what kind of person you want to be. Just... don't let other people's fear decide that for you. Everyone makes mistakes. You acknowledge that mistake. Try to do better!"

  He gave Dante a small nod and walked off, his daughter waving over his shoulder.

  Dante sat there for a long time after they left, staring at nothing.

  Don't let other people's fear decide that for you

  The words settled in his chest, heavy and warm and uncomfortable.

  By the time Dante started moving again, the afternoon had shifted into early evening. The streets were busier now—people heading home from work, students in uniforms laughing in clusters, shop owners pulling down shutters.

  He turned a corner and nearly walked into a crowd.

  Up ahead, a commotion was unfolding. People had stopped on the sidewalk, phones out, necks craned to watch. Dante slowed, instinct pulling him toward the edge of the scene.

  A villain—massive, easily twenty feet tall with arms like tree trunks was tearing down the street, knocking over trash cans and scattering pedestrians. His skin had a bark-like texture, rough and cracked, and when he swung his fist, it splintered a streetlight like it was made of paper.

  "Out of the way! Hero coming through!"

  Kamui Woods burst onto the scene, his wooden limbs extending like vines as he pursued the villain. The crowd cheered. Phones lifted higher, recording every second.

  Dante stopped at the edge of the gathering, hands in his pockets, watching with detached interest.

  Ive seen him on tv..Kamui Woods. I think

  Someone bumped into him from behind.

  "Oh! Sorry, sorry—"

  Dante turned.

  A boy stood beside him, clutching a notebook to his chest like it was the most valuable thing in the world. He was short—maybe Dante's height, or a little shorter. A mess of green hair that stuck up in every direction and wide eyes that practically glowed with excitement. He was staring at the fight like he'd just witnessed a miracle.

  "That was amazing!" the boy breathed, scribbling something in his notebook without looking down. "Did you see the way Kamui Woods extended his reach? He must've been at least fifteen meters out—I wonder if that's his limit, or if he's holding back to conserve stamina"

  He cut himself off, suddenly noticing Dante staring at him.

  "Oh. Uh. Sorry." The boy laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head. "I didn't mean to bump into you. I get kind of... intense when heroes show up."

  Dante blinked. "You like heroes?"

  "Yeah!" The boy's face lit up. "I mean, who doesn't, right? They're incredible! The way they save people, the strategies they use... it's just—" He stopped himself again, cheeks flushing. "Sorry. I'm rambling. I'm Midoriya. Izuku Midoriya."

  "Dante. Dante Corvo."

  Midoriya's eyes flicked briefly to Dante's face—taking in the black hair with its odd streaks of white near the temples, the eyepatch covering his left eye—but he didn't stare. Didn't ask. Just nodded like it was completely normal.

  "Cool eyepatch," Midoriya said casually, then immediately looked mortified. "I mean—sorry, that probably sounded weird—"

  "thanks I guess.. It's fine," Dante said, surprising himself. Most people either stared or pretended not to notice. This kid just... said it and moved on.

  They stood in silence for a moment, watching Kamui Woods bind the villain's legs with wooden restraints. The crowd cheered louder.

  "Do you want to be a hero?" Dante asked suddenly.

  Midoriya's smile faltered, just slightly. He looked down at his notebook, grip tightening on the cover. "I... I think it'd be amazing. To help people like that. To make a difference." He paused, then added quietly, "Even if it's impossible for me."

  Whatever he meant by "impossible," it wasn't his business.

  "What about you?" Midoriya asked, looking up. "Do you want to be a hero?"

  Dante's jaw tightened. He looked back at the fight—at Kamui Woods posing for the cameras now that the villain was restrained, at the crowd recording everything, at the spectacle of it all.

  "No, no really" he said flatly.

  "Oh." Midoriya blinked, clearly surprised. "I just thought—I mean, you seemed interested, so—"

  "I'm interested in a lot of things," Dante said, cutting him off. "Doesn't mean I want to be part of them."

  Midoriya tilted his head, confused. "Part of... what?"

  Dante gestured vaguely at the scene in front of them. "This. The performance. Everyone cheering like it's a show. The villain gets caught, the hero takes a bow, and tomorrow it happens again somewhere else." He paused, then added more quietly, "I don't think it changes anything. Not really. Its not all black and white"

  Midoriya's expression shifted—not defensive, but thoughtful. He looked back at Kamui Woods, at the crowd, at the flashing lights of the police cars pulling up.

  "Maybe you're right," Midoriya said slowly. "Maybe one fight doesn't change the world. But... I think it changes things for the people who get saved. Even if it's just one person. That matters, doesn't it?"

  Dante didn't have an answer for that.

  They stood in silence, the crowd's noise filling the space between them.

  “You don't need to be a hero to do the right thing."

  Midoriya's expression softened. "That's... really true, actually. There are lots of ways to help people. You don't need a license or a costume to make a difference."

  "Then why do you care so much about heroes?"

  Midoriya thought for a moment, fingers tapping against his notebook. "Because... even if I can't be one myself, I still think they're worth believing in. They inspire people. They give people hope. And maybe that's just as important as the actual saving."

  Dante looked at him—really looked. The kid's face was open, earnest, without a trace of cynicism or doubt. It should've been annoying. Should've felt naive.

  But there was something genuine about it. Something... admirable.

  "You're weird," Dante said.

  Midoriya laughed, startled. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

  Up ahead, Kamui Woods was finishing up, shaking hands with bystanders and signing autographs. The crowd was already starting to disperse, the excitement fading now that the show was over.

  "I should go," Dante said, pulling up his hood.

  "Yeah, me too." Midoriya smiled—small, but genuine. "It was nice talking to you, Dante. Maybe I'll see you around?"

  "Maybe."

  Dante turned and walked away before the conversation could go any further. He didn't look back, but he could feel Midoriya's eyes on him for a moment longer before the crowd swallowed them both.

  When Dante finally made it back to the apartment, it was late. The lights were on, warm and golden through the rain-streaked window.

  He stood outside for a moment, staring up at them.

  Inside, Marco and Chiara were probably waiting. Probably worried. Slowly, he climbed the stairs and opened the door.

  Chiara looked up from the couch, phone in hand. Marco set down his coffee cup. Neither of them said anything right away. They just watched him, waiting.

  "I'm back," Dante said quietly.

  Chiara stood. "Hungry?"

  He nodded.

  "I'll heat dinner." She disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

  Marco patted the couch beside him. "Come sit."

  Dante sat, water dripping from his hoodie onto the cushions. His hands stayed folded in his lap.

  "We're not mad," Marco said after a moment. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "You know that, right?"

  "I know."

  "We just want you to be okay. To feel safe." Marco paused, choosing his words carefully. "To have a chance at something normal."

  Normal. The word felt foreign. Like a language Dante used to speak but had forgotten.

  "I don't know if I can, but I can try" he admitted.

  Marco didn't respond right away. He just leaned back against the couch, one hand resting on Dante's shoulder—firm, grounding, the way it always was. "Then we'll figure it out. Together."

  Chiara returned with a plate of reheated pasta and set it in front of him. She didn't say anything, just ruffled his damp hair and sat down on his other side, pulling her legs up under her.

  They didn't ask him to explain. Didn't press for details. Didn't demand to know where he'd been or what he'd been thinking.

  They just sat with him while he ate, the three of them crowded on a too-small couch in a too-small apartment, rain pattering softly against the windows.

  For the first time that day, Dante felt something other than the cold, hollow detachment the Limbo form had left behind.

  It wasn't much.

  Just warmth. Just presence. Just the quiet reassurance that he wasn't alone.

  But it was something.

  And for now, that was enough.