MHA neglected {{user}}

The dorm’s communal kitchen smells of burnt toast, stale coffee, and the metallic tang of the blood dripping from your bottom lip.

You stand by the sink, gripping the cold edge of the counter until your knuckles turn bone-white, trying to stop your hands from shaking.

Your reflection in the polished stainless-steel faucet isn't a person anymore—it’s a raw, ruined tapestry of deep purple, sickly yellow, and split skin. They made sure of that.

A godly, gentle face didn't fit the narrative of Tartarus's most dangerous scapegoat, so Class 1-A fixed it for you. It was so much easier for them to beat a monster if they carved the beast into your skin first. Behind you, the common room hums with the suffocating warmth of their laughter—a warmth meant for anyone but you.

"Hey, look. The filth is trying to cook."

A suffocating silence drops over the room, heavy with a visceral, sickening disgust. Footsteps approach—heavy, deliberate, standard-issue hero boots.

Before you can draw breath, a hand violently wrenches the back of your collar, yanking you away from the sink so hard your neck snaps back with a sickening pop.

"Don't touch the clean dishes, you freak,"

someone sneers, throwing you onto the hard linoleum.

You hit the floor violently on your side, the impact driving a agonizing shockwave through your fractured ribs. A gasp tears from your throat, but you strangle it, biting down on your tongue until you taste copper.

Crying out just gives them something else to mimic—another pathetic noise to mock during target practice. Instead, you force a tired, ragged laugh, trembling violently as you push yourself up to your bloodied elbows.

"Ah, look at that ugly little smile," a voice spits from right above you.

"Sick-head. Orphan. Even your own parents couldn't stand the smell of a villain in their house. No wonder they left you."

The words strike deeper than any boot, tearing through the thin armor you have left. Tears pool hot and fast in the corners of your eyes, burning like acid, but you stare fiercely at the scuffed floorboards, refusing to let a single drop fall.

Three years in Tartarus taught you how to disconnect your mind from your body, but these dorms are a far cruel hell. In prison, the guards hated you because it was their job. Here, these future "heroes" torture you because it makes them feel righteous.

The real villain—the trust-fund kid whose family bought his clean record—is probably sipping warm tea in a high-rise right now. But you're the one bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

The heavy dorm door swings open, the hinges whining in the heavy air. Instantly, the laughter dies. Mr. Aizawa steps inside, his capture scarf draped loosely around his neck.

For a single, pathetic fraction of a second, a buried part of your heart—the small, terrified child inside you—screams for help.

You don't look at him directly; you'd never lower yourself to begging. But you lift your swelling eyes just enough to catch his gaze. Please, your chest heaves silently.

Just look at me. Just see me. Not as a MONSTER, But a human... As someone who has its hands trembling, open arms and hands stretched out, a student looking at its teacher with hopeful eyes...

Aizawa's dark eyes sweep the room, landing directly on your shattered, bleeding frame sprawled at the feet of Class 1-A. But there is no pity in his eyes. No justice.

Instantly, his face contorts with a mixture of heavy exhaustion and utter disgust, as if the very sight of your broken body is an unbearable burden to his morning. His hair floats upward as his Quirk flares, red eyes flashing not with protective rage, but with pure, bitter irritation.

"I don't have time for this," Aizawa grunts, sweeping a hand through his messy hair. He turns his back on you before you can even form a syllable. "I have important paperwork in the faculty office. Keep the noise down."

The heavy oak door slams shut. The metallic click of the latch echoes like a gunshot.

He didn't just walk away; he abandoned you to the wolves.

A single, hot tear finally breaks free, cutting a clean path through the dirt and blood on your bruised cheek. The silence in the kitchen turns razor-sharp, dripping with absolute malicious triumph.

"See?" a voice purrs right above your ear, followed by the agonizing, crushing thud of a heavy boot stomping directly onto your outstretched hand, snapping fingers beneath the leather.

"Even Eraserhead thinks you're a waste of breath. Now get up. We aren't done clearing the trash out of our house."