Miyabi Kenzo sat at her desk, one polished fingernail tracing the edge of her tablet screen. The pristine office around her—all clean lines, minimalist furniture, and strategic splashes of color—reflected the carefully curated image of Kenzo Limited's future CEO. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of Tokyo's business district, the city sprawled beneath her like a kingdom awaiting its queen.
But her attention remained fixed on the tablet, where a green-haired boy moved across the UA Sports Festival arena.
"Replay segment," she murmured.
The footage rewound. Midoriya executing a perfect counter against the Todoroki girl—his body language reading the attack before it came, redirecting ice with minimal effort, exploiting momentum. His movements flowed like water finding the path of least resistance.
Miyabi's tongue darted out, moistening her lower lip as she leaned forward.
"Pause."
The image froze on Midoriya's face—eyes narrowed in concentration, the hint of a smile on his lips. Not arrogance. Something deeper. The joy of a dancer in perfect harmony with the music.
"Beautiful," she whispered.
Requiem stood silently by the door, his silver-haired figure reflected in the glass wall behind her. His immaculate black suit and eyepatch gave him the appearance of a corporate bodyguard rather than her second-in-command in one of Japan's most dangerous villain organizations. His single visible eye betrayed nothing as she indulged her fascination.
She tapped the screen again. The boy executed a spinning kick that sent his opponent flying. Raw power channeled through perfect form. Unbridled potential waiting to be shaped.
A knock interrupted her reverie.
Miyabi closed the video, her expression shifting seamlessly from fascination to professional detachment. "Enter."
A young woman with sleek black hair and nervous eyes stepped into the office, clutching a tablet to her chest. "Ms. Kenzo, I have the finalized proposal for the Uwabami collaboration."
"Asami." Miyabi beckoned her forward with a slight curl of her fingers. "Let's see what you've put together."
The woman approached the desk, her steps careful on the polished floor. She handed over the tablet with a small bow, eyes downcast.
Miyabi scrolled through the document, scanning marketing plans, projected revenues, and publicity schedules. The proposal outlined a fashion collaboration between Kenzo Limited and the snake-haired hero Uwabami—designer clothing, accessories, and cosmetics leveraging the hero's popularity.
"Clean presentation. Comprehensive market analysis." Miyabi nodded approvingly. "Your revenue projections are conservative—I appreciate that. Too many get carried away with celebrity collaborations."
"Thank you, Ms. Kenzo." Asami's cheeks colored slightly at the praise.
"The social media integration is particularly clever." Miyabi returned the tablet. "Make it happen. I want production samples on my desk by next week."
"Of course!" Asami clutched the device to her chest, practically glowing from the approval. "I'll get started right away."
"You've done excellent work. This is why I brought you onto the team."
The young woman's blush deepened. "Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Kenzo." She backed away with another small bow before turning to leave, her steps notably lighter than when she entered.
As the door closed, Miyabi's pleasant smile faded. She sighed, swiveling her chair to face the windows.
"The princess isn't impressed, huh?" a male voice drawled from behind her.
She didn't startle. Ghost had a talent for appearing unnoticed—hence the name. He leaned against the bookshelf, examining his fingernails with feigned indifference. His sharp green eyes and the scar across his lips gave his otherwise handsome face a dangerous edge.
Without looking at him, Miyabi pressed a sequence on her desk panel. Metal shutters slid silently over the windows. The lights dimmed briefly before returning to normal as the room's security protocols activated.
"Soundproofed," she confirmed, turning to face him. "What news of the Hero Killer?"
Ghost pushed himself off the bookshelf, sauntering toward her desk. "Oh, him..." He dropped into a chair, stretching his long legs. "He took the card, but I think Stain would never work for that man-child. But you know that, don't you, Carnival?"
Miyabi sighed, rising from her seat. She moved to the window, where a thin gap in the shutters offered a sliver of the city below. "I don't understand what the boss sees in Shigaraki. That tantrum-throwing manchild has the emotional regulation of a toddler."
"The question isn't what he sees now," Ghost replied, picking up her tablet. "It's what he thinks the kid could become."
"If he wants to make that his successor, my job is to assist." She turned, leaning against the window. "But if he doesn't improve fast..."
She left the thought unfinished, watching as Ghost's attention caught on her tablet screen. He'd reactivated the Sports Festival footage. Midoriya dodged an explosion from the Bakugo boy.
"Interesting choice of entertainment," Ghost murmured, not looking up from the screen with an intense focus. "Looks like someone's been watching the old geezer."
Miyabi didn't respond. Instead, she returned to her desk, settling into her chair.
"Can I tell you a story, Ghost?"
He glanced up. "Am I getting paid for listening time?"
"Yes." She rolled her eyes. "Though I do wish you'd find a better vice than women and gambling."
"We all have our pleasures." He set down the tablet, leaning back. "Fine, I'm all ears."
Miyabi's lips thinned at the title. "When I was a child, my father used to read me stories before bed. Not the usual fairy tales—he thought they taught the wrong lessons. Instead, he told me about the Greek heroes."
"Tragic bastards, the lot of them," Ghost commented.
"Precisely. Achilles, Heracles, Perseus—men of extraordinary ability, brought low by their flaws." She tapped the tablet screen, bringing Midoriya's image back to life. "But my favorite was always Theseus."
"The Minotaur guy?"
"The one who abandoned Ariadne after she saved him. The one whose father threw himself from a cliff because Theseus forgot to change his sails." Her finger traced the outline of Midoriya's face on the screen. "A hero with such potential, such promise—but ultimately, a failure in everything except the most superficial glory."
Ghost studied her face. "You want to break this kid."
Miyabi smiled. "Not break. Shape." She zoomed in on Midoriya's face. "Look at him. The raw material is exceptional. But he lacks... refinement."
"Most people would call UA's training program pretty refined."
"They're building a hero," Miyabi scoffed. "I'm interested in creating art."
Ghost leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You're not making sense."
"The greatest sculptures begin with violence," she explained, her voice taking on an almost dreamy quality. "You have to chip away everything that isn't essential. The excess. The impurities." Her eyes never left the screen. "Then, when they're broken down to their core, you rebuild them."
"Into what?"
"Something perfect." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Something loyal."
Ghost raised an eyebrow. "You know that's crazy, right?"
"Sanity is overrated in our line of work."
"Fair enough." He glanced at the tablet again. "So what's the plan? Kidnap him? Threaten his family? The usual?"
"No." Miyabi shook her head. "That's Shigaraki's approach—blunt force. No artistry." She stood, moving to a painting on the wall—a ballet dancer captured mid-leap. "Great performances require proper staging. First, we test him. Push him to his limits. See what he's made of."
"And then?"
"Then we give him a choice." She turned back to Ghost, her eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "The best loyalty comes from those who choose it freely, after seeing all other options."
Ghost snorted. "People don't 'freely choose' to join villain organizations."
"They do when the alternative is worse." She returned to her desk. "Everyone has a breaking point. A moment when they'll sacrifice their ideals for something they value more."
"And what does this kid value?"
Miyabi smiled. "That's what we need to find out."
Ghost stood, straightening his suit jacket. "Well, while you're planning your artistic masterpiece, I've got actual work to do. The shipment from Deika needs handling, and our friend in the police department wants his monthly payment."
"Take care of it." Miyabi waved a dismissive hand. "And Ghost?"
He paused at the door. "Yeah?"
"Keep an eye on the Hero Killer. Even if he won't work with us, we should know his movements."
"Already on it." He tapped his temple. "I've got a guy watching him."
"Good." She turned her attention back to the tablet. "That will be all."
Once alone, Miyabi replayed the footage again. Midoriya's movements captivated her—each punch, each dodge, each counterattack executed with precision that bordered on prescience. But it was his eyes that truly held her attention. The determination. The focus. The joy.
She paused on a frame that captured him mid-leap, his body suspended in air, defying gravity through sheer physical prowess.
"You think you're a hero now," she murmured to the image. "But heroes are just characters in stories written by others. I'll show you how to write your own story."
She tapped her communication panel. "Requiem."
The door opened immediately. "Yes, Ms. Kenzo?"
"Gather everything we have on Izuku Midoriya. Family, friends, habits, weaknesses. I want a complete profile."
"Already compiled," Requiem replied, his voice perfectly neutral. "I anticipated your interest after the Sports Festival."
Miyabi smiled. This was why he was her right hand. "Excellent. And what does our file tell us about young Mr. Midoriya?"
"Ranked first in his class. Lives with his mother, Inko Midoriya. Father absent from birth records. Trained under a former pro hero known as 'Silver Fang' prior to UA entrance. Current relationship with classmate Camie Utsushimi. Close friendships with Momo Yaoyorozu and several others in Class 1-A."
"Weaknesses?"
"Beyond the obvious physical limitations of being Quirkless?" Requiem considered. "He's protective of those close to him. Particularly his mother and girlfriend. Shows signs of survivor guilt after the USJ incident. And there's something unusual about his training—he developed too quickly, even accounting for professional coaching."
Miyabi's eyes narrowed. "Elaborate."
"His physical capabilities exceed what should be possible for someone his age, regardless of training intensity. Either there's an undisclosed quirk factor, or..."
"Or?"
"Or there's something we're missing." Requiem's single visible eye betrayed nothing. "The data doesn't add up."
Miyabi turned back to the tablet, studying Midoriya's form. "Interesting. A mystery within a mystery." She zoomed in on his face. "Schedule a meeting with our UA informant. I want to know more about this boy's daily routine."
"Of course." Requiem remained standing, perfectly still. "If I may ask, what is your interest in this student?"
Miyabi considered her answer. Requiem had earned her trust, but some thoughts were too private to share.
"Potential," she said finally. "He reminds me of the heroes from my father's stories."
"The Greek tragedies?"
She smiled, pleased he remembered. "Yes. Specifically Theseus."
Requiem's expression remained impassive, but she caught the slight tension in his shoulders. He understood the reference.
"I see," he said. "And do you intend to be his Ariadne or his Minotaur?"
Miyabi laughed softly. "Neither. Those are supporting roles. I prefer to be Daedalus—the architect who designs the labyrinth." She closed the tablet. "After all, it's the designer who decides the rules of the game."
"As you wish." Requiem bowed slightly. "Will there be anything else?"
"Yes. Contact our asset at I-Island. I have a special project in mind."
"Regarding Midoriya?"
"Regarding his future." Miyabi's smile held secrets. "Every hero needs a proper stage for their defining moment."
After Requiem departed, Miyabi returned to the window, pressing a button to retract the shutters. Tokyo sprawled before her, millions of lives intersecting in countless ways, most people unaware of the true forces shaping their world.
She thought again of her father's stories. How as a child, she'd always felt sorry for the heroes—their tragic flaws, their inevitable downfalls. She hadn't understood then what she knew now: tragedy wasn't something that happened to heroes. It was what made them heroes in the first place.
"Everyone needs a proper origin story," she whispered to Midoriya's image on the tablet. "I'll give you yours."