A Phantom Limb

The apartment reeked of rot and stale beer. Wallpaper peeling in long strips, black mold underneath. A single bulb on a frayed wire, throwing sick yellow light over the broken couch, the stained mattress in the corner, dishes piled in the sink with things crawling across them.

Shoto sat on the edge of the mattress, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. He watched a cockroach skitter across the floor and felt—nothing. Not disgust, not fear. Didn't even really register the filth. He was hollow. A porcelain shell with nothing inside.

The door scraped open. Familiar sound of worn soles on linoleum.

"You're still in that dress," Shigaraki said. Voice low, scraping like gravel.

Shoto's fingers tightened on the white fabric—once clean, now crusted with wine and dirt. He'd worn it for the ceremony. A small, ugly thing in a back alley office, some greasy guy with yellow teeth reciting words Shoto didn't hear. Shigaraki held his hand, dry skin against dry skin, and for one fragile second Shoto thought maybe he was safe.

"Didn't have anywhere to go," Shoto said, not looking up.

Shigaraki crossed the room. Tall, gaunt, red eyes burning in the dim light. He knelt in front of Shoto, decayed hands hovering inches from his face. The air around those hands always felt thinner, charged.

"Look at me."

Shoto obeyed. He always obeyed. Easier that way.

Shigaraki's cracked lips twisted into something like a smile. "You're so beautiful like this. Broken and quiet. You know how long I watched you? At the League hideouts, in the shadows. You looked so alone."

Shoto blinked slowly. "I was."

"And now you're mine."

First time Shigaraki said it. Shoto felt this warmth spread through his chest—perverse, desperate. Someone wanted him. Someone chose him. Not for his Quirk or his lineage, but for the emptiness inside that matched Shigaraki's own.

So he said yes. Yes to the whispered promises, yes to dropping out, yes to the cold ring that sat on his finger like a shackle.

Four months later, he sat in a hovel that reminded him of his mother's hospital room—sterile, but opposite. Her space white and empty. This one black and alive with decay. Both suffocating. Both cages.

Shigaraki's hand touched his cheek. Shoto flinched. Sharp, instinctive jerk of his head.

Shigaraki's eyes narrowed. "You flinch at me now?" He grabbed a fistful of Shoto's hair—red and white, tangled, unwashed—and yanked. Shoto's breath caught, scalp screaming, but he didn't cry out. Learned not to.

"I'm sorry," Shoto whispered.

"Sorry for what? For being ungrateful? For forgetting who saved you from that house?" Shigaraki's voice cracked. He released the hair, shoved Shoto onto the mattress face down. "You think I don't see it? The way you look at me like I'm him."

Shoto's heart seized. He pressed his forehead into the stained pillow, breathing mildew and sweat. No. No, he's not him. He's different. He loves me. He said he loves me.

But the pattern was the same.

First time Shigaraki hit him, it was an accident. A punch that landed too hard after Shoto said something wrong—can't even remember what. Shigaraki apologized, cradled his face, kissed the bruise. "I didn't mean it. You make me so angry, Shoto. You make me feel too much."

Shoto believed him. Wrapped his arms around Shigaraki's thin frame and whispered, "It's okay. I forgive you."

Second time, Shigaraki pulled his hair. Third time, threw him against the wall. Fourth time, tore the white dress and took what he wanted while Shoto stared at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster, watching his soul float upward like smoke.

He learned to dissociate. Separate mind from body. When Shigaraki grabbed his hips, Shoto went to the ice-cold hallways of his childhood home, where his mother's screams echoed through the vents and his father's footsteps were thunder. Went to the training room, where Endeavor's flames seared his skin and the words "worthless" and "disappointment" got branded into his bones.

He was fourteen again. Or eight. Or three. Didn't matter. Time was a loop.

When it was over, Shigaraki curled around him, forehead pressed to the back of Shoto's neck, murmuring apologies and promises. "I love you. You're the only one who understands. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me."

And Shoto, hollow and bleeding, would whisper, "I won't."

Because who else would have him? Who else would look at the son of Endeavor and see anything but a trophy, a weapon, a symbol of a broken family? Shigaraki saw the rot. And the rot loved him back.

In the afternoons, when Shigaraki left for League business, Shoto stayed in the apartment. No phone—Shigaraki took it on their wedding night, said the outside world was poison. No way out. Didn't even know the address.

Sometimes he sat by the grimy window and watched the people below—tiny ants with normal lives, normal problems. Wondered if Natsuo was still in school. If Fuyumi still left food for him. If Endeavor was still destroying the world.

He didn't wonder about his mother. Couldn't bear to.

The memories crept in like cold water. Rei's face, pale and beautiful, twisted in anguish. The way she pulled at her own hair, sobbing, screaming at them to stop. The day she poured boiling water on his left side—on Endeavor's side—and the look of horror in her eyes afterward, like she'd woken from a nightmare to find her hands still wet.

I'm sorry, Shoto. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.

He believed her then, too.

The first time Shigaraki grabbed his hair, Shoto went to that memory. Stood next to his younger self in the hospital hallway, watching Rei weep behind the glass. Patted his own child's shoulder and said, It's okay. It's not her fault. It's not your fault.

Lie. But the only comfort he had.

One night, Shigaraki came home bloody. Slammed the door, swaying. Shoto rose from the mattress automatically.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." Shigaraki waved a hand, but his eyes were wild. He looked at Shoto with something between hunger and despair. "They keep trying to take everything. The League, the heroes, the whole damn world. They keep trying to take you away."

"I'm here," Shoto said softly. He reached out and touched Shigaraki's cheek. Dry skin crinkled under his fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."

Shigaraki grabbed his wrist, and for a moment Shoto saw it—the child inside the monster. A boy abandoned, unloved, rotting from the inside out. Same child Shoto saw in the mirror every morning.

"Prove it," Shigaraki whispered.

Shoto didn't know what that meant. But he let Shigaraki push him down, let him tear the dress—a new one, also white, also cheap—and take his body. He stared at the stained ceiling and counted.

One crack, two cracks, three cracks. The crack above the bed was shaped like a lightning bolt, like the scar on his face. He traced it with his eyes, again and again, until the weight on top of him was just pressure, not pain.

Afterward, Shigaraki fell asleep clutching him, decayed hand curled against Shoto's chest. Shoto didn't sleep. Lay awake, listening to the drip of the faucet, the scuttle of rats in the walls, the distant wail of sirens.

He thought of UA. Ochaco's warm smile. Izuku's earnest gaze. The way Bakugo screamed at everyone like he cared. Training grounds, dorms, ridiculous hero costumes. It felt like a dream from another life—a life where he still believed he could escape.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness swallow him.

---

Four months. The silence was the first thing that tipped Fuyumi off. Then Natsuo's frantic calls. Then Dabi's appearance at the Todoroki mansion, his burned face twisted in a snarl.

"He's gone," Dabi said, standing in the foyer, ignoring how Endeavor stiffened at the sight of him. "Shoto. He dropped out. No one's seen him."

Endeavor's jaw tightened. "He dropped out."

"He didn't tell you, did he? Of course not. You never listen."

Natsuo pushed past Dabi, fists clenched. "I tried to call him. Texted. Phone's dead. Went to his dorm—they said he cleared out two weeks after the sports festival. Fuyumi hasn't heard from him. No one has."

Endeavor felt a cold hand close around his heart. Thought of Rei, locked in that hospital, faded and broken. Thought of Shoto, five years old, crying in the training room, begging him to stop. The way Shoto had looked at him during the sports festival—with ice, not fire, but the same frozen hatred Rei had worn in her last days at home.

No. Not again. Not again.

"I'll find him," Endeavor said.

"You?" Dabi laughed, bitter and sharp. "You're the reason he's gone. The reason he's probably dead in a ditch. You don't get to play hero now."

"Then help me," Endeavor said, voice cracking for the first time in years.

Dabi stared at him. Silence stretched.

"I've been following leads for weeks," Dabi said finally. "He's with the League. With Shigaraki."

Natsuo's face drained of color. "What?"

"I saw them together. At a hideout in the Kamino ward." Dabi's eyes burned. "He looked happy. Sick, right? He looked happy. I thought maybe he chose it. But then I saw Shigaraki's hands on him, and I knew."

Endeavor's fists trembled. "Knew what?"

"That you made him. You made him so broken he'd take any hand that didn't burn him."

The search took another week. Dabi tracked the League's safe houses. Natsuo scoured online forums and police records. Endeavor called in every favor he had. Fuyumi stayed home, alternating between crying and leaving voicemails that went to dead air.

They found the address in a discarded notebook from a League grunt—a rundown apartment building in a forgotten industrial district, marked with a red X.

They went at dusk. Endeavor, Dabi, and Natsuo. No police, no heroes. Didn't trust anyone else.

The building was a skeleton of brick and broken glass. The stairwell smelled like urine and mold. They climbed to the fourth floor, and Dabi stopped in front of a door with peeling paint and a crooked number. Music blared from inside—some angry, tinny scream.

Natsuo raised his hand to knock. Dabi grabbed his wrist. "He won't open."

"Then we break it down."

Dabi's eyes met Endeavor's. For a moment, they were just two sons of a monster, united by guilt and rage.

"I'll do it," Dabi said.

He pressed his palm to the lock. The metal warped, glowed orange, melted. He kicked the door open.

The sound that greeted them wasn't music—it was the slap of skin on skin, and a muffled cry.

Inside, the apartment was a nightmare of filth. Walls stained with something dark. Floor littered with empty bottles and shattered glass. And in the center of the room, under the jaundiced light, stood Shigaraki, his hand raised to strike a figure on the floor.

Shoto.

White dress, soaked in red wine, torn at the shoulder. Lip split, blood running down his chin. Face a mask of bruises—purple, blue, black, shadows that had no business on a sixteen-year-old. Eyes open but empty, glassy, staring at the floor like he'd already left his body.

Shigaraki's hand came down again.

Natsuo screamed.

Primal sound, tore from the deepest part of his chest. He lunged forward, tackled Shigaraki before the hand could connect. They crashed into the wall, drywall crumbling, and Natsuo's fists flew—not with control, with raw, desperate fury.

Dabi was already moving, sliding through debris to reach Shoto. He dropped to his knees, burned hands hovering over his youngest brother's shoulders. "Shoto. Shoto, can you hear me?"

Shoto blinked. Pupils dilated slowly, focusing on Dabi's face. "...Touya?"

The name was a ghost. Dabi's breath caught. He hadn't been called that in years.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough. "Yeah, it's me. I'm here. We're getting you out."

Shoto's hand moved weakly, reaching for Dabi's arm. Fingers cold, trembling. "I don't... I don't understand. He loved me. He said he loved me."

Dabi's heart shattered. He pulled Shoto into his arms, careful of the bruises, the cuts, the fragile bones. "I know. I know. I'm sorry we didn't come sooner."

Behind them, Natsuo had Shigaraki pinned, but the villain was laughing—a wet, broken sound. "You're too late. He's mine. He'll always be mine. I gave him what he wanted."

"Shut up!" Natsuo slammed his fist into Shigaraki's face. Blood sprayed.

Endeavor stood in the doorway, frozen.

He'd seen the scene as he entered—the white dress, the bruises, the raised hand. And in that instant, he saw her. Rei. Her face, pale and terrified, her hair yanked back as he told her she was useless, ruining his legacy, nothing. He saw the boiling water, the hospital room, the way she'd stared at the wall for years without speaking.

He saw himself.

Shigaraki was him. Same possessive rage, same entitlement, same belief that broken people were property. Only difference was the color of the flame.

Endeavor's legs gave out. He collapsed against the doorframe, hand over his mouth, a sound escaping him that wasn't a sob but something worse—a low, animal keen of recognition.

"I did this," he whispered. "I made him."

Dabi looked up, eyes blazing with old hate and fresh grief. "Yeah. You did."

The ambulance arrived twenty minutes later. Shoto was carried out on a stretcher, wrapped in a blanket, oxygen mask over his face. He didn't speak. Just stared at the ceiling, counting clouds, stars, cracks—anything but the faces of his family.

Shigaraki was arrested, taken into police custody, his laughter echoing through the halls. He shouted Shoto's name until the doors slammed shut.

Natsuo rode in the ambulance, holding Shoto's hand, weeping. Dabi drove separately, knuckles bloodied, mind a storm. Endeavor stayed behind, standing in the ruined apartment, looking at the stained mattress, broken bottles, the ring—a thin silver band—lying on the floor.

He picked it up. Cold and light, weighed more than his entire empire.

At the hospital, Shoto was examined, X-rayed, stitched. Doctors found cracked ribs, a concussion, internal bruising. Found older injuries—healed fractures, scar tissue. Found a body that had been breaking for years.

They asked about next of kin. Natsuo gave them his number.

Fuyumi arrived at dawn, face swollen from crying. Sat in the plastic chair next to Shoto's bed, holding his hand, saying nothing because there was nothing to say.

Dabi stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching the monitors beep. He'd removed his coat, revealing patches of grafted skin, the staples. He looked at Shoto's pale face and saw his own reflection—a child burned by the same fire.

"He's going to need therapy," the doctor said in the hallway, speaking to Endeavor in hushed tones. "Severe trauma. Dissociation. He may not remember much. May need long-term care."

Endeavor nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

"I'll pay for everything," he said finally. "Whatever he needs."

The doctor looked at him with that exhausted pity reserved for families of victims. "He needs more than money. He needs to feel safe."

Endeavor walked into the room. Shoto's eyes were open now, watching the ceiling, but they turned when Endeavor entered. For a moment, they held silent contact—the monster and the broken child.

"I'm sorry," Endeavor said. First time he'd ever said it, and it came out cracked, raw, pathetic.

Shoto blinked. A tear slid down his cheek, into his hair.

"I don't know what that means anymore," he whispered.

Endeavor didn't have an answer.

---

In the months that followed, Shoto began the slow crawl back to himself. Therapy three times a week. Medication for the nightmares. Visits from Natsuo, who brought books and movies and tried to make him laugh. Visits from Fuyumi, who held him and cried. Visits from Dabi—now going by Touya, slowly, tentatively—who sat with him in silence, understanding that sometimes words weren't the answer.

Endeavor didn't visit. He was in a different kind of recovery—court-ordered, public, humiliating. Surrendered his hero license, faced a tribunal, saw his sins laid bare in the news. Rei watched from the hospital, a small TV in her room. She called Shoto once, and they talked for five minutes, both crying, saying nothing important.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I know," he said.

It was enough.

The scars didn't disappear. Shoto learned to live with them—the hollow feeling that crept in at dusk, the way his body sometimes went still and silent when someone touched him unexpectedly. He learned to name it: dissociation, trauma response, survival. Learned that love wasn't supposed to hurt, that kindness wasn't a debt to be repaid with flesh.

On his eighteenth birthday, he stood in front of a mirror for the first time without flinching. Wore a gray sweater, soft and plain. Hair cut short, the left side cleanly trimmed. Scar still there, but he didn't trace it anymore.

He thought of Shigaraki. Wondered if he was still in prison, still laughing, still claiming ownership. Thought of the wedding night, the white dress, the desperate belief that someone could love the broken parts of him.

Felt a pang—not love, not hate. Just a dull ache, like a phantom limb.

He'd never get those months back. Would never unsee the apartment, the cockroaches, the raised hand. But he could move forward. One step. One breath. One day.

He picked up his phone. Missed call from Natsuo. Text from Fuyumi: Dinner tonight? I'm making katsudon.

He typed back: I'll be there.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.