Inheritance of Giants

The Chain

"Listen to the wind blow,

Watch the sun rise.

Run in the shadows,

Damn your love, damn your lies."

- The Chain, Fleetwood Mac

~

The hallway light flickered. Once. Twice. Then stayed on — humming softly, like it knew someone was still awake.

MP3 player had been moved to a more secure location for research purposes, one particularly far from Izuku. Yet, Izuku heard it calling all the same. It wasn't a call of music, but of purpose. As if it knew what Izuku needed to be done.

Izuku sat with his knees pulled tight to his chest outside the door, bare feet pressed to the cold tile. The overhead hum didn't bother him. Neither did the chill. Only the silence.

His ears strained for sound. Any sound.

No beeping. No static. No chord progression spiraling through that too-small MP3 speaker.

Just the muffled breath of machines and the steady tick of fluorescent time.

The player was in there.

Kyotoku had taken it four hours ago. Said it needed to be studied, analyzed, understood. He used words like containment, signal decay, and precautionary principle — like any of those explained why he locked it behind reinforced glass and wouldn't let Izuku touch it again.

And Izuku had nodded. Had said okay. Had smiled.

Now he stared at the seam beneath the door like he could will it to open. Like the air leaking through it would carry even the smallest vibration of a note. A hum. A breath of static. Anything.

But there was nothing.

And he was starting to forget the shape of the silence that came before music.

His fingers twitched. They didn't hurt exactly — but they remembered. The curve of the dial. The warmth of the casing. The tiny click before the track began.

He curled them into fists.

He didn't want to break in. Not really.

He just wanted someone to listen.

Because he wasn't losing it — he wasn't. He knew what he heard. What he saw. The sun, the giants, the voice made of light and flame.

He could feel the pressure still, right behind his eyes, like something unfinished was trying to claw its way back into focus.

He had to help. Had to explain. Had to do something.

But every adult he spoke to said the same thing:

"You've done enough."

"You're still recovering."

"Let us handle it now."

That was the worst one. Because it meant they thought he couldn't handle it. That they thought he was breaking — not bending toward something they couldn't see.

He wasn't broken. He wasn't crazy.

He just wanted the music back.

Because without it, the world felt too quiet. Too distant. Too unreal.

Izuku reached for the door handle, feeling his perception of time slow with each inch he moved. All he needed to do was hear again — just a sound. A guitar. A drum. A siren call of voices.

He wanted it. He needed it. It had to be his—!

"Midoriya Izuku! This is where you've been?!"

He froze.