Inheritance of Giants

The Chain

Long. Heavy.

Then:

"He shut down."

Inko didn't respond immediately. When she did, her voice was low. Hurt. "He's just... scared."

"No," Ace said softly. "He's lonely."

Another pause.

"...And maybe he has a right to be."

Izuku's heart pounded so loud he was afraid it might give him away.

"He's not sleeping. He's not eating right. He's barely talking to anyone who isn't directly tied to that thing. You think it's just about the music, but it's not."

Ace's tone didn't rise, but it deepened, like the weight of truth was dragging it down.

"It's the only thing in the world that talks back to him in a language he understands."

Izuku's breath hitched.

He didn't mean to make a sound — didn't mean to exist at all in that moment. But Ace's words cracked something in him. Not from pain.

From recognition.

Because he did understand the MP3 player. The tones. The flickers. The notes that hit like memories he never lived. Like lullabies from a god who forgot his name.

It didn't judge him. Didn't ask him to slow down or explain.

It spoke to him.

And now it was behind glass. Quiet. Like the rest of the world wanted him to be.

He backed away from the door again, softer this time, his movements fluid and careful — like the sound of his own body might betray the clarity those words had just granted him.

Ace wasn't wrong.

But he didn't get it either.

None of them did.

They thought this was about comfort. About obsession. About withdrawal.

But it wasn't.

It was about urgency.

Something was coming. Something incomplete was pressing against the inside of his mind — an idea or a memory or a warning. Something he needed to finish hearing. To finish understanding.

Before it was too late.

"I need it," Izuku muttered, standing right before the cot, unmoving. "I need to decode it. I need to warn everyone. There's a danger of the past, present, and future that needs to be addressed. I need to know, so that everyone can know. So that everyone can be saved."

His voice was soft, but the conviction in it echoed louder than anything the MP3 player had ever sung.

"I need to know," Izuku whispered again. "So that everyone can be saved."

He stepped toward the window — but not to look out.

To gauge the distance.

His fingers brushed against the frame, cool and firm. Reinforced. Sealed.

Not an option.

The hallway, then.

Izuku put his head up against the door and listened for his Ka-san, Ace, or anyone at all. After thirty seconds of nothing, he clicked open the handle, and glanced outside the room, scanning for anyone.

"Clear," Izuku mumbled before he quietly walked out on the balls of his feet, eyes still watching every which way.

The lights in the hallway were dimmed for the night cycle. Emergency strips pulsed low against the baseboards — red and soft, like a warning whispered every few feet.