In this Overhaul quirk-destroying bullets fanfiction, one grainy video and a single terrified child force UA’s heroes to face a weapon that can erase more than quirks.
UA’s unease turns real when surveillance footage shows a small, injured girl fleeing Overhaul. Nighteye confirms the truth: the quirk-destroying bullets are real, and they come from a child.
When Midoriya admits he let her go under orders, Jessa grounds him with a promise she intends to keep. The mission shifts from investigation to rescue. As raid teams form, Jessa and Aizawa prepare to face the storm together—while the past fractures them the night before it breaks.
Chapter 13: Bullets That Erase
By the time Midoriya begins his Work Study with Sir Nighteye, a thick tension hangs in the air around UA. Villain activity spikes in carefully calculated patterns. Entire blocks whisper of strange men in masks. Police chatter about a resurfacing Yakuza group grows louder every day.
Jessa hears the whispers even during quiet mornings in the teacher dorms.
Ripple senses it too. The cat curls tighter against Jessa at night, tail flicking uneasily across her ribs as if warning her.
Something is wrong in the underworld.
Deeply wrong.
A Strange Report
It begins with a phone call.
Jessa is walking back from a rescue training session, sleeves rolled to her elbows, towel slung around her neck, when Tsukauchi calls the staff for a sudden briefing.
Aizawa stands outside the conference room door, waiting.
“You heard,” Jessa asks, slightly breathless.
He nods. “There is new intel. Nezu wants us all present.”
His tone is different. Lower. Tense.
That alone puts her on edge.
Inside, the screen at the front shows a grainy, timestamped alley camera. Nezu clicks the remote, and the footage begins to play.
Jessa watches a girl run into view.
Small. Frantic.
Hair wild. Bandaged arms.
Her bare feet slap against wet pavement.
She stumbles. Falls. Scrambles up again.
Chased by a tall man in a long coat and a birdlike mask.
The moment Jessa sees him, her stomach drops.
Chisaki.
Overhaul.
The camera jumps. Static. The girl slips around a corner, disappearing out of view. The masked man follows, coat flaring behind him before the footage cuts out abruptly.
Nezu turns to the room.
“This was three nights ago. A civilian surveillance camera. The girl is believed to be connected to the Shie Hassaikai. Also believed to be attempting escape.”
Aizawa sits up straighter. “She is a child.”
“Precisely,” Nezu replies. “And likely a hostage.”
Jessa’s throat goes dry.
A hostage.
A terrified, injured child running from that monster.
She forces her voice steady. “Where is she now.”
“We do not know,” Tsukauchi answers. “That is the problem.”
Jessa presses her palms flat on the table to stop them from shaking. She cannot explain why she feels this so strongly. Only that she does.
“Someone needs to find her,” she murmurs.
Nezu’s eyes flicker with understanding.
“That is the plan.”
A Word from Nighteye
Later that evening, the faculty receives a message from Nighteye’s agency. An encrypted briefing.
Jessa reads it on her tablet outside, leaning against a pillar while Ripple prowls through the grass.
Aizawa approaches, quiet as usual.
“What does it say,” he asks.
She tilts the screen toward him. His eyes scan quickly.
“Chisaki met with several villain affiliates last week. Tension between groups. Something about research. A weapon.”
Jessa feels the hairs rise at the back of her neck. “A weapon for what.”
Aizawa scrolls to the next page.
The words hit like ice.
Quirk-destroying capability.
Jessa’s breath catches.
“That cannot be real.”
But the report continues. Test evidence. Witness accounts. Chemical analysis of recovered bullet shards.
A weapon meant to erase what makes someone a hero.
Erase what makes someone themselves.
Her hands shake.
Aizawa sees it.
His voice is rough. “Jessa.”
She swallows hard. “If he can erase quirks then he can control the hero population. He can control society. He can…” She trails off, unable to finish.
Aizawa steps closer, lowering his voice.
“We will stop him.”
She wants to believe that.
She truly does.
But her instincts whisper that this is only the beginning.
Deku’s Report
Deku returns to UA late one afternoon. His face is pale. His eyes are haunted.
As class ends, he approaches Jessa as she erases notes from the board.
“Shimizu-sensei,” he says quietly.
She senses hesitation. Fear. Something heavier. She dismisses the last students and waits until the room is empty before she nods for him to continue.
He explains everything.
Meeting a little girl in the street.
She was terrified.
She clung to him.
Begged him not to let her go.
The masked man arrived moments later.
“He said she was his daughter,” Midoriya whispers. “But she was shaking. She would not stop shaking.”
Jessa’s heart feels like it is being squeezed.
He continues, voice breaking.
“I knew something was wrong. But Sir Nighteye insisted we could not interfere. That we risked compromising the investigation.”
Jessa fights to keep her own voice steady. “You let her go.”
Midoriya’s chin trembles. “I did not want to. I just did not want her to get hurt.”
Her chest aches.
She kneels so she can look him in the eye.
Her hands rest gently on his shoulders.
“You did not fail her,” she says. “You saw her. You felt her fear. You will get another chance. And next time you will not be alone.”
His eyes fill with tears.
“Do you promise.”
“Yes,” Jessa whispers. “I promise.”
From the doorway, Aizawa watches.
Silent.
Expression unreadable.
But something shifts behind his eyes.
Respect.
Worry.
Something deeper he will not let himself name.
Faculty War Room
Two days later, UA holds a closed meeting.
Aizawa, Jessa, All Might, Tsukauchi, Nezu, and a few select heroes crowd around the strategy table.
Nighteye joins via screen. His face stern.
“We have confirmed the substance in the bullets,” he begins. “It is derived from blood and tissue samples. Not synthetic quirk suppression. Organic.”
“From whom,” Jessa demands.
The silence is answer enough.
The girl.
Eri.
Chisaki is using a child’s body as a weapon.
Jessa grips the edge of the table until her nails hurt. “Then our objective is not just to dismantle the Hassaikai. It is to rescue her.”
Nighteye nods. “Exactly.”
Aizawa speaks next. “We will need a multi-team approach. Stealth entry. Confiscation of chemical materials. Containment. Student protection.”
“Students,” Jessa snaps. “We are not involving children.”
Aizawa gives her a level look. “Students will be involved because they are already entangled in this. Midoriya and Togata encountered the girl. The Hassaikai are monitoring them.”
She closes her eyes briefly.
He is right.
She hates that he is right.
Nezu clicks the next slide. A blueprint of the Hassaikai compound fills the screen.
“This,” Nezu says, “will require coordination across agencies. And it will be dangerous.”
Jessa feels her pulse thrum.
She wants to be on that raid.
She needs to be on that raid.
Not only because she is powerful.
Not only because she is trained.
But because of a little girl with terrified eyes.
This is already personal.
The Quiet Before the Storm
The meeting finally dissolves and the faculty drifts out in subdued clusters, voices low with the weight of what they have just learned. Jessa steps out into the courtyard alone, needing space, needing cold air to settle the storm rising inside her.
Clouds gather above UA, thick and bruised purple, a curtain of rain waiting to fall. The wind lifts her hair from her shoulders. Ripple trots beside her for a few steps before curling around a lantern post, yellow eyes following her with worry only a cat could express.
Jessa presses a hand to her chest.
She cannot shake the image of the little girl’s terrified face.
Her bandaged arms.
The way she ran as though running meant survival.
Footsteps behind her.
Quiet. Familiar.
Aizawa.
He stops a few paces away, hands in his pockets, scarf brushing the ground. His hair drifts in the breeze, revealing eyes that look more tired than usual and darker than the storm.
“You will not sleep tonight,” he says.
It is not an accusation. It is an observation.
A truth he knows because he knows her.
Jessa lets out a breath that trembles faintly. “Maybe not. But I will sleep when that little girl is safe.”
Aizawa’s gaze searches her face, slow and deliberate, as though confirming she is not already spiraling into reckless resolve.
“She is connected to those bullets,” he says quietly. “To the quirk destruction. Which means this will not be easy or quick.”
Jessa nods. “I know.”
“And you will need to stay controlled.” His voice dips, softer than usual. “No burnout. Not again.”
She looks at him then. Really looks at him.
The hard line in his jaw.
The way his fingers curl inside his pockets as if resisting the urge to reach for her arm and keep her anchored.
There is worry in every shape of him. Worry he does not want her to see.
She steps a little closer, enough that their shadows mingle on the pavement.
“I have something to show you,” she says.
His brows lift slightly.
She unclips a slender device from the band around her thigh. It resembles a streamlined water canister fused with slim tubing that disappears beneath the sleeve of her suit. The tech glints with polished chrome, small but thoughtfully engineered.
“Mei finished it this morning,” she explains. “A portable hydration reservoir. Replenishes electrolyte balance. Maintains optimal quirk output. Prevents dehydration during extended use.”
Aizawa stares at it longer than she expects.
Then at her.
Then back at the device.
“You asked the Support Department for this.”
“Yes.” She smiles faintly. “So you would not have to worry.”
His jaw flexes. A subtle tremor runs through his throat as he swallows.
“I always worry,” he says quietly.
The wind carries the softness of the words between them before he pulls back, the warmth shuttering behind his familiar walls. His expression resets into something neutral. Professional. Remote.
“You should not rely on gadgets to compensate for bad judgment,” he says. “Your real issue is pushing past your limits.”
She laughs once, gentle, without teasing. “I know. But this helps. And it is one less thing for you to scold me about.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Not annoyance. Not amusement. Something more vulnerable.
“You think a piece of equipment will make me stop worrying about you,” he mutters.
“I think it will help,” she answers softly.
He runs a hand through his hair. His scarf rustles. The tension in his shoulders radiates outward like a held breath.
“This raid will not be simple,” he says. “There is no guarantee of anything.”
“I am aware.”
“And you cannot run in blind because you feel something for the girl.”
She meets his gaze, unwavering. “You feel something too.”
He exhales, a low sound, almost pained. “This is not about me.”
“It is always about you,” she says gently. “You carry every student. Every failure. Every possibility. You carry all of it alone.”
His mouth tightens. “Stop.”
She takes one small step closer. Barely one. Enough that her voice reaches him without the wind taking it.
“I promise I will not collapse this time,” she says. “I promise I will not scare you again.”
His eyes close. Just for a moment.
When he opens them, there is something raw there. Something stripped bare by the storm gathering above them.
“Do not promise things you cannot control,” he says.
“I can try.”
He looks at her. Really looks. A full, searching stare that presses into her ribs and steals the air around her.
“If you get hurt,” he begins.
She holds still, waiting.
He stops.
Breathes in.
Breathes out.
The words do not come.
Instead he says, “We will finalize raid assignments soon,” and turns away.
The storm breaks overhead.
Fat, cold drops splatter against stone.
Jessa watches him walk toward the dorm entrance, rain gathering in his hair and sliding down the collar of his capture cloth.
Ripple returns to her side, brushing against her leg.
Jessa places a hand on her chest again.
She will save that little girl.
She will help stop whatever nightmare Overhaul is building.
And whether Aizawa admits it or not, they are walking straight into this storm together.
The Raid Briefing — Shadows Under the Surface
The briefing room at the police headquarters feels colder than it should. The long table is crowded with pro heroes, detectives, and officers from the Public Safety Commission. Monitors hum quietly along the walls, displaying maps of the Shie Hassaikai compound. Lines of red mark possible underground routes. Blue dots represent known Yakuza enforcers. A blinking gold beacon marks one tiny figure.
Eri.
Jessa’s stomach tightens.
Aizawa stands beside her at the table’s edge, arms crossed, capture scarf coiled like a sentinel around his shoulders. Their proximity should be comforting. Instead it feels like standing near a sealed vault. He has been so quiet lately she cannot hear even the echoes of his thoughts.
Sir Nighteye enters, posture rigid, eyes sharp behind cold lenses. His presence makes the air feel clinical and unforgiving.
He taps a control and the lights dim as a projection flickers to life. The enormous diagram of the compound expands across the room.
“This is not a standard rescue or takedown,” he says, voice flat. “Kai Chisaki has created a labyrinth beneath his home. Corridors. Traps. Armored chambers. He has full control of the terrain.”
Fat Gum raises a hand. “And the girl. Her safety is priority one.”
Everyone nods, including Aizawa.
Nighteye’s expression does not soften. “Eri is integral to the production of the destruction bullets. Without her, the devices cannot be made.”
Jessa’s pulse jumps painfully.
She knew this.
But hearing it aloud makes her chest ache.
Nighteye continues. “The raid will proceed in two waves. Wave One is infiltration and subjugation. Wave Two will be surgical extraction with minimal civilian exposure.”
Images of Overhaul appear, his mask grotesque under the fluorescent light.
“This man is capable of reshaping the environment itself,” Nighteye says. “His overhaul quirk makes him exceedingly dangerous at close range.”
A quiet murmur ripples across the room.
Jessa presses her palms against the table edge. Her new support device sits snugly against her thigh, a soft weight reminding her she will not collapse again. She meets Aizawa’s eyes briefly, but his gaze flicks away just as quickly.
He is avoiding her.
Again.
Nighteye motions toward the hero lineup.
“Team One,” he says, pointing to the front-most panel, “will breach with coordinated support from police. Nemoto’s confession indicates multiple quirk users positioned through the halls. Aizawa will join this team to nullify quirk-based ambushes.”
Jessa straightens.
Here it comes.
“And Shimizu,” Nighteye adds, without even glancing at her, “your abilities make you ideal for combat suppression and emergency barrier support. You will work alongside Aizawa in Team One.”
The room tilts faintly.
She hides the surge of relief at hearing they will be together.
Aizawa barely reacts, but his scarf gives a subtle twitch, like a creature stirring.
Sir Nighteye continues outlining contingencies, choke points, communications protocols.
Jessa hears all of it, but her mind keeps drifting to one thing.
Eri’s tiny silhouette on the map.
Alone.
Waiting.
When the meeting dissolves, heroes break into smaller groups. Some talk strategy. Some quietly put on brave faces.
Jessa remains by the table, staring at the red-lit diagram of the underground maze. Her fingers curl into fists. She will not fail that child. Not again. Not ever.
Footsteps approach behind her.
She knows the sound.
Shota.
But he does not speak.
Not yet.
They stand shoulder-to-shoulder in silence, watching Eri’s dot blink like a fading heartbeat.
Finally, Aizawa says quietly, “We need to talk.”
The words carry no emotion.
Which means he is full of them.
Jessa nods and turns to him. “Yeah. We do.”
He gestures toward a small, unused tactical prep room down the hall.
She follows.
Her pulse rises.
Storm clouds gathering again.
Because tomorrow they walk into danger together.
And tonight they need to face the fire already burning between them.
The Fault Line Between Them
Aizawa closes the prep room door behind them with a soft, decisive click. The noise is quiet, but it feels final.
The room is small and dim, meant for equipment staging. Metal lockers line one wall, a tactical map half-folded on the other. A single overhead light casts a pale circle between them.
He stands a few feet away, arms crossed, posture stiff.
“We need to discuss your role in the raid,” he begins.
Of course.
Straight to business.
Straight to the wall between them.
Jessa keeps her voice steady. “I’m on Team One with you. What is there to discuss?”
“You are still recovering,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” His tone sharpens, the fraying edge of worry he refuses to name. “You collapsed less than two months ago. Severe dehydration. Quirk depletion. Your body is still—”
“I said I’m fine, Shota.”
The name comes out sharper than she intends.
He flinches, almost invisible, but she sees it.
He exhales slowly. “You have not had enough time to confirm your limits. We do not know how you will hold up if Overhaul manipulates terrain or if the fight drags.”
Jessa steps forward into the circle of light. “I have my support gear. Mei built it exactly to compensate for overuse. My output is stable. You saw the data.”
“That does not change the risk.”
“Everything is a risk.”
“Not like this.”
There it is.
The ghost of fear in his voice.
The one he never allows to surface.
Jessa crosses her arms as well. “Shota… why does it matter so much? Why does the thought of me being on this team make you react like this?”
“Because you are reckless,” he fires back.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only answer that matters.”
Her chest aches. Anger rises. Hurt spills over it.
“You act like you hate me,” she whispers. “You act like every word I say is something you need to shut down. So why do you even care if I go into this raid?”
He stiffens. “I do not hate you.”
She laughs once, low and tired. “You’ve spent fifteen years proving otherwise.”
His jaw clenches. He looks away.
She pushes. “Just say it. Say you don’t want me there.”
“I do not want you hurt,” he says.
The honesty is so quiet it barely exists.
Jessa swallows. “I’ve been hurt before.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
His voice rises, just a fraction.
Emotion cracks through the monotone.
She has not heard that in years.
“I can handle myself,” she insists.
“You nearly died,” he snaps.
“And so did you!”
Silence. Thick. Heavy. Electric.
Jessa breathes hard, stepping closer. “I don’t understand. You push me away every chance you get, you barely look at me, but then you get like this. Over a raid.”
He meets her eyes finally.
There is something sharp in his gaze. Something raw.
“You should not have been there,” he says quietly. “You should not have collapsed. You should not have scared me like that.”
“Why?” she asks, voice breaking. “Why does it matter to you?”
He stares at her.
A long time.
A painful time.
Then he shakes his head slightly, shutting the door of his heart with visible force.
“You are my colleague,” he says. “My responsibility. That is all.”
The words hit her like a fist.
Colleague.
Responsibility.
That is all.
She nods slowly, anger cooling into brittle resignation.
“Right,” she says. “Of course.”
He watches her carefully. Too carefully. He sees every flicker of pain, even as he pretends he does not.
“You have to let me do my job,” she says quietly. “I cannot sit out again. I cannot sit around helpless while a child like Eri is suffering.”
His eyes flicker.
Something inside him stirs.
Something like memory.
Oboro. Jessa collapsing. His own helplessness.
“You cannot save everyone,” he murmurs.
“I know. But I can try.”
“And what if trying gets you killed?”
“So what?” she snaps.
His entire body goes still.
She continues, softer but more broken. “Maybe I was supposed to die fifteen years ago anyway. Maybe Oboro—”
“Stop.” His voice is harsh. Almost desperate.
She doesn’t. She can’t.
Not anymore.
“Maybe I am just living on borrowed time,” she whispers. “Maybe everything since then is just—”
“Stop.”
He steps forward, closer than she expects.
His voice is low, trembling with anger or fear or both.
“You do not get to say that. Not about yourself. Not ever.”
She lifts her chin, fighting tears. “Why? Why can’t I say it?”
He inhales sharply. “Because it is not true.”
“Then what is?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Struggles.
Then he pulls back, spine straightening into the rigid posture of a man sealing himself away.
“You should rest,” he says finally. “We leave at dawn.”
There is no affection in the words.
No cruelty either.
Just walls. Walls and walls and walls he refuses to tear down.
Jessa nods once, throat tight. “Fine.”
He turns to leave.
But just before he reaches the door, he stops.
Without looking back, he says in a strained voice, “Do not ever say you should have died.”
Her breath catches.
His grip tightens on the doorframe.
He finishes softly, “I cannot hear that again.”
Then he leaves.
And the room feels colder for it.
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