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The heroes’ explanations about how some bodies were never recovered fell on deaf ears, even though Hizashi nodded dutifully as he watched them accept Oboro’s death and wrap up the search efforts after just a couple of days. Something in his gut was telling him that there was more to it than met the eye.

So Hizashi slipped out of his house when night fell and put his nose to the ground like a bloodhound, searching for clues where most had already stopped looking. Beating up some petty villains was not only a great outlet for his frustration and grief, but also a decent source of gossip from the other side, leading him to some interesting discoveries.

There was a big villain re-emerging, they whispered through bloody teeth, and he wanted quirks. Quite a few people had gone missing, and some were saying that there was some kind of shady research being conducted.

It was not hard to put two and two together when he had all the pieces at hand. But now what?

Despite what Shouta might’ve said, Hizashi wasn’t stupid. Going to the villain’s lair alone, guns blazing, would only get him killed, and he had no proof to get the police or pro heroes involved. Shirakumo Oboro had been officially pronounced dead now, and no new search would be carried out no matter how he pleaded with them.

So he would have to infiltrate the villains instead.

Inconspicuous he was not, with his brashness and love for the spotlight, but if it meant he’d be able to see his best friend’s smile again, well, he’d just have to treat this as a long-term performance.

Some were already noticing the cracks forming, starting to Hizashi’s surprise with their homeroom teacher. One would think the man would be grateful for blissful silence and lack of interruption in class, yet he still pulled Hizashi aside, sizing up his bruised knuckles and bags under his eyes, and sent him in no uncertain terms to the school counselor. Hizashi went, if only to get them off his back, and said all the right things – about grief, how hard the first loss was for him – making the right agreeing noises in the appropriate moments, and tuning out their words as he made a mental list of studies he needed to finish before graduation. The elusive villain doctor had high standards, as he had heard, but Hizashi was no slacker either.

The empty-casket funeral was a somber affair. The room was crowded, with about half the students from the other classes in their year in attendance, as well as their whole homeroom – Oboro had always been incredibly friendly and easy to like, after all. For many of them this was their first death, one of many in their future line of work, and reality was starting to hit hard now.

Hizashi and Shouta were standing at the back of the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, as they listened to the tearful speeches of the family members. Hizashi wished he could tell Mrs. Shirakumo that there was still hope, promise her that he would bring him back – but there was no guarantee that even he would survive the whole ordeal, and so it was more merciful to let her grieve now.

The coffin was filled with white chrysanthemums to the brim, their disgustingly sweet aroma pushing out all the other smells out of the lungs, overwhelming all the senses, and nothing else – a simple wooden flower pot, a symbol of broken hopes and dreams, a jab at human fragility. Hizashi did not look at the coffin; he stared at the big photo framed with black ribbons above it instead. The Shirakumo family had chosen the one from the end of their first year where Oboro was grinning happily straight at the camera, his eyes shining and hair wild.

Shouta was crying silently beside him, tears sliding freely down his chin. A handkerchief was tightly crumpled in his hand, long forgotten.

Hizashi’s face was as stony as his heart.