Hisashi Midoriya's POV:
My name is Hisashi Midoriya.
I'm a biological researcher—and, according to my wife Inko, a man who works far too much for reasons he never explains properly.
Our family home is in Musutafu, Japan. Most of the time, though, it's only my wife and my son who live there. Because of the complexity of my work, I'm required to stay overseas, stationed at a research facility in the United States.
I tell Inko that I work abroad because the pay is better. That if I push myself now, really give it everything I have, we'll never have to worry about money again. That I can retire early, come home for good, and spend the rest of my life with her and our son.
I tell my dear boy Izuku that I study medicine to help people. That just like heroes save lives with their quirks, I save lives with knowledge.
None of that is a lie.
I just don't tell them everything.
The truth is messy. And quite painful.
I want to be with the two people I love more than anything in the world. But the work I'm doing—what we're close to achieving—it could change everything. It could save countless lives. Everyone involved understands the cost: me, my colleagues, even the investors backing us. We all chose this path willingly.
And we're so close now.
If everything goes right, I'll be able to stop. For good. We will be able to cure the people. And I'll come back to Japan with the money from my promised payment, enough for us to live without financial worries for the rest of our lives, and I never have to leave again.
Once a year, I'm granted two weeks of legal leave. Two weeks away from the data, the formulas, the endless tests and paperwork. Two weeks where my mind can finally breathe.
I spent them at home—with Inko, with Izuku—and I was happy. Truly happy.
But nothing lasts forever.
Those two weeks just ended, and I must return to my duty.
The taxi waited at the curb outside our house. At the door, Inko reached up and straightened my coat collar, the way she always does. Izuku hugged me tighter than usual, his arms wrapped around my waist like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.
"Call us," Inko said softly.
"I will."
I kissed her goodbye and rested my hand on my son's head, memorizing the warmth, the weight of him—everything I was leaving behind.
___________
Third person pov:
Hisashi Midoriya arrived at his house in the United States just before midnight after a 12 hour flight.
He retrieved his car, checked his phone, and sent a short message home confirming he'd landed safely. The reply from Inko came almost immediately: Drive carefully.
The road from his house toward the research facility was empty. Trees lined both sides, their branches forming dark arches over the asphalt. There were long stretches without lights, and the radio crackled uselessly before going silent.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, his other hand turned on the radio for some music to relax.
The passenger seat was where his work bag lay. Inside were documents marked with clearance levels he never discussed and data that would have changed lives if released publicly.
The phone lost signal about halfway in.
It was 1 a.m.
Hisashi was relaxed now, humming faintly along with the song.
*WHIZZZZZZ*
Something tore through the air, faster than the speed of sound.
*POP!*
The rear tire was punctured. The car lurched violently to the left. He tried to correct, overcorrected, and slammed head-on into a tree.
*CRASHHH!!*
The airbags deployed. Glass shattered. The engine died.
For several minutes, nothing moved.
When Hisashi regained consciousness. Blood ran down his forehead, warm and sticky. His left side screamed with pain every time he breathed. He fumbled at the seatbelt, fingers clumsy and uncooperative.
It wouldn't release.
Then he heard it—another engine.
Someone was coming.
"H-help…" Hisashi croaked, forcing the driver's door open a few inches as he struggled against the belt. "Help…"
The approaching car slowed, then stopped.
A man stepped out and walked toward the wreck.
The weak brightness of the road light pole failed to reveal the appearance traits of the man. From a far, he could only be seen as a black figure.
"Please… help me," Hisashi begged, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
The man didn't answer.
Instead, his gaze flicked past the wreck, locking onto a surveillance camera mounted along the road, nearly 150 meters away. He bent down, picked up a small pebble, and threw it.
*CRACK!*
The pebble shattered the camera's lense.
Before Hisashi could react, the man grabbed a fistful of his hair and shoved a cloth over his mouth and nose. A sharp chemical smell filled his lungs.
Hisashi passed out instantly.
The man cut the seatbelt cleanly with a knife and dragged Hisashi from the wreck. He shoved him into the trunk of his own car, then returned for the work bag, taking it without hesitation.
After a final check, he tore the license plates from Hisashi's car and tossed them into his own trunk. Then he doused the wreck in gasoline and struck a flame.
Fire bloomed instantly, devouring metal and glass.
The man got into his car, shut the door, and drove off—leaving nothing behind but burning wreckage on empty road and disappearing into the night.
__________
Four days passed.
Four days without a message. Without a call. Without even a brief acknowledgment.
Inko tried not to panic. Hisashi worked in a secured facility. There were times he couldn't use his phone. There were explanations—reasonable ones—she told herself that again and again.
The call came in the evening of the fifth day.
Inko recognized immediately that it wasn't a personal number.
"Alo?"
"Mrs Inko Midoriya, this is the Japanese Consulate," the woman said calmly. "We're calling regarding your husband, Hisashi Midoriya, currently residing in the United States"
She was told that American authorities had located a burned crashed vehicle believed to be connected to her husband's disappearance. The car had been involved in a collision on a rural road. No driver had been found.
Initial identification had been delayed—the license plates were missing, and the fire had destroyed most personal effects—but partial vehicle identification and employer confirmation had linked the car to Hisashi Midoriya.
At a moment, the case was being treated as a missing-person investigation, not a fatality until investigators had found damage to the rear tire inconsistent with road failure.
The rubber showed signs of penetration consistent with a high-velocity impact, highly the chance it was caused by a bullet. The angle suggested it had occurred before the crash. However, no bullet or shrapnel had been recovered from the area around the car.
Additionally, a roadside surveillance camera covering the stretch of road had been found disabled. Its lens was shattered by a small, dense impact object. The damage was localized and precise, inconsistent with collision debris.
Taken together, the evidence no longer supported an accident.
American authorities were now treating the incident as a suspected targeted attack involving possible abduction.
Hisashi was officially listed as a missing person. Not deceased.
The next morning, two officers from the Musutafu Police arrived at her home. They confirmed the information, provided a case number, and explained that the investigation was being handled jointly by U.S. law enforcement and Japanese authorities through official channels.
They asked routine questions. They took notes.
They left with apologies they could not make meaningful.
The investigation lasted months.
American authorities followed every lead they had—traffic footage, financial records, communications logs. Japanese police coordinated where they could, pressing for updates, filing reports, waiting for answers that never came.
No body was found.
No credible trace of Hisashi Midoriya surfaced.
Eventually, the case was classified as unsolved.