MHA93- Arrest

Nighteye, to his credit, didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. He adjusted his tie, straightened his posture, and delivered his words like the edge of a knife. “This was an ongoing joint operation between my agency and the police force. A long-term sting to dismantle Shie Hassaikai’s infrastructure and gather enough undeniable evidence to bring down Chisaki and his entire network in one fell swoop.” His jaw tensed. “Midoriya compromised that operation.”

Tsuragamae’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight flick of his ear. A tell. A sign that something wasn’t sitting right. “Compromised how?”

Nighteye’s glasses glinted under the flashing sirens. “He revealed our intentions to the target, forcing his hand early and putting our officers at greater risk. We were tracking Chisaki’s movements, gathering intel. The plan was to move in at the right moment with airtight evidence, ensuring an uncontested prosecution.”

Tsuragamae turned to Ryukyu next. “What was your role in this?”

She folded her arms, her expression unreadable. “My agency was brought in for support. When Nejire, one of my interns, encountered Midoriya with Eri in his arms, the situation had already escalated beyond containment.”

“Beyond containment,” Tsuragamae repeated, his voice a steady rumble. His ears twitched again. “And the child? Was she at immediate risk?”

Ryukyu exhaled sharply, her lips pressing together before she spoke. “Yes.”

His frown deepened.

But Nighteye wasn’t done. “That does not change the fact that we had a plan. A controlled, legal method of ensuring Chisaki’s defeat. Midoriya ignored all protocol, assaulted a suspect, and initiated a confrontation that forced Chisaki into a corner. Because of that, Chisaki fled before we could neutralize him properly.” His fingers curled at his sides. “Now, we have to hope we can track him before he disappears completely.”

Tsuragamae’s gaze returned to me. “You attacked a suspect mid-investigation?”

I shrugged, rolling my shoulders. “Suspect? That ‘suspect’ was about to walk away with a kidnapped child. What was I supposed to do? Hold his hand?”

Tsuragamae’s ears flicked again. His frown deepened.

Then, he turned to Nejire. “You were present?”

She hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. Then she nodded, adjusting her grip on Eri. The girl was still clutching her, burying her face into her chest, her tiny hands locked onto Nejire’s sleeve.

“I was,” she admitted.

“What did you witness?”

Nejire’s arms tightened protectively around Eri, and I saw it in her face—that hesitation, that instinctive defense of me warring with the reality of what had happened.

She chewed her lip before answering. “Chisaki was about to leave with her. We had to act.”

Tsuragamae took that in, nodding slightly before shifting his gaze to Mirio. “And you?”

Mirio was stiff, his shoulders rigid, his fists clenched. His face was pale—no, worse than that. He looked sick.

“I…” His voice faltered, something raw cutting through his usual confident tone. “I wanted to save her too. But…” His throat bobbed, and his grip tightened at his sides. “Ryuu acted first.”

Tsuragamae’s frown deepened further. His gaze swept over all of us, then landed back on me.

“You interfered with a police operation. Assaulted a suspect. Ignored direct orders from a pro hero, your direct superior.” His voice was measured, slow.

I lifted my chin. “You forgot the part where I saved a kid from a sociopath.”

The muscles in his jaw tightened. “I did not forget. But you start to repeat yourself.”

The sirens kept wailing, lights painting the street in red and blue. The weight of everything started pressing down, the reality of it.

Nejire adjusted her grip on Eri, “You’re seriously arresting him? After all this?”

Tsuragamae didn’t blink. “He assaulted a high profile suspect. Interfered in an active investigation. Caused public unrest.”

Mirko scoffed, but there was no amusement in it. “Oh yeah, ‘cause letting that asshole take her back was a great plan.”

Nighteye’s jaw clenched. “I had it handled.”

I tilted my head. “No, you fucking didn’t.”

His eyes snapped to me, burning with something between frustration and exhaustion. I shrugged. “You were handling shit for months. Know what I handled? Getting her the fuck away from him.”

Tsuragamae’s ears twitched. “You’re reckless.”

“No shit.”

Mirio exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing his temples like this was giving him a migraine. “Ryuu, this isn’t—”

“Shut up, Mirio.”

That made him flinch. Izuku’s eyebrows pulled together. “Hey—”

I turned my head, locking eyes with him. “You saw her.” I nodded toward Eri. “You heard what she said.”

Nejire’s grip on the girl tightened, the truth settling into their shoulders like a weight they couldn’t shake.

I turned back to Tsuragamae. “So go ahead. Arrest me. Write up the report. File your paperwork. Do whatever the fuck makes you feel useful.” I grinned, letting it cut sharper than a blade. “I still won.”

Tsuragamae’s expression didn’t change, but his hand twitched. That little hesitation. That half-second where he was actually thinking about what I just said.

One of the officers cleared his throat. “What do we charge him with?”

Silence.

Ryukyu’s arms folded across her chest. “That’s a good question.”

Tsuragamae’s eyes darkened. “At minimum, obstruction of justice.”

Mirko leaned against a crushed traffic sign. “Uh-huh. Real strong case.”

Nighteye adjusted his tie, his voice cold. “He interfered with an active operation.”

“Right.” I nodded, slow and deliberate. “And in that active operation, what was the plan? ‘Let the girl go back, wait for more proof, let her get hurt again, then maybe do something?’” I looked at Tsuragamae, making sure he felt every syllable. “Tell me. How many bruises does it take before she’s ‘officially’ a victim?”

No one answered.

Tsuragamae’s jaw tightened. “Get him in the car.”

An officer grabbed my arm.

I didn’t resist.

But I didn’t go quietly, either.

I kept my voice flat, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What is the charge?” I asked. “Saving a child? Intervening in a public act of abuse? Eating a succulent, morally justified meal of justice?”

Another officer reached for my other neck.

“Ah,” I said, eyes still locked on Tsuragamae. “That’s a clean headlock. I see that you know your judo well, sir.”

They started guiding me toward the car. I kept walking, voice steady, chest lifted.

“I have been unjustly accused,” I said, words firm, defiant.

The cuffs clicked into place behind my back.

They pushed me forward.

“Look at the headlock,” I said. “See this officer here? Precise grip. Controlled.”

Tsuragamae’s gaze never moved.

Nejire stood still, holding Eri close. Mirko and Ryukyu didn’t speak.

No one did.

I stepped into the car on my own. No struggle. No resistance.

I kept going, louder. “Get your hands off me! Off my perfectly limp and legally misunderstood penis! This is a violation of my personal space and heroically misaligned rights!”

“This is the man who got me on the penis, people!” I twisted around as they cuffed me. “Yes, YOU, officer number three! I saw that hand wander, don’t you deny it!”

But before the door shut, I leaned toward the open frame.

“And this,” I repeated, quieter now, for them and no one else, “is democracy manifest.

Before I got in, I glanced back. Nejire still had Eri, holding her close, whispering something soft. The girl wasn’t crying, but her grip spoke volumes. Mirko’s hands were shoved deep into her pockets, her teeth grinding against each other. Ryukyu stayed quiet, watching everything like she was already planning the damage control.

Nighteye didn’t look at me.

I smirked. "Don't look so constipated, old man. You’ll live."

The door slammed shut.

The ride was quiet. Cops up front weren’t talking. I leaned my head back, watching streetlights blur past. Every now and then, one of the officers glanced at me through the mirror.

"What?"

He didn’t answer, just turned back to the road.

Figures.

–

The station smelled like bad coffee and worse decisions. Dim lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying. The kind of place where time dragged its feet, where the air felt thick with stress and stale cigarette smoke from cops who took too many smoke breaks.

They yanked me out of the car, walked me through the front doors like I was just another idiot in cuffs. Nobody looked up. Nobody cared. Just another day.

They sat me down in a cold metal chair, the kind designed to be uncomfortable on purpose. The handcuffs dug into my wrists, the sharp bite of steel pressing against my skin.

Tsuragamae sat across from me, but he didn’t speak right away. He just stared. Hard.

I met his gaze, silent.

His hands rested on the table, fingers curled, claws digging into his palm just slightly. Like he was one second away from snapping but refused to give in to it.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I blinked. That wasn’t an accusation. That was personal.

I didn’t answer.

His ears twitched, his jaw tight. “You ruined an operation months in the making. You let Chisaki slip away. You compromised our best shot at dismantling his organization cleanly. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

He leaned forward. “You think you won, Midoriya?” His voice dropped, low and sharp. “Do you even realize the kind of war you just started?”

Still, I said nothing.

His hand slammed against the table, the metal ringing out in the quiet room. “SPEAK.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You’re yelling.”

His eyes flashed. “And you’re playing games while the rest of us are going to be dealing with the fallout of your stunt for months—years, even. You think just because you saved one child, you saved them all?!”

I didn’t answer.

His breath came sharp through his nose. “I told you before. Heroes are not free to do whatever they want.”

I tilted my head just slightly. “Then maybe you should stop calling yourselves heroes.”

His hand twitched.

The silence after that was different. He wasn’t just pissed anymore—he was deciding. Calculating.

I sat there, unmoving, waiting.

Tsuragamae exhaled slowly, pulling back. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, but no less sharp. “You think this is just about you?”

I blinked.

“Your friends? Your family? Your brother? They will all feel the consequences of what you did today. You’re not a martyr, Midoriya. You’re a disaster. And I will make sure you understand just how badly you’ve fucked up.”

Silence.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t breathe.

He laughed.

Not a full laugh. Not amused. Not even bitter.

It was short. Sharp. A single exhale of disbelief and frustration, like he couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “You are one lucky fucker.”

I didn’t react.

Didn’t speak.

Just waited.

He slid the phone across the table, letting it stop just in front of me. The screen was still open, but now it wasn’t just the video—

It was everything.

I stared at the screen, my own voice playing back at me like a death sentence.

"I don’t care about your operation. I don’t care if I can become a hero after today. And I don’t give a single fuck if I get thrown in jail. If I see a scared little girl, I will burn this city down before I let her go back. Now fuck off and let me do my job.”

My words echoed in the interrogation room, bouncing off the cold walls, drilling into my skull. Out of context, I sounded deranged. Unhinged. Like a guy moments away from lighting a match and letting the whole damn world burn.

Tsuragamae studied me, his grip on the phone tightening. His jaw clenched, his ears twitching.

He clicked his tongue and turned the phone back toward himself, scrolling. “This? This should have ruined you.” His voice was low, simmering, barely restrained. “This should have buried you so deep in controversy that even All Might himself wouldn’t be able to dig you out.”

I finally found my voice. “But it didn’t.”

Tsuragamae’s eyes flicked up. His expression darkened. “No. It didn’t.”

--

“RIP to the Real One: Jack Karlson, a.k.a. The Succulent Chinese Meal Guy”

Hero of public diners.
Master of the impromptu exit monologue.
Philosopher of democratic rights and culinary injustice.

His words echo across timelines and interrogations alike:

“This is democracy manifest.”
“Get your hands off my penis!”

Status: Immortalized in Meme & Memory.

May your meals forever be succulent.
May your neck holds always be acknowledged.
May your legacy never be legally sound.

Rest in Chaotic Peace, King Jack.

(And yes, officer, this is the man who got him on the penis.)