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Chapter 75: Midnight’s Manual
🕑 Added 2025-10-03 15:01:25 +0000 UTCNemuri Kayama's apartment wasn't anything like what Izuku had imagined. In his mind, fed by years of magazine covers and hero gossip shows, he'd pictured something ostentatious: a penthouse with glass walls, minimalist designer furniture, and probably a stripper pole in the middle of the living room. The reality, as he was discovering was often the case with Nemuri, was infinitely more complex and interesting.
He found himself in a surprisingly cozy and warm space. The walls were painted in calming shades of gray and lavender, and instead of hero trophies or photos of herself, they were adorned with pieces of abstract modern art and shelves overflowing with books. Izuku, with his analytical eye, identified treatises on criminal psychology, anthologies of classic poetry, and several mystery novels. It smelled of sandalwood and jasmine tea.
"I was expecting... I don't know, more leather and fewer cushions," Izuku said, his clumsy honesty slipping out before he could filter it.
Nemuri laughed, the sound filling the spacious living room.
"Midnight lives at work and on the covers of magazines. At home, Nemuri lives. And Nemuri likes cushions."
She closed the door behind them. The sound of the lock clicking into place seemed to seal them in a different world, far from fans and villains.
"Make yourself comfortable. Leave the cat wherever you want. And the chocolates are mine," she winked, taking the box and placing it carefully on a dark wood coffee table. "Some tea while I make dinner?"
"That would be great, thanks," he replied, leaving the giant stuffed cat on an armchair, from where it seemed to judge him with its plastic green eyes.
As she headed to an open-plan kitchen—elegant and modern, but clearly well-used—Izuku followed, driven by a desire to be proactive and, at the same time, by the terror of being left alone in the living room.
"I can help," he offered. "I'm good at following instructions. My mom taught me a few things, I'm not completely useless in the kitchen."
Nemuri turned, an eyebrow arched in amusement. She handed him an onion and a professional-looking chef's knife.
"Alright, brave one. Show me your skills. Dice that into small, uniform cubes."
Izuku took the utensils with heroic seriousness. He stood before the cutting board, his mind switching to survival mode. Sharp knife. Soft fingers. Bad combination. Got it. And... wow, Nemuri looks amazing even from behind. Focus, Izuku. Don't chop off a finger trying to sneak a peek at her ass in those jeans. Priorities!
He began to chop with a concentration that would have been more appropriate for disarming a bomb. The result was a disaster. It took forever, and every cut was a deliberation. The pieces, far from being uniform cubes, were an anarchic collection of every imaginable geometric shape. And, of course, his eyes started to burn.
"Are you... are you crying, Izuku-kun?" Nemuri asked, leaning against the doorframe, trying with all her might not to laugh.
"No!" he replied, his voice congested as tears streamed down his cheeks. "It's this terrorist onion! It's attacking my eyes with... invisible evil! It's a villain's Quirk!"
Nemuri couldn't hold it in any longer and let out a laugh. Not a seductive giggle, but a genuine, musical, and full-throated laugh that filled the kitchen with joy.
"Oh my God! You're even crying and blaming the vegetable!" she said, approaching and gently taking the knife from him. "My dear Izuku, I believe your immense talent lies safely and conclusively outside of the kitchen. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."
She took the cutting board and, with a few swift, expert movements, reduced the rest of the onion to perfect cubes.
"You can handle the important and very complex mission of setting the table," she told him, guiding him out of the kitchen. "Try not to get a paper cut from the placemats."
They sat down to eat in a small dining area with a wooden table. The food was exquisite, and the conversation flowed with an ease that surprised Izuku. The talk drifted to her hero costume, a topic Izuku had been wanting to broach.
"I've always been curious, Nemuri," he said, with his characteristic clumsy honesty. "Your hero costume... it's very... bold. To be completely honest, like a lot of guys my age, I thought you were an exhibitionist. With all due respect."
Nemuri, instead of being offended, let out a laugh.
"Of course you thought that! Everyone thinks that! And in part, that's the point. It's a distraction, a psychological weapon. But the real reason is much more practical and far less glamorous."
She leaned forward, her expression turning more serious.
"My Quirk, Somnambulist, isn't emitted from a specific conduit. It's a fragrance, an incredibly potent and fast-acting scent that emanates directly from all of my skin. The more exposed skin, the faster the scent disperses and the wider its area of effect. My costume isn't designed to show off my body; it's designed to maximize my Quirk's effectiveness."
She paused, an ironic smile on her lips.
"It caused such a controversy early in my career that the Hero Ethics Committee had to create a specific regulation about 'decency in hero costumes' just because of me. The 'Kayama Clause,' they call it unofficially. I had to fight for two years to prove that my design wasn't an aesthetic choice, but a functional necessity."
"That's ridiculous!" Izuku exclaimed, indignant on her behalf. "They were punishing you for how your body works! It's not your fault! That's like punishing Bakugo for sweating!"
His defense, so simple and passionate, made Nemuri smile.
"Thank you. Few people bother to see the logic behind it. They just assume."
After dinner, they moved to the living room and sat on a comfortable sofa with steaming cups of tea. The atmosphere grew more intimate.
"So, why did you want to talk to me?" Izuku asked. "You mentioned my Quirk... and your future."
Nemuri sighed. The facade of the confident hero vanished, revealing the vulnerable woman beneath.
"Izuku-kun, I'm going to be completely honest with you. When I heard what your Quirk could do in the principal's office... I felt something I hadn't felt in years: hope."
The confession, so simple and raw, left Izuku speechless.
"I'm thirty-one," she continued, her voice now subdued. "In the hero world, that's... getting old. I feel like my Quirk has hit its limit. I'm strong, yes, but I haven't improved significantly in five years. I've plateaued. And I see young prodigies like Todoroki or your generation, and I feel... insecure. My fame doesn't come from my strength, but from my appeal, from my costume. And that... fades. I don't have a partner, I don't have a family of my own. My life is being a hero. And if I can't be a better hero anymore, what's left for me? Just a slow decline."
Izuku was moved by her honesty. He saw past the hero to a frightened woman, and his instincts as a friend, not a strategist, kicked in.
"I know how that feels," he said softly. "To feel like you've hit your limit. That everyone sees you one way and you can't change it. For me, it was 'the kid with a useless Quirk.' For you, it's 'the sexy heroine.' It's a cage, isn't it?"
Nemuri looked at him, surprised by his empathy. She nodded, her eyes glistening.
"Hey, this is going to sound like the weirdest, most arrogant thing in the world, but..." Izuku began, hesitating. "My Quirk... what it does... maybe I could... see something. If you wanted. No pressure."
She gave him a sad, grateful smile.
"I know. That's why I invited you. Originally, that was the idea. It was going to be a pretext, using dinner as an excuse to take advantage of your incredible and strange gift. But then... we had an amazing day at the park. We talked, we laughed. And I regretted it. I wanted to have a real date, a normal moment. They're so hard to come by in my life."
"This has been more than normal, it's been great," Izuku said. "And friends help each other. I think, after today, we're friends. It wouldn't be taking advantage. It would be an honor."
He reminded her of the conditions, not with shame, but with clumsy honesty.
"But you know... the kind of contact that's needed. I don't want this to be awkward for you, or for you to think that I'm..."
She silenced him by placing a finger on his lips.
"I know."
She looked at him, and in her eyes was an immense gratitude and a new resolve. She stood up, and he thought the evening was over. But instead, she sat down beside him on the sofa. Not just next to him, but very close. She turned and hugged him.
It was a tender embrace that enveloped him in the softness of her body and the scent of her perfume. She cradled him, his head resting between her breasts, a warm, safe haven. She gave him a soft kiss on the forehead, an almost maternal, protective gesture, devoid of all seduction.
"After our conversation today, after how you listened to me without judgment... I trust you, Izuku Midoriya. Completely," she whispered against his hair.
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, but she didn't let go. She took his hand, lacing her fingers with his.
"Come on," she said, her voice a mixture of nervousness and renewed hope. "Show me what you see."
