The morning sun through the kitchen window painted Masaru’s shoulders in gold as he sipped his coffee. Izuku watched him from the stove, a flutter of pure contentment in his chest. Twenty-five years, and the sight still warmed him like the first cup of tea on a cold day.

“Kacchan’s uniform is pressed and on his bed,” Izuku said, turning the miso soup with a gentle hand. “He has that presentation today. The one on quantum… somethings. He was up late perfecting the slides.”

Masaru’s smile was quiet, proud. “He gets that focus from you.”

“He gets his stubbornness from you,” Izuku countered, his laugh soft. The exchange was a well-worn rhythm, a daily liturgy of their love. The house smelled of citrus cleaner and simmering broth, everything in its place, everything right.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Katsuki filled the doorway. He was all sharp angles and contained power, his school jacket slung over one shoulder. Izuku’s breath caught, just a little, with how handsome his son had become. How perfect.

“Toast. Now,” Katsuki grunted, sliding into his seat at the table.

“Good morning to you too, baby boy,” Izuku sang, already placing a plate before him, the bread perfectly golden, the butter melted just so. He let his hand rest for a second on Katsuki’s spiky hair. “You’re going to be amazing today. My brilliant son.”

Katsuki didn’t shrug him off. He just grunted again, but it lacked its usual edge. Izuku saw the focused gleam in his red eyes, the one that spoke of ambition, of a future so bright it hurt to look at. This was his life. His perfect, beautiful life.

The house settled into its afternoon quiet after Katsuki left for his evening study group and Masaru for a late meeting. Izuku moved through the rooms with his caddy of supplies, the citrus scent of cleaner a familiar comfort. He wiped down the kitchen counters, fluffed the living room cushions, his movements automatic, a meditation in care. His son’s door was always closed, a sign of respect for his privacy, but Wednesday was deep-cleaning day. Izuku knocked twice, a soft *tap-tap*, out of habit. "Kacchan? Mommy's coming in to tidy, okay?" The silence that answered was permission enough.

He pushed the door open. The room was, as always, meticulously ordered. School books stacked with their spines aligned on the desk. Workout clothes in the hamper, not on the floor. The cedar scent from the closet was strong, clean. Izuku smiled, a soft, private thing. *Such a good boy.* He started with the surfaces, dusting the dresser, wiping down the gaming monitor. He straightened the already-straight bed covers, his fingers smoothing the cool silk of the duvet. It was when he got to his knees to run the vacuum under the bed that the wood of the floorboard snagged the cloth edge of his glove.

Izuku paused. He tugged, but the resistance was solid. He leaned down, peering into the shadowed gap between the futon frame and the floor. Something was there, shoved all the way to the wall. Not a sock. Not a lost textbook. A box. A deep, handled storage box, the kind meant for files. He reached for it, his arm stretching. His fingertips brushed the plastic handle. He pulled.

It was heavier than he expected. It scraped across the floorboards with a low, grating sound that felt too loud in the silent room. He sat back on his heels, the box in his lap. It was plain, black, unmarked. The lid was sealed with a simple, cheap latch. His thumb found it. The click of the release was a gunshot in the quiet.

Inside, the tapes were stacked in neat, uniform rows. Dozens of them. VHS, like relics from another century. Each spine had a white label. His eyes skipped over the handwriting he knew so well—Katsuki’s sharp, precise script—and landed on the words. 'Blonde - Dorm Laundry - 5'4"'. 'Black Hair - Train Yard - Resisted.' His breath stopped. The clinical detachment of the descriptions was a physical blow. His hands, still in yellow rubber gloves, began to shake. The vacuum hummed forgotten beside him.

"What is this, baby?" he whispered, the old endearment ash in his mouth. He lifted one tape out. The label faced him. 'Brunette - Library Stacks - 5'7" - 8/10'. The numbers. The rating. A cold, sick understanding began to pool in his stomach, heavy and impossible. This was a catalog. His perfect son kept a catalog.

"No," he whispered to the empty room. The word was too soft, too gentle for the cold terror coiling in his gut.

He stood on unsteady legs, the box of tapes heavy in his arms. The hallway to the spare room felt miles long. His old VCR was in a closet, buried behind winter blankets and photo albums full of smiling birthday parties and graduations. He dug it out, the plastic casing yellowed with age. The cords felt alien in his hands, a technology his perfect, modern son would scoff at.

He carried the VCR back to Katsuki’s room, its weight a strange anchor. He plugged it into the small television on the dresser, the one Katsuki used for gaming. The screen flickered to life with a sharp buzz of static. The noise was violently loud in the cedar-scented stillness.

Izuku stared at the stack of tapes. His hand hovered. He selected the one from the top, his thumb brushing the word 'Forced' on one tape. The tape slid into the slot with a definitive, mechanical clunk. He sank to his knees on the floor, the silk of the futon cool against his shins.

The screen crackled, then resolved into a shaky, grayish image. A parking garage. Concrete pillars. The camera was set on a ledge, a stationary witness. A young man with red hair was backed against a wall, his mouth moving in silent protest on the muted tape. Then a figure walked into the frame. Broad shoulders. Spiky, familiar blond hair. Katsuki.

Izuku’s hand flew to his mouth. He watched his son’s back muscles flex under a black t-shirt. He watched Katsuki’s hand, the one Izuku had held crossing streets, fist in the redhead’s shirt. He watched the brutal, efficient violence. The way Katsuki moved wasn’t frenzied. It was focused. Predatory. A means to an end. The redhead fought. Katsuki subdued him, a knee to the gut, a hand fumbling with a belt. Izuku made a low, animal noise in his throat.

"Kacchan," he breathed, the childhood nickname a plea to the image on the screen. "Baby boy, stop."

The muted tape shows Katsuki’s hands, the ones Izuku taught to tie shoelaces, hook into the collar of the redhead’s shirt and pull. The fabric gives with a violent, soundless rip. The boy on screen flails, his mouth a wide ‘O’ of horror, hands scrabbling at Katsuki’s wrists. Izuku watches his son shake him off like a bothersome insect.

“No, Kacchan, don’t,” Izuku whispers to the sterile glow of the television, his own hands pressed flat and trembling against his thighs. The redhead is scrambling backwards, his legs kicking out. Katsuki steps into the V of his thighs, a boot planted on the concrete between the boy’s sneakers, and forces them apart with a brutal, steady pressure. The boy’s jeans are dark, but the camera angle is ruthless, intimate. It captures the moment Katsuki’s hand yanks at the button and zipper.

The boy is trying to keep his legs closed, his hips twisting, but Katsuki is immovable. He uses his weight, a knee pinning one thigh to the cold ground. He wrenches the denim down past pale hips. The redhead has a thatch of copper curls between his legs, and beneath, the vulnerable, wet cleft of a pussy. Izuku’s breath hitches. A trans boy. Like him.

Katsuki doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look at the boy’s face. His own hand fumbles with his belt, his jeans, and then he’s pulling his cock out. It’s huge, thick and angry-red, already fully hard and leaking at the tip. Izuku’s mind whites out for a second. He’s never seen his son like this. The sheer, violent biology of it is a separate horror.

The camera doesn’t flinch. It shows Katsuki’s hand gripping the base of his cock, the other hand splayed on the boy’s belly to hold him down. He notches himself at the entrance, the head pressing against that tight, struggling opening. The redhead is arching, trying to buck him off, his face a contorted mask of tears and silent screams.

Katsuki shoves forward.

Izuku gags. He can almost hear the sound that isn’t there—the brutal, wet tear of resistance giving way. The boy’s body seizes, his back bowing off the concrete. Katsuki’s hips snap forward, burying himself to the hilt in one savage thrust. He holds there, impaling him, and for the first time, his face turns slightly toward the camera.

His eyes are wild. Monstrous. They’re Kacchan’s brilliant red eyes, but emptied of all ambition, all focus, everything Izuku loved. They’re just hunger. A flat, devouring need. He pulls back and slams in again. The body beneath him jerks.

“Stop,” Izuku whimpers, tears streaming down his own cheeks now, salting his lips. “Baby, please stop. You’re hurting him.”

But Katsuki on the tape doesn’t stop. He sets a punishing, rhythmic pace. His thighs drive forward, again and again, the muscles in his ass and back clenching with the effort. The redhead’s pussy is stretched obscenely around him, glistening. Each thrust is a brutal, mechanical act of possession. Katsuki’s jaw is clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple. He looks like he’s working out a complex problem. Like he’s perfecting a slide for a presentation.

Izuku watches his perfect son fuck a stranger into the dirty concrete. He watches until the redhead goes limp, until the only movement is Katsuki’s relentless piston, until the static finally, mercifully, swallows the screen.

The silence in the room is absolute. The cedar smell is suffocating. Izuku stays on his knees, the static’s gray light flickering across his freckled face. The perfect family is gone. All that’s left is the box of tapes, the humming VCR, and the new, terrible shape of his son in the dark behind his eyes.

Izuku's hand moved to the VCR. The eject button clicked. The first tape slid out, still warm from the machine. His fingers, slick with cold sweat, fumbled through the box. He didn't read the labels now. He just grabbed. He shoved the new tape in. The mechanical clunk was a death knell.

The screen fizzed, then resolved. A different parking garage, or maybe the same one—all concrete looked the same in this gray hell. A boy was pressed against a pillar. Small. Blond, with a sharp, defiant streak of black in his fringe. He was shouting, his mouth a moving blur of soundless fury. His hands were up, pushing against Katsuki's chest.

"Get off me, you fucking psycho!” Izuku’s lips formed the words the boy was screaming, giving him a voice the tape had stolen. The boy kneed out. Katsuki caught his thigh, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the concrete pillar. The impact was a sickening, meaty thud only Izuku could imagine.

"No, no, no," Izuku chanted, rocking on his knees. The boy slid down the pillar, dazed. Katsuki flipped him onto his back. The boy’s jeans were tight, his binder visible under a ripped band t-shirt. A trans boy. Just a kid. Like the last one. Like him.

Katsuki knelt, one knee pinning the boy's slender thigh to the ground. He ripped the boy's jeans open, the button pinging off into the dark. The boy came alive again, scratching at Katsuki's arms, his nails leaving red trails. Katsuki didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the marks. He just leaned his weight down, immobilizing him.

"Stop fighting," Izuku whispered, his plea useless, ancient. "He likes it when you fight."

On screen, Katsuki yanked the boy's jeans and boxers down to his ankles. The boy’s pussy was exposed, a pale, vulnerable curve in the gloomy light. He tried to buck, to close his legs, but Katsuki was a mountain. He spat into his own hand, a crude, dismissive gesture, and slicked his cock. It was just as hard, just as brutal as before.

He positioned himself. The boy was sobbing now, his chest heaving, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Katsuki's forearms. Katsuki looked down at him. His expression was blank. Curious, almost. Then he pushed the head of his cock against the tight, dry entrance.

"It'll hurt," Izuku gasped, his own body clenching in sympathetic terror. "Baby, it'll hurt him."

Katsuki shoved. The boy's body arched off the ground, a silent scream tearing from his throat. Katsuki didn't stop. He buried himself in one long, relentless thrust. The boy went rigid, then limp. His eyes stared past Katsuki's shoulder, blank and broken.

Izuku watched his son fuck the broken boy. He watched the methodical, powerful drive of his hips. He watched until the tape ended. Until the static returned.

The certainty was a cold, solid stone in his gut. It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't a one-time madness. It was a pattern. A hunger. His perfect son was a monster. The truth was in the box. Dozens of tapes. Dozens of broken people.

The VCR eats the tapes one after another. Izuku’s hands move on a numb, mechanical loop: eject, grab, insert, watch. The static hum is the only constant in the room, a hive of white noise he can feel in his teeth.

A library study carrel, the camera angled from a high shelf. A trans boy with brown curls, headphones on, jumps when Katsuki’s hand clamps over his mouth from behind. He doesn’t even see the face of the person who drags him, kicking, under the desk. The tape only shows the boy’s sneakers, twitching, then going still.

“He picks places with no sound,” Izuku says to the flickering screen, his voice hoarse. “He plans it.”

A park bathroom at night, grainy under fluorescent light. A tall, lanky trans guy is washing his hands. Katsuki steps out of a stall. There’s a brief, blurry struggle against the sinks, the guy’s head snapping back. He goes limp. Katsuki catches him, eases him to the filthy tile. He works quickly, methodically, like he’s on a timer.

“You knocked him out,” Izuku whispers. His stomach churns. “Oh, Kacchan. You just… you made sure he wouldn’t fight.”

An alley behind a bar. A trans man with a septum piercing and tattooed arms is vomiting against a wall. He’s drunk, unsteady. Katsuki approaches, says something. The man shakes his head, tries to push past. Katsuki shoves him back into the bricks. This one fights, wild and clumsy. Katsuki gets a hand around his throat, squeezes until the fight bleeds out of him. He slumps. Katsuki turns him around, yanks his jeans down.

Izuku presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Green spots bloom in the darkness. He can’t stop seeing the details. The different colors of their binders. The varying shapes of their bodies, all young, all male in that way he knows in his own bones. The way some cried silently. The way some just… stared.

He forces himself to look again. The label on the latest tape reads ‘Blond/Blue – Dorm Stairwell – Compliant – 9/10’. Compliant. The word is a new kind of ice. The tape shows a small, pretty trans boy with wide eyes. He’s shaking his head, but he’s not running. Katsuki says something. The boy goes pale. He nods. He lets Katsuki lead him by the hand up the concrete stairs. He doesn’t resist when he’s pushed against the wall. He just turns his face away and cries silently as it happens.

“You threatened him,” Izuku breathes. The realization is worse than the violence. “What did you say? What did you hold over them?”

He doesn’t make it through the whole box. He makes it through six more. Six different faces, six different locations, six identical endings. All trans. All college-aged boys, just like the profile Katsuki himself fit. His son was hunting reflections.

The last tape he watches is labeled ‘Black Hair/Scar – Train Yard – Fought Hard – 10/10’. The rating system finally clicks. It’s not attractiveness. It’s resistance. The thrill of the fight. This victim fought so hard he left a long, bleeding scratch down Katsuki’s cheek. Katsuki, for the first time across all the tapes, smiles. It’s a brief, terrifying flash of teeth as he pins the boy’s wrists above his head.

Izuku leans over and vomits onto the cedar floorboards. Thin, acidic bile splatters the polished wood. He gags, tears streaming from his eyes, his body convulsing with empty heaves. The perfect homemaker, desecrating his perfect son’s perfect room.

He stays there, forehead against the cool silk of the futon, breathing in the sour smell of his own sickness. The static buzzes on. The box sits beside him, still half-full of nightmares. His son. His brilliant, beautiful boy. A serial predator. A collector of broken trans men. The math is inescapable. Dozens of tapes. Dozens of lives shattered.

“What do I do?” he asks the empty room, his voice a shattered thing. “Kacchan… what did you make me do?”

Izuku’s body moves on a familiar, numb autopilot. The homemaker in him, the part that cannot abide a mess, overrides the man who is shattered. He staggers to the bathroom, fetches a bucket, rags, and disinfectant. The sharp, clean scent of lemon clashes with the sour bile as he kneels again, scrubbing his own sickness from his son’s perfect floorboards. His hands tremble, but the motions are precise. He leaves the wood spotless.

He rewinds each tape with a mechanical click-whir. He does not look at the labels again. He places them back in the box in the exact order he found them. The VCR, its casing still warm, is unplugged and carried back to the attic storage. He dusts the shelf where it sat. He returns the box to the dark space under Katsuki’s bed, pushing it deep into the shadow where the vacuum doesn’t reach.

He stands in the center of the room. The afternoon sun slants through the blinds, peaceful. The cedar smell is clean again. There is no trace. No evidence that the perfect mother ever saw the perfect son’s perfect horror.