Heroes are supposed to die. That's one of the dirty little open secrets of the profession. The Protectorate and the PRT, their international colleagues, they all work to raise up fresh crops of bright-eyed young parahumans to have bodies to throw in the path of every crisis that threatens to spill into more chaos than they're willing to permit. The average life expectancy of a hero, the last Krouse knew, was still under thirty. It gets lower every year.

Krouse keeps his eyes forward as Deku talks, the other boy's voice overflowing with heartfelt determination, and says nothing. He smiles at the joke at the end, then takes another pull off his cigarette, ember sizzling down the paper.

Deku probably won't make it to twenty, if Krouse had to guess - but he doesn't, so he won't.

"And you can't have that, obviously." That would be a good place to stop talking, stepping into the defusing of tension Deku set up for him at the end. What does some civilian like him have to say to any of that?

"This someone you're trying to save," he says, slightly quieter than he was before, "They sound lucky to have you."