Chapter Text
The night in room 107 wasn't sleep for Chuuya; it was a long watch in a state of tense half-sleep. The hard sofa, thin blanket, the suspicious, unfamiliar silence outside the window, broken only by distant, unreadable sounds of a foreign world. Every forty minutes, his internal alarm, honed by years of living in a state of permanent threat, made his body tense and his mind clear. He checked the door (locked), listened to the corridor (quiet, only the hum of ventilation), scanned the room for subtle changes. The ritual of a soldier in enemy territory.
Not a sound came from the concrete storage room. No snoring, no rustling, not even rhythmic breathing. Sometimes, Chuuya caught himself pressing his ear against the cold wall to catch any sign of life behind it. But he stopped himself. If Dazai had decided to play at complete non-existence—all the better. Let that room become his personal zero zone. As long as it kept him inside and didn't release him into the world with another mad idea—everything was fine.
Morning arrived without ceremony, not with dawn, but with the piercing, soulless trill of the alarm on his simple, indestructible phone. Exactly seven. His body responded to the command before his mind did—muscles tensed, and Chuuya was on his feet in an instant, already fully awake and collected. He spent exactly three minutes under an ice-cold shower (hot water, it turned out, required studying the boiler instructions). He dressed in his standard, battle-tested gear: black pants, a dense gray vest, a dark overcoat, gloves. They hadn't been given uniforms. Interesting, he thought, fastening the buckle on his belt, is this a test of obedience or a sign we're not even entered into their system yet?
When he stepped into the main room, Dazai was already standing by the narrow window, hands clasped behind his back. He wore the same impeccable dark suit as yesterday, without a single crease. His hair lay perfectly, as if an invisible hairdresser had worked on it all night. He didn't smell of sleep, sweat, or toothpaste. He smelled… of nothing. Like a clean, sterile room.
"Had a restless night, did you?" Dazai said without turning. His voice was clear and even, with no hint of hoarseness. "Our sofa seems to possess unique orthopedic properties that induce existential melancholy. I'm almost envious. My little room offers only the total comfort of emptiness."
"What, were you breathing vacuum in there? Or has your face just frozen in that stupid half-smile?" Chuuya grumbled, meticulously checking if a shoelace had come loose. An old ritual.
"Oh, I was engaged in deep meditation on the topic of social dynamics in closed groups. And anticipating today's performance. Incredibly invigorating for the spirit." Finally, he turned. His eyes, brown and seemingly empty at first glance, appeared to reflect the dim morning light from the window but didn't let it in. "So, are we ready for our debut on the stage called 'The Most Prestigious Hero Class'? I heard the tickets were incredibly expensive."
"Ready to go," Chuuya stated, turning away. "Keep your theatrical metaphors to yourself. Today we need silence and observation, not your clowning."
"Silence and observation are my middle names, dear colleague!" Dazai exclaimed, following him to the door.
They stepped into the corridor exactly at 7:45. The air in the dormitory building was already different—charged with bustle, loud voices, the stomping of dozens of feet. UA campus was waking up. On the way to the main Academic Building A, they were surrounded by a real kaleidoscope of youth and power. Students of all kinds hurried to classes, and many weren't even trying to hide their Quirks. A guy with tentacles for hair deftly caught a falling textbook. A girl with skin shimmering like mother-of-pearl laughed, and tiny, rainbow-hued bubbles trembled in the air from her laughter. Someone simply ran at a speed unimaginable for an ordinary person, leaving a faint whirlwind in their wake.
The energy was raw, unpolished, explosive. It hung in the air like the smell of ozone after a storm. Chuuya felt his own, far more ancient and furious power respond dully inside, like a wild beast scenting a pack of other predators. He walked, looking straight ahead, his posture straight and rigid, his presence radiating a cold, warning field. People instinctively parted, giving him way, without even realizing why.
Dazai, however, seemed made of different substance. He didn't cut through the crowd; he flowed softly into it, became part of it. His gaze, lazy and all-seeing, recorded everything like a high-resolution camera.
"Interesting," he said almost in a whisper, as if to himself. "The green-haired guy at the entrance, a quiet analyst of the surrounding world. Two girls on the left—one with ears that flow into headphones? Clearly enhanced hearing. The second… ah, minor gravity. How ironic. And elegant. And that monolith with stone skin over there… a classic 'tank'. Direct, power-based, predictable. Boring."
Chuuya merely snorted in response. His own analysis was simpler: entry-exit points, cover, potential threats in descending order of danger. Guy who can shoot lasers from his hands? High threat, ranged. Giant with stone skin? Low, if you don't let him grab you.
At the main entrance to Building A, a tall glass structure reflecting the morning sun, Aizawa was already waiting. Wrapped in his yellow sleeping bag, leaning against the wall, he looked like a monument to professional burnout. It seemed he had stood here all night, and every second of waiting deepened his hatred for all existence.
"You're late for…" he lazily glanced at a non-existent watch on his wrist, "…my patience. But, miraculously, not for the official time. So, basic cognitive functions are present. That's encouraging. Follow me. And let's agree: if within the first ten minutes either of you provokes an incident requiring my intervention, your next lesson will be digging this building out from under the rubble of your own recklessness. Understood?"
He turned and shuffled inside without waiting for an answer. They followed him through wide, light-flooded corridors. It smelled of cleanliness, new materials, and the faint scent of ozonated air from filtration systems. On the doors—concise plaques with numbers and letters. And there it was—a massive, hypertrophiedly large door, more like a fortress gate, with a proud, stylized inscription: 1-A.
From behind it came a din more like the clamor of a bird market than a classroom. Voices talked over each other, someone shouted something, an explosion of laughter sounded. Aizawa squeezed his eyes shut like a man who had decided to enter a lion's cage and abruptly swung the door open.
The noise didn't cease. It even surged for a second when two dozen pairs of eyes turned to the newcomers. Class 1-A was a huge, spacious room with desks arranged in a semicircle before a large smart board. Chaos reigned supreme. An explosive boy with spiky blond hair stood, hands on hips, yelling something into the face of a nervous, green-haired kid who, by all appearances, was trying to reason with him. A girl with pink cheeks and small horns argued animatedly with a tall, statuesque black-haired girl. Someone in the far corner was peacefully napping, head resting on folded hands. Idyllic.
Aizawa didn't yell. He simply sighed—long, deep, with such cosmic sorrow that the sound of that sigh seemed to suck part of the oxygen from the room. The din began to subside in a wave. The first to fall silent were those closer to the door who felt the icy wave of displeasure emanating from the teacher. The others, noticing the sudden silence of their neighbors, turned and also froze.
All eyes were now fixed on the trio in the doorway: the living embodiment of pedagogical despair and two figures who looked here like crows among parrots. Their clothing, their postures, the very aura of alienation—everything screamed that they were not from this flock.
"Take your seats," Aizawa grated, making a tired gesture with his hand. "Unless, of course, anyone still has doubts that this is a classroom and not a zoo. We have… an addition to the ecosystem, I suppose." He nodded towards the newcomers, not bothering with introductions. "Don't waste time with questions, don't bother with foolish attempts at socialization, and, for the sake of all you hold dear, don't try to 'test' them. Especially," his red gaze, heavy as a lead plate, settled on Chuuya, "this one. Unless you want your introduction to a hero career to begin with studying the basics of reconstructive architecture. Clear?"
The stunned silence grew even louder. This wasn't even in the worst-case scenario for the first day. The teacher didn't just introduce the new students—he outright labeled them as danger, as 'others'.
Chuuya felt the familiar, black, sticky irritation rise from the depths of his chest. This is how it always is. A label. A brand. A dangerous object. Put it far away, don't touch. He met Aizawa's gaze for a fraction of a second, and at that point in space, something seemed to crack from mutual understanding and antipathy. Then, silently, without looking around, he walked between the rows of desks to the indicated spot by the window in the back row. He felt the weight of the stares. They were different:
The explosive boy, as Chuuya remembered him, watched him with an assessing, hawk-like gaze full of contemptuous interest. His lips twisted into a smirk: Oh, another supposedly tough one? Let's see how long you last.
The green-haired boy watched with frank, unconcealed curiosity. His gaze darted between Chuuya and Aizawa, his brain clearly working at super-speed, analyzing the situation.
The tall brunette looked more puzzled than frightened. Her gaze was analytical, like an engineer examining a complex and potentially unstable mechanism.
The girl with horns covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with astonishment. Then a flicker of not fear, but a sort of mischievous excitement, passed through them.
The calm boy with two-toned hair only glanced away from the window for a second, assessed Chuuya with a cold, emotionless look, and just as coldly turned away, as if putting a checkmark in his internal classification: Not a threat until proven otherwise. Background.
Chuuya sat down, staring at the empty desktop, deliberately cutting himself off from this visual noise. His task was—not to react. To be a stone. Let them look.
Dazai, meanwhile, glided to his corner desk, assigned to him, with the ease of a ghost moving through familiar halls. His smile was impeccably polite and absolutely impenetrable. Just another mask. He took his seat, folded his hands before him in a relaxed yet collected pose, and directed his serene, slightly detached gaze straight at Aizawa, as if awaiting the start of a fascinating talk show.
"As I have already had the… pleasure of noting," Aizawa continued, addressing the whole class now, his voice sounding as if each word were torture, "this is Dazai Osamu and Chuuya Nakahara. From now on, they are part of this class's academic statistics, for which I, apparently, will also have to answer. Your task is to ignore them as much as is physically possible. Their task is not to give you cause to do otherwise. It's a perfect symbiotic relationship. Let's try not to break it."
A heavy silence hung in the classroom, broken only by the nervous tapping of fingers on a desk somewhere in the middle row.
"Sensei!" A girl with large, dark eyes and fluffy ears on her head decisively raised her hand. "You said not to 'test' them. Is that… is it because their Quirks are dangerous? For us?"
Aizawa looked at her with the expression of someone who had just been asked if water is wet.
"Jirou. Everything in this world is dangerous. Incorrectly tied shoelaces are dangerous. Freshly baked idealism is dangerous. And an uncontrolled force capable of altering the landscape single-handedly—that's not 'dangerous'. That's a natural disaster factor that must be handled accordingly. Consider this an introductory safety briefing. Now, if the questions are over—and they should be—we're starting. Open your textbooks on the fundamentals of hero law to page…"
He didn't finish. His voice turned into a monotonous mumble, like switched-on background noise. But his words had already done their job. The phrase "natural disaster factor" hung in the air, tangible and cold. The glances thrown at Chuuya now carried a shade of not just wariness, but almost superstitious fear. Dazai was looked at with bewilderment and curiosity. What was this strange, overly elegant youth doing paired with a walking apocalypse? Was he a keeper? An attendant? Or something even more incomprehensible?
Chuuya didn't listen to Aizawa's mumbling. He felt that very wall Dazai had spoken of. Only now it wasn't metaphorical, but almost physical. It had grown between his desk and the rest of the class. A quiet, invisible, but sturdy zone of alienation with a three-meter radius. Is this what you wanted? To be left alone? he asked himself. Yes. But not like this. Not like an exhibit in a horror museum, being watched furtively. His fingers clenched under the desk until his knuckles cracked. Don't give in. This is their field. Their rules. Don't let them take you out of the game before it even starts.
His gaze, against his will, slid across the entire classroom to the far left corner. Dazai sat, chin resting on his palm, looking not at the teacher, but out the window, as if watching a bird's flight. His posture expressed mild boredom, almost distraction. But Chuuya knew—this was a deception. That gaze, fixed into the distance, was actually scanning the reflection in the glass. He saw everyone who looked at him. He heard every whisper, every movement. And he was surely already sorting into shelves in his flawless mind: the weaknesses, ambitions, fears of these twenty people. He was turning them from 'classmates' into 'variables in an equation'.
And this thought—that they were still a team, it's just that their playing field was now divided by this classroom space—somehow calmed the fury in Chuuya's chest. One—an obvious, frightening force that drew all the light and attention. The other—a harmless, strange shadow on the periphery that everyone would soon forget. The perfect division of roles.
The game that started in Nezu's office had now moved to a new arena. Aizawa's first move was tough and direct: isolate, label, warn. A strong move, but predictable. The move of a guard, not a strategist.
Aizawa monotonously droned on about the legal frameworks for using force. Chuuya shifted his gaze to his own hand, clenched into a fist. Slowly, with effort, he unclenched his fingers. Alright, teacher. You put us on display. You announced the rules. But you forgot one thing. The corner of his lip twitched with something remotely resembling a smirk. You showed them only the cage. You didn't show them what's inside.
And when they see it… that's when the game will truly begin. And the move won't be with the guards anymore.
---
Aizawa's monotonous droning about legal paragraphs and ethical codes stretched on for a long, viscous forty-five minutes. Chuuya almost physically felt his consciousness, honed for instant threat assessment and explosive action, falling asleep under this even, emotionless hum. He sat motionless, staring at one spot on the desk, but his peripheral vision and hearing worked at full capacity, mapping the class.
He memorized voices. The loud, hoarse voice of the explosive blond—Bakugo, as Aizawa called him—kept interrupting others, his intonations dripping with undisguised superiority and impatience. The quiet, stammering voice of the green-haired kid—Midoriya, it seemed—who, however, occasionally made incredibly accurate and quick comments on the topic, as if he had swallowed the textbook whole, cover included. The confident, calm voice of the tall brunette—Yaoyorozu—answering Aizawa's questions with frightening erudition that would make any professor envious. The ringing, infectious laugh of the girl with horns—Chuuya remembered her especially because such open, carefree emotions seemed to him like something from a parallel universe.
He memorized all the movements he could detect in the vicinity. How that quiet guy with two-toned hair in the left row—Todoroki, as it turned out later—barely moved, blending into the surrounding space. How the girl with green hair and big eyes constantly drew something in her notebook, her froglike tongue slightly sticking out in concentration.
At one point, Aizawa, tired of his own voice, paused to take a sip of water from a battered bottle that seemed to have been with him since the academy's founding. In this short silence, Chuuya suddenly caught a barely audible, rhythmic sound. Dazai's pencil. He was tapping it lightly, almost weightlessly, on the wooden desktop in his corner. Too rhythmic for coincidence. Too familiar.
Chuuya strained his hearing. The short and long taps formed Morse code.
How boring!!!
Chuuya barely noticeably, by a fraction of a millimeter, shook his head, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Even here, even under the noses of twenty future heroes and their sleepy teacher, this idiot couldn't help but entertain himself. Chuuya didn't respond—too risky, too noticeable. But he remembered. The communication channel worked.
The bell finally rang like a signal of liberation—not only for Chuuya, but also, it seemed, for Aizawa himself. The teacher cut himself off mid-sentence and stared at the ceiling with an expression as if begging the gods for eternal sleep.
"That's all for now. Next period—Fundamentals of Heroic Rescue with Thirteen. Don't be late. And…" his tired gaze slid over Chuuya and Dazai, "…try not to cause a real mass evacuation of the building. That would be ironic, but extremely tiring for everyone, especially me."
He left the classroom first, wrapped in his sleeping bag, as if trying to quickly erase the last hour of his life from memory. For a second, silence reigned in the class, and then everything exploded with movement and voices. Everyone rushed to gather their things, chat, and head into the corridor. But the strange magnetic field around Chuuya's desk still worked. Students flowed around him, leaving a wide gap, throwing quick, furtive glances. Fear, curiosity, animosity—everything mixed in those looks.
And then what the whole class, it seemed, had been waiting for happened. The explosive blond, Bakugo Katsuki, shoved his chair back with a crash that made its legs squeak pitifully on the floor and headed not for the exit, as some might have thought, but straight across the classroom—towards Chuuya. His steps were heavy, confident, his face twisted in a familiar smirk of challenge. The class held its breath.
"Hey, you!" his voice cut through the tense silence that had settled in his path. "Redhead! Heard you're a walking disaster around here?"
Chuuya slowly raised his eyes to him. His gaze was empty, cold, like the surface of a lake on a moonless night. He said nothing. He just looked. This silence was more eloquent than any answer.
"K-Kacchan, don't…" Midoriya began, but Bakugo waved him off like an annoying fly, not even deigning to glance at him.
"Aizawa loves to dramatize. Loves to scare brats with his horror stories. So come on, show us what you've got. Just a little bit. So I know who I'm dealing with." He stopped two meters away, hands on his hips. His palms were slightly smoking—an involuntary sign of agitation, small sparks crackling in the air.
The class froze. Everyone watched. Even Todoroki tore his gaze from the contemplation of the wall and turned to the scene. Dazai, in his corner, stopped writing and tilted his head with interest, like a spectator in the front row of a theater, awaiting the start of an exciting performance. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.
Chuuya sighed. It wasn't irritation. It was deep, universal weariness from monotonous, predictable scenarios. Provocation. Measuring strength. Establishing hierarchy. How boring.
"Get lost," he said in a flat, toneless voice. "You don't interest me."
Bakugo practically jumped with indignation. His face flushed red. "WHAT?! You think you can underestimate me, the future number one, you bastard?!"
His hands twitched, and with a crack, two small but bright flashes ignited. The smell of burnt explosions filled the air, mixing with the tension that could be cut with a knife.
Chuuya finally pushed himself away from the desk. He stood up slowly, smoothly. His movements were economical, honed to automatism, without a single unnecessary gesture. He didn't assume a fighting stance. He just stood there, arms hanging at his sides. But at that moment, something in the classroom atmosphere changed drastically. The pressure seemed to physically increase. The air grew thicker, heavier. Several students involuntarily shuddered, even though the room was warm.
"I said, get lost," Chuuya repeated, and for the first time, steel rang in his voice, cold and sharp as a knife blade. "I'm not here to put on circus shows for overexcited children. Take your powder keg away before you really get burned."
Bakugo growled—literally, low and dangerous. His ego was wounded deeper than if he had been hit. His hand shot forward, clearly intending to grab Chuuya by his vest. And at that moment…
Nothing happened. Or rather, what happened was not what Bakugo or anyone else expected. Bakugo's hand, rushing forward with enough inertia to knock an ordinary person off their feet, suddenly became incredibly, unbearably heavy. Not as if something was holding or grabbing it, but as if gravity itself around it had increased several dozen times, or even more, pressing it into the floor. The hand crashed down, hitting Chuuya's desk with a dull, heavy thud that seemed to shake the floor, and maybe even the walls.
Bakugo gasped in surprise. He tried to pull his hand back, yanking with all his might, but it seemed chained to the spot by a lead weight. His face contorted—a mix of rage, pain, and complete incomprehension.
"What… what the hell?!" he swore, trying to activate an explosion in his palm to throw off the invisible force, but his palm, pressed to the desk, only hissed and smoked, helplessly burning the desk's surface, unable to move a millimeter.
Chuuya watched him with the same empty, icy gaze. He hadn't moved a finger. No gesture, no wave of the hand, no concentration. Just… an effect. As if he had chosen a point in space and said, "Gravity here will be fifty times stronger." And physics obeyed, without even a peep.
"I usually try not to use force against children," Chuuya said quietly. His voice was audible in the absolute, deathly silence of the classroom. "But if you try to touch me again, I'll pin you to the floor so hard you'll need a crane to get up. And that's putting it mildly. Understand?"
He released the pressure as suddenly as he had created it. Bakugo's hand sprang back from the desk with force, he staggered back, almost falling, clutching his wrist with his free hand. His face, twisted with rage and pain, now expressed for the first time in a long time—maybe for the first time in his life—pure, genuine shock. He hadn't understood what happened. No flash, no blow, no beams, no visible movement. His own hand had simply become as heavy as if a concrete block had been attached to it.
"You… what did you do, you bastard?!" he yelled, but his voice cracked, and it no longer held its former confidence, only a mix of fear and impotent malice.
"Nothing special," Chuuya shrugged, sitting back down and resuming his previous relaxed posture. "It's just gravity. It's everywhere. Sometimes I… negotiate small favors with it."
It was a demonstration. Minimal, controlled, but incredibly effective. He hadn't succumbed to provocation. He had simply shown that any provocation against him was meaningless and dangerous for the provocateur himself. Such a silence fell over the classroom that you could hear the damaged desk crackling under Bakugo's fingers.
And at that moment of absolute, deafening silence, a quiet but distinct sound rang out. A rhythmic tapping of a pencil on wood. From the corner of the room. Dazai, without changing his bored, relaxed expression, lightly tapped his pencil on the desktop. Too rhythmic. Too familiar.
Good boy, my loyal dog
Chuuya caught that stupid, inappropriate joke at the edge of his consciousness. He didn't turn his head, didn't show any sign that he had heard. But something stirred inside him—a mix of irritation and some strange, almost forgotten feeling, similar to… calm? Even at such a moment, when the whole class was staring at him as if he were an alien monster, this unbearable clown had found a way to remind him: they weren't alone here. They were together. Even separated by rows of desks.
Bakugo, still breathing heavily, stepped back a couple of paces, not taking his burning, hate-filled gaze off Chuuya. He said nothing—apparently, for the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. He just turned and, shoving the hesitant Midoriya with his shoulder, stormed out of the classroom.
Silence hung in the air for a few more seconds, and then the classroom exploded into whispers. Everyone spoke at once, interrupting each other, throwing glances at Chuuya now filled not just with wariness, but with genuine, almost superstitious fear. The phrase "natural disaster factor" had now taken on flesh and blood.
Midoriya, watching Bakugo run out, stared at Chuuya again. In his eyes burned not fear, but a kind of feverish, investigative interest. His brain seemed to be analyzing what had just happened right now, dissecting the mechanics of Chuuya's Quirk. It was almost frightening—such an obsession with analysis.
The tall brunette, Yaoyorozu, was quickly writing something in her notebook, her face focused. She was clearly trying to understand the physical principles of what had just happened. The horned girl, Mina, covered her mouth with her hand, but in her eyes, besides astonishment, something resembling admiration flickered. "Cool…" she breathed almost silently.
Todoroki, however, only held his cold, emotionless gaze on Chuuya for a second, then shifted it to Dazai sitting in the corner, and turned back to the window as if nothing special had happened. But Chuuya caught a slight raise of his eyebrows for a fraction of a second—the only display of emotion he allowed himself.
Dazai, in his corner, smiled a little wider, put away his pencil, and began gathering his few belongings with the air of a man who had just watched an excellent performance and was quite satisfied. He didn't even look towards Chuuya, but Chuuya knew—every movement, every glance was calculated and meaningful.
Chuuya slowly exhaled, allowing himself to close his eyes for a second. Adrenaline still surged in his blood, but he suppressed it with a habitual effort of will. Everything had gone according to plan. Even better than expected. Bakugo would probably leave him alone now—at least for a while. And the others… the others would be afraid. And fear is control.
The next lesson—Fundamentals of Heroic Rescue with the hero Thirteen—took place in a specially equipped hall, a huge, white, sterile space simulating various types of disasters: building collapses, fires, floods. Thirteen herself, in her plump, spacesuit-like costume, spoke softly and enthusiastically about the value of every human life and the importance of carefully applying force during rescues. Her voice, amplified by speakers, sounded warm and a little childishly naive.
Chuuya and Dazai again found themselves on the periphery of the group, staying slightly apart from the other students. But in this lesson, the isolation was a bit different. Thirteen, unlike Aizawa, tried several times to engage them in conversation, asking general questions about the potential application of their abilities in rescue operations.
Dazai answered politely, with a light, disarming smile, but was extremely evasive, quoting what seemed like freshly read textbook paragraphs or fobbing her off with general phrases. Chuuya simply remained silent, limiting himself to one-syllable answers, which caused slight but noticeable concern in the teacher. She threw worried glances his way but didn't insist.
The practical part of the lesson consisted of paired exercises in "carefully extracting a victim" from under a mock concrete slab. The pairs were determined by lot. When Thirteen called out the names, tense silence fell over the hall.
"Nakahara and… Bakugo! Please approach training station number three!"
Bakugo, who was still gloomier than a cloud after the morning incident, shot Chuuya a withering glare. But, to the surprise of many, silently headed for the training station. Apparently, the lesson he'd received had sunk in—at least for today. Chuuya followed, maintaining an expression of complete indifference.
The training station was a massive piece of artificial wall that had fallen onto a dummy. The task was to coordinate lifting the "rubble" without causing further collapse and carefully extract the "victim" without causing additional damage.
Bakugo, not looking at Chuuya, grabbed one edge of the slab. His palms were already slightly smoking in anticipation of work. "Listen up, disaster. I'm going to lift this crap from my side with controlled repulsion explosions. You… do whatever you want, just stay out from under my feet and don't make my job harder."
Chuuya looked at the slab, then at Bakugo. Then at Thirteen, who was watching them with an encouraging but slightly nervous smile. He sighed—heavily, with a hint of resignation.
"Step aside," he said simply.
"What?!"
"I said, step away from the slab. Your explosions will shake the whole structure. The dummy will get 'damage' from secondary vibration, and we'll automatically get an 'unsatisfactory' for the exercise. And I, you know, don't feel like retaking this circus."
Bakugo choked with indignation, opened his mouth to let out another tirade, but Chuuya wasn't listening anymore. He crouched next to the slab, attentively, almost surgically, examining the point of contact where the concrete block touched the dummy. His fingers lightly touched the surface, as if checking the stone's pulse. Then he placed one hand on the slab, palm down, and closed his eyes for a second—just a second, focusing.
And the slab… floated.
That was the only word that came to mind. It didn't rise sharply, wasn't thrown back by force. It smoothly, silently, and absolutely evenly lifted off the dummy and hovered in the air about half a meter high, like a slice of butter floating above a table. There was no dust, no noise, not the slightest strain. Just gravity under the slab… had stopped affecting it fully, as if someone had pressed an "off" switch.
Chuuya, without changing his posture, with a gesture of his free hand deftly, almost casually, pulled the dummy out from under the suspended block, rolled it to a safe zone, and only then, having made sure the "victim" was safe, released control. The slab softly, almost gently, lowered back into place with a dull but very quiet thud.
The whole thing took no more than fifteen seconds. Silent, clean, perfect, with absolute, terrifying control.
Bakugo stood, mouth agape. All his aggression, all his anger—everything disappeared, replaced by mute, stunned shock. He had been ready for power, for a display of might, for a fight and resistance. But not for such… graceful, absolute control. This wasn't violence against material. This was a conversation with the fundamental laws of the universe. And the laws, apparently, considered Chuuya their close friend.
Thirteen clapped her hands, her voice through the suit's speakers sounding genuinely delighted: "Amazing, Nakahara-kun! Such a level of control and attention to victim safety is exactly what we should all strive for!"
Chuuya merely nodded, brushing non-existent dust from his gloves and heading for the exit of the training ground. And at that moment, as he passed a group of students, he heard a quiet, barely perceptible sound. The same rhythm. Short-short-long-short.
Dazai, standing by the wall with that same bored expression he wore to all the lessons, was lightly tapping his fingers on a metal railing. No one except Chuuya paid any attention—people tap from boredom all the time. But Chuuya heard it.
Brilliant
Chuuya barely perceptibly, by a millimeter, shook his head—not quite agreement, not quite irritation. This man couldn't resist commenting, even at the most inappropriate moment. But inside, deep down, he felt that same strange warmth as in the morning. They were a team. And even this stupid, inappropriate code reminded him of that.
After Thirteen's lesson, lunch break was announced. The UA cafeteria turned out to be a huge, bright space, flooded with sunlight through panoramic windows. The hum of voices, the clatter of dishes, the smell of food—everything created an atmosphere completely alien to Chuuya. He took a tray with the simplest food available—rice, chicken, vegetables—and, ignoring the free seats at tables where groups of his new classmates were already sitting, headed for a completely empty table in the far corner, by a huge window. He sat with his back to the wall, facing the hall—the classic position for controlling space. An old habit he wasn't about to give up.
He expected to be left alone. And he was almost right. Almost.
Within a minute, two people quietly, silently joined his table. Dazai, with a tray bearing something suspiciously jelly-like and poisonously green, and… the green-haired boy, Midoriya Izuku, who was nervously fiddling with his chopsticks and looked ready to sink through the floor from awkwardness.
"May we?" Dazai asked, already sitting opposite Chuuya. His smile was carefree, almost happy. Midoriya just nodded, mumbling something unintelligible and blushing.
Chuuya threw them both a heavy, warning look but said nothing. He simply continued eating, pretending they didn't exist. Dazai, with genuine interest (or a masterful imitation of it), began poking at his green jelly, periodically making sounds resembling contented purring.
Midoriya, after a few minutes of painfully awkward silence, couldn't bear it.
"U-um… Nakahara-kun?" he began, his voice slightly trembling with excitement. "I… I wanted to say… your Quirk application today in training… it wasn't just impressive. It was incredible! Such fine control at the micro level, first with Bakugo-kun in class, and then macro-manipulation of a whole slab without inertia or vibration… it completely changes the approach to rescue operations and pinpoint immobilization! Theoretically, if you can manipulate gravity so locally, you could create stable zones of weightlessness for rapid evacuation of victims from under rubble, or conversely, increase pressure to restrain an opponent without direct contact…"
He spoke faster and faster, his eyes burning with feverish, investigative fire, his chopsticks gesturing animatedly, drawing invisible diagrams and schemes in the air. It was a stream of consciousness, a verbal waterfall crashing down on Chuuya. Chuuya just stared at him, having stopped chewing, frozen with a piece of chicken on his chopsticks.
Dazai, watching this scene, chuckled quietly, almost inaudibly, under his breath. His foot under the table lightly, barely noticeably, nudged Chuuya's foot. Signal: "Calm down, I'm here."
Chuuya showed no reaction externally, but inside he relaxed slightly. He shifted his gaze to Midoriya, who finally stumbled mid-sentence, realizing he had just blurted out a whole monologue to a man whose face showed absolutely no emotion.
"Just call me Chuuya, it's fine. Though, you talk a lot," Chuuya stated after a long pause. His voice was even, with no hint of irritation, but also no hint of warmth.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, please! I just… I get really into analyzing Quirks, it's a habit, and your Quirk… it's so unique, and I've never seen anything like it, and…"
"Are there limits?" Chuuya interrupted him unexpectedly directly, looking him in the eye.
Midoriya froze, his mouth hanging open. "L-limits?"
"Every power has a price. Always. Does mine?" Chuuya stared at him intently, unblinking. It was a test. A check of how deep this green-haired kid could see.
Midoriya thought, his eyebrows furrowing. He was clearly running through all the observations of Chuuya he'd made today in his head. "I… based on what I've seen… you haven't shown any signs of fatigue, shortness of breath, nosebleeds, or other typical physiological costs that usually accompany the use of powerful Quirks. You haven't used focusing gestures, haven't closed your eyes for concentration, haven't visibly strained. That indicates either incredibly high efficiency and, consequently, a very low 'cost' for your Quirk, or…" he paused, hesitant to continue, and swallowed.
"Or?" Chuuya's voice was calm, but pressure was felt in it.
"Or… your 'cost' isn't physiological," Midoriya breathed out, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "Or it was already paid for in some other way. In the past."
Chuuya said nothing. He simply resumed eating, as if nothing had happened. But in his eyes, a tiny, almost imperceptible spark flickered—something distantly resembling respect. This kid saw not just the power. He saw holes in the picture, gaps he couldn't explain. And that made him both dangerous and useful in Chuuya's eyes.
"I-if I may ask," Midoriya began again, gathering his courage and shifting his gaze to Dazai, "what about Dazai-kun… what's his Quirk? The form said 'none,' but maybe it's something hidden, mental, or…"
Dazai, who had been silently observing their dialogue with the air of a cat watching mice, smiled widely and openly. "Oh, Midoriya-kun, you can just call me Dazai. No formalities, we're practically classmates now." He held up his spoon of green jelly, showing it to Chuuya, who winced tiredly. "My precious, most unique Quirk is the ability to find the most unappetizing, suspicious, and potentially deadly dishes in any cafeteria in the world! It worked one hundred percent, as you can see." He put the spoon in his mouth and closed his eyes with a pleasure that could only be masterful acting. "But seriously, Midoriya-kun… some things are far more interesting when there's room for mystery, don't you think? Especially when that mystery could save your life. Or, conversely, take it. It all depends on your point of view."
His words were light, almost playful, but deep within them was a cold, steel rim, politely but very unambiguously pointing to a boundary that shouldn't be crossed. Midoriya understood. He nodded hastily, blushing even harder. "Y-yes! Of course! Sorry for being tactless, I just… I didn't mean to…"
"It's all right," Dazai interrupted softly. "Curiosity is a wonderful quality for a future hero. It's just that sometimes it can lead you too far. For example, into a very dark room full of sharp objects, or assassins, perhaps. Or to a beautiful, but very high river with a strong current." He rolled his eyes dreamily. "I, by the way, have always dreamed of a beautiful, joint suicide stroll with a beautiful girl by such a river. Wouldn't that be romantic?"
Chuuya coughed, choking on his rice. He shot Dazai a murderous look that clearly said, "Shut up, idiot." Midoriya stared at Dazai with eyes wide in surprise, clearly not knowing how to react to such a statement.
The rest of lunch continued in a less tense but still very awkward atmosphere. Midoriya, realizing that asking more questions was pointless, just ate in silence, occasionally throwing quick, studying glances at the strange pair. Dazai enjoyed his terrible jelly. Chuuya just waited for it all to end.
As they were getting up to return their trays, the horned girl with pink skin—Mina Ashido—approached their table. Her face shone with an open, friendly smile that had nothing in common with the wary or frightened glances Chuuya had caught all day.
"Hi! You guys totally blew everyone's minds today! In the best way possible!" She plopped down unceremoniously in Midoriya's vacated seat. "Listen, do you want to join us after classes? We're thinking of hanging out in the common room, chatting, getting to know each other better. You know, games, food, stuff like that. It'll be fun!"
Chuuya looked at her open, sincere face and felt a strange, almost forgotten discomfort—discomfort from simple, non-threatening kindness. He just didn't know how to react. In his world, however you should even call it, given that they hadn't advanced in their investigation even a single step, things weren't done like that. In his world, every glance, every word had a price and were often a cover for a backstab.
Dazai, as always, came to the rescue, answering for both of them with an elegant, almost theatrical bow. "You are incredibly kind, Ashido-san! But, I'm afraid, we have prior, extremely important commitments. Another, no less captivating catastrophe awaits its hour, you understand." He said this with such a sincere, almost regretful smile that Mina laughed, taking it for a harmless joke.
"Well, okay! Maybe another time! For sure!" She waved at them and flitted back to her friends.
As they left the cafeteria and headed for the building exit, Chuuya shot Dazai a short, questioning look. Dazai just shrugged in response, but as he passed a column in the empty corridor, without looking at Chuuya, he quietly, almost silently, tapped his knuckles on the concrete. A short burst, barely noticeable.
Friendship later, business first.
Chuuya remained silent, but inwardly nodded in agreement. Dazai was right. They weren't here to make friends and play games in a common room. They were here to figure out why they had been thrown into this world and how to get out. And until then, they had to remain ghosts. And ghosts don't drink tea and play board games with the living.
Watching Ashido's retreating back as she laughed loudly with her friend, Chuuya felt for a second a sharp, almost physical sense of detachment. He was an element, a factor, a threat. Something that watched normal life from behind an invisible but absolutely unbreakable wall. And this wall, as he was beginning to understand more and more clearly, was built not only around him by others. He himself was its cornerstone, its architect, and its guardian.
The rest of the day passed in the same rhythm. Two more lessons—gym, where they demonstratively kept away from team games, and history of heroism, where Dazai shone a couple of times with knowledge of dates and names, clearly gleaned from the textbook he'd skimmed at breakfast. Chuuya just sat silently, feeling glances on him but already getting used to them like background noise.
When the final bell finally rang, Chuuya and Dazai left the classroom in sync but keeping their distance, and silently headed for the dormitory. Returning to room 107 felt almost like a relief—no foreign stares, only silence and the two of them.
Chuuya, out of habit, first checked the window (locked) and the door (closed and locked). Dazai went into his cubbyhole but returned almost immediately, holding a small, almost unnoticeable speaker connected to something resembling an old MP3 player. It was strange, considering that even in their timeline, such a device was considered old and, when possible, recycled. How, 200 years later, such a player still existed here was a mystery…
"I found this treasure in the storage room, behind an old box. The previous residents must have liked listening to music as they fell asleep," he said, placing the device on the windowsill. "Do you mind if I create a little atmospheric noise?"
Chuuya shook his head. Dazai turned on the player. From the speaker flowed a quiet, calm melody—classical, piano, something melancholic and beautiful. Loud enough to drown out any potential bugs, if there were any, but not enough to interfere with conversation.
"So," Dazai began, sitting on the windowsill and looking out at the campus bathed in the warm sunset light. "The first full day at the most prestigious hero academy in Japan. Impressions, Chuuya?"
"Noisy," Chuuya replied curtly, sinking onto the couch. His body still hummed with tension he couldn't shed. "Too many people. Too many idiots."
"Oh, don't be such a harsh judge! They definitely have potential. Especially that green-haired one, Midoriya. He sees much deeper than the rest. Doesn't just observe, he analyzes, looks for patterns, weak points. A dangerous type in perspective. And that tall girl, Yaoyorozu. She doesn't just memorize material, she understands how to apply it practically, combine it, create something new. A resourceful person, haha, ironic given her Quirk. And Todoroki… he's completely silent, but in his silence, there's a tremendous weight. A fascinating specimen worth watching."
"Bakugo is a problem," Chuuya interrupted, frowning. "He won't back off. People like him don't back off until they get hit for real, until blood, until bones crack. Today's demonstration will only rile him up, make him look for new ways to prove his superiority."
"Agreed one hundred percent. But today you gave him just enough to make him think, but not enough to declare open war right now. The perfect balance of strength and restraint. By the way, Aizawa was watching the whole scene. I spotted him in the classroom doorway after you 'talked' to Bakugo. He stood there and… smirked. Well, as much as his perpetually sleepy and displeased face is capable of such complex facial contortions." Genuine amusement sounded in Dazai's voice.
Chuuya grimaced. "He wanted this demonstration. He deliberately set us up, provoked us, paraded us like dangerous animals."
"Of course. That's obvious. But that doesn't change the fact that the demonstration was brilliant. You made them afraid. And fear, as we know, is an excellent deterrent. At least for the time being, until we figure out what's really going on here and who the hell is behind it all." Dazai fell silent, looking at the sunset. Soft music played in the room, filling the pauses.
"Why were you tapping today?" Chuuya asked after a long pause, not looking at him. "In class, then in training, even in the cafeteria. It's risky."
"Ah, you noticed. Just testing the communication channel. Wanted to make sure you could hear me, that the system worked, and that in this world full of new sounds and noises, you hadn't lost the ability to distinguish signal from interference. And judging by how you relaxed slightly after my first message this morning—you hear perfectly. And, more importantly, you understand."
Chuuya was silent. Arguing was pointless. Dazai was right, as usual.
"What about tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Tomorrow we have, I think, physical education. Or, as they call it here, 'Combat Quirk Training.' I'm sure it'll be much more interesting than today. More space to maneuver, more opportunities for observation. And possibly new attempts at 'testing' from our zealous classmates. Be ready." Dazai jumped off the windowsill and stretched, his joints cracking. "For now, I'll retire to my void for an evening meditation on the futility of existence and the terrible taste of student jelly. I advise you to get some sleep too. The couch isn't a feather bed, but we don't have much choice. Who knows what tomorrow will bring."
He headed for the door to his cubbyhole but stopped on the threshold and, without turning, added:
"And, Chuuya… seriously. You were magnificent today. With Bakugo in the morning, and in training. Perfect work. A real little, but very bright and deadly star."
The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving Chuuya alone in the room under the soft, melancholic music. He stared at the closed door for a long time, unsure how to react to this strange, typically Dazai-esque compliment. Then he just leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and finally allowed himself to relax a little.
Tomorrow would be a new day. New lessons. New threats. New attempts by this world to let them in or destroy them. But for now… for now, they were together. Even through the wall separating their rooms. Even through this quiet, beautiful music. And that was enough. For the first time in a long time—that was enough.