Chapter Text
You learned early that the world was written.
Not controlled. Not predictable. Just… structured. Like there was a rhythm underneath everything—a pattern you could hear if you listened closely enough. Your Quirk, Beta Reader, let you tune into that rhythm. A whisper of dialogue before it was said. A single, weighted line of narration before the moment unfolded.
Not enough to change everything. Just enough to nudge it.
And when you pushed harder—really bent the plot—you paid for it. Ink-tears, Words burned into your skin, Echoes of scenes that almost happened bleeding into the real one. If you rewrote too much, reality got confused about what had actually happened.
But it kept you alive.
And you got good at staying neutral. Detached. You were the reader, not the main character. You didn’t get too involved. You watched. You adjusted. You made small edits that helped someone else survive the next chapter. You didn’t feel the story—you just made sure it kept going.
Until now.
⸻
The gates of U.A. loomed like a chapter title.
You stood with a crowd of soon-to-be heroes, your fingers twitching at your sides like you were turning invisible pages. Your Quirk was already humming, narrative tension pooling thick in the air around the crowd. You could feel the story trying to begin.
So many characters. So many arcs fighting to start.
You let your gaze drift from face to face, posture to posture. You didn’t need to know their names—just the tone. The beats. You could almost hear the sound design behind each of them: hopeful string swells, edgy guitar licks, upbeat percussion. Most of them didn’t know what kind of story they were in yet.
Then—
“What the hell are you staring at?”
The voice was sharp. Irritated. Freshly lit fuse.
You focus on it.
Blond. Spiky hair. Red eyes glaring at you like he was trying to explode your existence with just his expression.
“I said—what’s with that look? You looking down on me or what?”
You blinked once. Tilted your head slightly.
“Just reading the room.”
That earned you a beat of confused silence. Not because he didn’t want to argue—he clearly did—but your voice didn’t match the script he was expecting. Too calm. Too detached.
He scoffed.
“Creepy-ass narrator type.”
And then he shouldered past you like you weren’t worth a second line of dialogue.
You watched him go. Just another storm brewing in the background. You didn’t recognize him. Not yet. And your Quirk hadn’t tagged him with any particularly dramatic narration, either. No destiny. No declarations. Just tension.
You let it pass.
You had an exam to do.
⸻
The Exam
It started like chaos always did: fast, loud, and full of holes.
You weren’t built to be flashy. You didn’t have super strength or energy blasts or the kind of mobility that got you airtime in highlight reels. But you had edits. And edits were subtle.
A bot misread your position. Another’s attack stalled just long enough for someone else to step in. You nudged a few narrative lines mid-air, shifted the danger off yourself and into the hands of people who could handle it.
And when a collapsing building threatened to end a girl’s arc early, you rewrote it—just enough to shift a beam. Just enough for her to dodge. Just enough to keep the story going.
But it left a scar.
You walked off the battlefield with ink staining your fingertips. Your left eye was watering black. Your breath came fast—not from running, but from how much you’d changed. And you didn’t know which version of events was real anymore—the original one, or the one you’d forced to stick.
You didn’t win. You weren’t flashy. But your edits held.
Plot armor. Applied with precision.
⸻
Entering the Classroom
You got your letter. You were in. You didn’t know why the story chose to keep you—but you weren’t going to argue.
You stepped into 1-A for the first time, scanning the room with that same observational calm. The class wasn’t full yet, but you could see it starting. Characters locked into position. Arcs already branching. You adjusted your emotional tone to default—quiet, neutral, background energy.
Then:
“You again?”
You glanced to your left.
The blond was back.
Seat near the front. Slouched like he was ready to throw hands or start a war, and for a moment, he just stared at you.
“You’re the weirdo extra from the gate,” he muttered. “With the deadpan face and the creepy vibes.”
You blinked. Then let the corner of your mouth twitch.
“Guess I got a callback.”
He frowned, like he couldn’t tell if you were serious or mocking him.
“You talk like you’re already in a damn anime.”
You tilted your head. “I was told I had a good internal monologue.”
He narrowed his eyes. Like he wanted to argue but didn’t know what to argue with.
Finally, he just clicked his tongue and looked away. But not before shooting one more glance your way—like he’d filed you under “annoying” but wasn’t sure if he needed to upgrade that to “problematic.”
You took your seat.
The narrative pulsed faintly.
No foreshadowing. No romance ping. Just the unmistakable energy of two characters unknowingly locking into orbit.