Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Kacchan’s metability manifested, Izuku had been the only one there. The only one who saw. The only one Kacchan let see.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Izuku had whispered, eyes wide with something between awe and loyalty. “I promise. I’ll take it to the grave.”

And he meant it. Every word.

That was why, when Izuku saw Kacchan charging toward him across the schoolyard, eyes blazing and fists clenched tight at his sides, it wasn’t confusion he felt—it was dread. Because there was only one reason Kacchan would look at him like that.

Someone knew. Someone had told.

And the only person who ever knew... was him.

“You fucking traitor! ” Kacchan slammed into him, sending Izuku crashing to the ground, gravel digging into his palms. “They’re sending me to some goddamn boarding school because of you!”

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat. His mind was racing, spinning. No—no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. “I didn’t—Kacchan, I didn’t say anything!” He cried, shaking his head so fast it made him dizzy. “ I swear I didn’t tell anyone! ”

“Then how the hell did they find out— ” Kacchan snarled, grabbing Izuku by the collar of his shirt, hauling him up like a ragdoll, “— if I only told YOU?! ”

By the time Izuku was born, people like him—ordinary, powerless—had become a rarity. The world had changed. Gone were the days when humanity stood on even ground. Now, people were born with mutations, with abilities that bent the rules of reality. They were called metahumans, and the strange, often dangerous gifts they possessed were known as metabilities.

But society hadn't evolved as quickly as biology.

Metahumans weren’t celebrated—they were feared. To be born with a metability was to carry the weight of suspicion, of alienation. It meant being watched. It meant being judged for things you couldn’t control. And for those who stood out too much, who couldn’t hide what they were, there was a darker fate: being snatched up by underground labs, trafficked, experimented on, discarded.

So everyone learned the same lesson, whispered from parent to child, neighbor to neighbor: If you manifest, you stay silent. You hide. You never let anyone see what you can do.

It wasn’t about pride. It was about survival.

But Kacchan—Kacchan had broken that rule.

And now, the world was coming for him.

After that day, Izuku didn’t see much of Katsuki.

In truth, he didn’t see him at all.

Kacchan had left him there—burned, bruised, and barely conscious—on the edge of the park. The injuries were serious enough to keep him hospitalized for weeks. But even then, Izuku never spoke a word. He didn’t tell the doctors what had happened. He didn’t name Katsuki. He kept the promise, holding onto it like it was the last piece of a shattered childhood, even as time pulled them further and further apart.

He held onto it until he grew too old to keep torturing himself for a friendship that fate had already buried.

But silence, as he would soon learn, doesn’t last forever.

Izuku had never developed a metability—or at least, not one anyone could detect—during the usual age window between four and seven. So he assumed he was just human. Normal. Forgettable.

But then, during a routine check-up years later, the doctor furrowed his brow at the chart, looked up, and told him he was, in fact, a metahuman. Just like that. Then he asked Izuku to wait in the room while he went to fetch some forms that “needed to be filled out.”

Izuku wasn’t stupid.

No one asks a fifteen-year-old to sign legal documents without a guardian present. Something wasn’t right. Something was very wrong.

So he ran.

He fled the hospital. The city. Everything. He didn’t look back—not at the clinic, not at the life he was abandoning, not even at the grave of his beloved mother.

He didn’t know how he ended up at U.A. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the only place his body remembered wanting to be. He saw a group of teenagers laughing at the gate, and the sight was so painfully normal, so untouched by everything festering inside him, that it almost felt like hope.

He didn’t even realize he’d collapsed until the world tilted and his knees gave out.

But just before everything went black, he did hear something.

A voice. Hesitant. Familiar. Calling out a name he hadn’t heard in years—not like that. “Deku?”

Izuku woke up with a jolt, his heart racing.

The surface beneath him was far too soft to be a cold metal examination table. That alone was enough to throw him off.

His eyes fluttered open slowly—only to be met by a pair of furious, all-too-familiar crimson eyes.

“Kacchan?” Izuku whispered hoarsely, reaching out a trembling hand as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Could this really be happening?

“Hey, Deku,” Katsuki greeted flatly, knocking Izuku’s hand away with a sharp slap. “Guess weeds really don’t die, huh?”

Kacchan was standing right in front of him.

Kacchan was alive .

“Kacchan!” Izuku pushed himself upright in a sudden movement, ignoring the screaming protests of every muscle in his body. He threw his arms around Katsuki without hesitation. “I thought something had happened to you—I didn’t hear anything, I—”

The blond made an irritated sound in his throat and shoved him off. “Like you don’t know what happens to a metahuman once someone rats them out. It’s basically handing them straight to the guillotine. Or did you forget you’re the reason it happened to me?”

Izuku’s mind, still hazy from sleep and confusion, snapped into focus. Any fear, any gratitude, any relief was gone in a flash. He growled low in his throat, ready to risk getting blasted across the room.

“I didn’t tell a soul ,” he snapped back. “If you want to believe otherwise, that’s on you .”

He could see it—the way Katsuki’s expression darkened further, lips already parting for the kind of verbal assault that could flay skin from bone. But before he could get the words out, the door creaked open and—

A humanoid mouse stepped in.

“Is there a problem, Bakugo?” the creature asked in a voice far too cheerful, far too composed, with a glint in his eyes that suggested far more than the question itself. “Are we helping our guest feel at home?”

Katsuki rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Nothing, Principal Nedzu. Just catching up with the bastard who sold me out—though I’m guessing you already knew that.”

“Exactly, my dear student!” Nedzu chirped, almost humming with delight. “And I assure you, there are very good reasons why Midoriya has been accepted into this institution. Or do you doubt how I run my sacred academy?”

Katsuki looked like he was about to fire back—but then his jaw clenched. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed it.

“I thought as much,” Nedzu said with a satisfied nod, stepping further into the room. He gestured toward the door with an almost courtly wave. “Now, if you don’t mind, Bakugo. I need a moment alone with Midoriya. There are urgent matters to discuss.”

“Metahuman,” Nedzu began, pacing slowly around Izuku’s bed like a scholar before a lecture hall. “Born with extraordinary gifts… and yet, still children. Stumbling blindly in the dark, desperate for guidance. A gift can so easily become a curse. Give someone wings, and they may fly too close to the sun. Give them the gift of foresight, and they may live paralyzed by fear of what is to come. And give them the greatest power of all—abilities beyond comprehension—and they may believe they were meant to rule the world.”

Izuku watched him carefully, his breath caught in his throat. The room felt smaller with every word.

“But some,” Nedzu continued, a glimmer in his eye, “some live unaware of the magnitude of what lies within them. Just like you, Midoriya.”

Izuku blinked slowly, the words hanging in the air, strange and impenetrable. “I… I don’t understand.”

Nedzu gave a soft, almost musical chuckle. “Ah, yes. Your mind is certainly sharp, but it hasn’t quite caught up to mine yet.”

Metahumans were feared—hunted—for being different. They represented the next step in evolution, a new species that threatened to unseat the dominance of Homo sapiens sapiens . If the Homo sapiens superior had anything to say about it, the world was already on the verge of transformation.

“Just because you haven’t developed a flashy, visible metability like your peers doesn’t mean you’re ‘human’—at least not in the way that word is so often used to bestow dignity,” Nedzu said, his tone slippery, almost mocking. “In simple terms, you’re a rather curious metahuman.”

Izuku frowned. He hated how convoluted Nedzu’s language was, especially when all he seemed to be doing was dressing up what Izuku already knew. He was a metahuman—by genetics, not by choice. And if he’d run from a peaceful, invisible existence, it was because the moment someone knew what he was, he stopped being a person.

“I know I’m a metahuman, genetically speaking,” Izuku said slowly, carefully. “But there’s nothing in me—nothing external —that proves it. I don’t belong here.”

Nedzu shook his head gently and stepped closer. “Oh, but you do. Especially when the only other place for you… is out there. Where they’ll turn you into a weapon. Against us.”

Izuku’s head whipped toward him. “What are you talking about?”

A sharp smile curled across Nedzu’s face as he hummed to himself.

“To be perfectly honest,” he said, almost gleefully, “even I don’t know. But believe me when I say—I’m never wrong. Not even when I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Izuku’s head was pounding. So much so that he almost felt grateful Nedzu had decided to leave him alone for a few minutes. Almost. Because that peace shattered the moment he walked in—a man who looked like he’d lost a fight with life itself and never quite recovered.

“So you’re the metahuman kid without an actual metability?” the man asked, eyeing him from a distance like he was some kind of undercooked science project. “Well, at least I can look at you without my eyes drying out. That’s something.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m the weird kid again—do you really need to remind me? With all due respect, sir, I’d rather drown in my own misery than deal with someone mentally flipping me off every five minutes.”

That, somehow, struck a chord. The man’s expression shifted, something sharp glinting behind his tired eyes. A crooked, almost predatory smile crept onto his face.

“Good thing you’ve got spirit,” he said, voice low and gritty. “I was starting to worry about you.” He stepped closer. “Now, get up. Time to meet the other freaks you’ll be living with. Unless, of course, you have something better to do.”

Honestly? Staying in bed sounded like a damn dream. Especially if it meant avoiding teenagers who’d take one look at Katsuki, then look at him, and decide he wasn’t worth the oxygen.

“Is staying here an option?” Izuku asked, hopeful.

Of course not.

“That was an order, kid.”

The man standing before Izuku introduced himself as Aizawa Shota, a teacher with the unsettling ability to suppress the metabilities of other metahumans with just a look. Izuku couldn’t help but wonder how dangerous this man could be, and how easily he could be a threat to anyone who crossed his path.

If anyone is a real danger, it’s him, Izuku thought, eyeing Aizawa with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Do you actually work here?” Izuku asked, trying to sound casual as he looked over at a girl nearby with headphones shaped like ear lobes, clearly oblivious to the conversation. It was a strange scene, and Izuku couldn't help but wonder what kind of place he had walked into.

Aizawa-san simply nodded. “If I didn’t, I’d be in bed with my husband, not here dealing with all of you brats,” he said, as though it was an obvious truth. His casual manner made it difficult to tell whether he truly disliked being here or if he just had an odd sense of humor.

Izuku couldn’t quite pin it down. Aizawa either hated being here or really cared for his students; there didn’t seem to be an in-between.

Before Izuku could ask anything else, a blonde boy sprinted down the hallway, waving a crumpled piece of paper in the air. His energy was contagious, but his appearance was... a bit odd. He wore rubber gloves, cargo pants, and a t-shirt that was much too big for him, even though it was summer. Izuku raised an eyebrow at the sight.

“Mr. Aizawa!” The boy called out, grinning widely as he stopped in front of Aizawa. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Here’s my component assignment!”

Aizawa took the paper, his expression unchanged. “Kaminari, I told you that you could turn in all your assignments by the end of the month, remember?”

Kaminari nodded eagerly. “I know, Mr. Aizawa! But I don’t want to fall behind! Please, I just want to keep up with the training.”

Izuku listened carefully, watching the dynamic between the two. Aizawa didn’t seem particularly moved by Kaminari’s urgency, but there was something about his tone that made it clear he wasn’t dismissing the boy’s concerns either.

“Wasn’t Shinso helping you with your notes?” Aizawa asked.

Kaminari’s expression shifted at the mention of Shinso. “Yeah, Toshi’s been great! But I don’t want him to worry about me too much. At this rate, he’s going to get gray hairs!”

Izuku could see the tiny flicker of a smile on Aizawa’s face as he looked at Kaminari, though he quickly masked it. “He’d worry less if you actually followed the recovery plan and didn’t push yourself,” Aizawa said, his tone more matter-of-fact. “You had a seizure that put you in a coma because you didn’t listen to the instructions. Do you really want to be pulled from the intensive program and go back to the basics?”

Kaminari immediately shook his head, looking almost panicked. “No, no! I’m trying so hard! If I keep going, I think I can finally touch people without shocking them! I might even be able to kiss Toshi! You can’t take that away from me!”

Aizawa didn’t react immediately but instead handed the crumpled paper back to Kaminari. His voice was quieter this time. “Then take it easy, Kaminari. Shinso will wait for you.”

Kaminari’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the words, and for a moment, Izuku thought he saw a hint of gratitude in the boy’s eyes. But there was something odd about the way Kaminari stood there, frozen for a split second, like his body wasn’t quite moving the way he wanted it to.

Aizawa seemed to notice this at once. His eyes flickered, glowing yellow briefly, and Kaminari visibly relaxed. Aizawa gave the boy’s hair a quick ruffle before speaking again, in a quieter, almost fond tone. “Go rest in your room, kid.”

Kaminari gave a nod, seemingly more at ease now, and headed off. Izuku, watching it all unfold, couldn’t help but feel a little bit of respect for Aizawa. It wasn’t the harshness that stood out—it was the subtle care he showed, even if he wasn’t always open about it.

Izuku watched Kaminari disappear down the hallway, his footsteps light and hurried. Aizawa’s gaze followed him for a moment before shifting back to Izuku. There was a brief silence between them, the kind of silence that always felt a little too heavy when you weren’t sure what to say next.

Finally, Aizawa spoke again, his voice surprisingly calm.  “Such a good kid if only he didn't put his well-being at risk for others. Never do that, get it? I don’t need another one of that kind.” His hands were in his pockets, shoulders drawn in a little tighter than before. "He’s… friendly. Too much for someone who can’t touch others without hurting them. That’s the part that gets him. Not the danger. Not the pain. Just the idea that someone might flinch."

Aizawa's lips pressed into a flat line, the air heavy around them. "And yet, he smiles like he’s fine. Like it’s easy. Like he hasn’t nearly died from trying to prove he can be close to people."

Izuku said nothing. He didn’t need to. Something in the way Aizawa’s voice had cracked around the word 'died'  made his throat tighten.

"That kind of stubbornness…" Aizawa huffed softly. "It’s not bravery. It’s desperation."

He didn’t add anything more after that. Just kept walking, as if nothing had slipped out at all. As if his heart hadn’t briefly spoken louder than his mind.

Izuku stayed a few steps behind, wondering if one day, someone might speak that way about him too.

The door opened with a soft creak, and the sound of dragging footsteps filled the classroom. Everyone present immediately lifted their gaze, and the silence that fell was so sudden that one could almost hear the hum of the ceiling lights.

Aizawa walked in front of Izuku, hands in his pockets, in no hurry to soften the tension.

"This is Midoriya Izuku," he announced in his neutral voice, not needing to raise it for everyone to hear. "He’ll be with you from now on. Behave."

With that, he leaned against the wall next to the door, as if his job there was done.
Izuku felt the weight of every stare digging into his skin. He didn’t need to read minds to know that many already knew something about him… or at least, the version someone else had shared.

One of those gazes was impossible to ignore. He didn’t need to search for it: he knew exactly where Katsuki was. Sitting in the middle of the classroom, leaning toward his desk, he watched him with that hardened expression Izuku knew all too well.

Izuku lowered his head slightly, as if that could ease the discomfort.

Then he noticed that there were two empty seats: one right behind Katsuki, and another beside a boy who had his face resting between his arms crossed over the desk. His purple hair looked freshly washed, slightly messy, and his posture was closed, but not necessarily hostile. Just… distant.

Aizawa motioned with a vague nod of his head.

"You can take that one," he said, referring to the seat next to the purple-haired boy.

Izuku nodded, moving with cautious steps, but before he could sit, the boy at the desk raised his gaze.

"What are you doing?" The boy snapped, turning toward Aizawa with obvious irritation. "That’s Denki’s seat."

Aizawa didn’t even blink. "I know, Shinso. It’s temporary. Don’t worry."

Shinso made a face but only muttered something that Izuku couldn’t quite catch. However, the irritation in his voice was clear. The others, while not saying anything, exchanged uncomfortable looks. The whole class was palpable in their silence. No student seemed willing to ask questions or make comments that could break the tense calm.

It was then that Katsuki broke the silence, his voice as rough as always. "So now Deku’s trying to replace Dunce Face ?" He casted a scathing look at Izuku. "What are you doing here, Deku? Do you think you’re one of us now?"

Izuku felt his stomach twist at hearing that word. He knew exactly what Katsuki meant, but he didn’t think it was the right moment to defend himself. Despite everything that had happened between them, hearing his name used like that cut deep.

Katsuki continued, his tone biting. "You’re not a metahuman, you’re not one of us. All you do is screw everything up, doesn’t that make you feel better?"

Izuku clenched his fists, breathing deeply, struggling to keep calm, trying to think of how to respond. But before he could open his mouth, Shinso’s voice intervened, cutting and annoyed.

Aizawa, who had been observing the situation from the edge of the door, didn’t allow things to drag on any longer. With a smooth motion of his hand. "That’s enough," he said in his usual firm, authoritative tone. "Midoriya, just sit down. Bakugo, calm down or I’ll have to give you detention. Get it?"

The silence returned to the room as Izuku sat down quietly, carefully, as if occupying that seat meant more than it seemed. The brief murmur that rose when he moved lasted as long as a blink. Once he settled, the classroom fell back into that contained, charged silence, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen.

Izuku knew what they were feeling. He could feel the tension floating in the air like static electricity. He knew that, for most of them, he was no longer a mystery. They had already heard the story. They had already chosen who to believe.

And it wasn’t him.

Izuku sank into his seat, his hands trembling slightly as Katsuki's words continued to echo in his mind. "You're not one of us... all you know how to do is screw everything up..."

What Katsuki had said wasn’t anything new. He’d heard it so many times that, in a way, it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. But still, the intensity of his contempt pierced him like a dagger.

He looked forward, trying to focus on the board, but all he could see were the stares fixed on him, and the weight of the class on his shoulders felt almost unbearable. What was he really doing here? What did he hope to achieve?

What am I doing here?

He didn’t understand. He didn’t have a clear answer, just a knot in his stomach telling him there was no turning back. He’d had plenty of chances to escape this situation, to find another way, but for some reason, he’d decided to be here, surrounded by people who looked at him with distrust, or worse, indifference.

It wasn’t going to be easy. It never had been. But, at the end of the day, it didn’t matter whether he felt like one of them or not; because, theoretically, he was a metahuman with some hidden metability in his DNA, now officially registered like everyone else he shared this space with. This class was his only chance to live in a world that saw them as monsters.

And, as he braced himself for whatever came next, one question crossed his mind: Am I really capable of doing this?

But in the end, it was a question without an answer, and maybe, for now, it didn’t matter.

The bell seemed to release all the students from the oppressive atmosphere of the classroom, and within seconds, the room was filled with the bustle of backpacks being lifted, chairs scraping against the floor, and hurried footsteps rushing toward the door. Izuku, however, didn’t move from his seat right away. His mind was still trapped between doubt and unease, and although everyone around him seemed eager to escape, he stayed there, shoulders heavy and gaze fixed forward, trying to process everything that had happened in just a few hours.

As the classroom emptied quickly, Aizawa, who had remained silent by the door, didn’t say anything to stop the others. His gaze swept the room as the students filed out, until finally, it settled on Izuku. Without a word, he walked over to him.

Izuku straightened slightly, feeling the weight of his teacher’s eyes on him, but said nothing—his hands clenched on top of his desk.

Aizawa stopped in front of him and observed him for a few seconds as if evaluating something in his expression. “How are you feeling?” He asked, his voice calm and neutral.

Izuku looked at Aizawa for a moment, searching for the right words, but couldn’t find them. In the end, he just lowered his head. “I don’t know. All of this… I don’t understand any of it.”

Aizawa nodded slowly as if he had expected that answer. “It’s normal to feel that way. No one expects you to understand it right away. This place… it’s not easy for anyone. But it’s what you have. And it’s what you’re facing now.” He paused, his tone softening slightly. “Just give it your best. And when you’ve done that, go further.”

Izuku nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced by his own words. But he knew he had to keep going because if he didn’t, nothing would ever change.

When Aizawa took a step back, Izuku slowly stood up from his seat, feeling the weight of his teacher’s gaze. He didn’t say anything else, but he knew that conversation had marked a turning point.

With one last glance at Aizawa, Izuku stepped out of the classroom, ready to face whatever came next.

Izuku wandered down the hallway, the crumpled paper map clenched tightly between his fingers. He had been circling around for over ten minutes, trying to remember if Nedzu’s office was in the east wing, or if he had already passed it without noticing. Every corridor looked the same. White concrete, doors with small panels, the fleeting glances of the few students who crossed his path. Everything felt distant, foreign. As if he were walking through a building not meant for him.

He stopped at an intersection, trying to decide which way to go, when he heard footsteps approaching. He turned his head just as a figure came to a halt beside him.

"Are you lost?" Asked a warm voice.

Izuku looked up. It was a girl with a bob haircut and large brown eyes; he remembered seeing her earlier in Aizawa’s classroom.

"Ah… yeah, a little," he admitted, not bothering to hide his exhaustion. He lifted the map slightly, almost as an apology. "I’m looking for Nedzu’s office. I think I’ve walked past the same hallway three times already."

"Yeah, sounds like the classic welcome tour," she said with a smile. "I’m Uraraka Ochako. You’re in the old section of the west wing. The office’s on the other end, down a staircase that’s kind of hidden. Want me to show you?"

Izuku nodded, relieved. "Thanks. Midoriya Izuku."

"I know," she replied without hesitation, though her tone wasn’t awkward. "You made quite the first impression."

Izuku laughed nervously. "Glad to be of service."

They started walking at a slow pace, and for a moment, silence settled between them.

"I know it wasn’t the best welcome, and I’m really sorry everyone acted that way," she said at last, letting out a short sigh. "I swear they’re not usually like that. I think it was a mix of things. Kaminari’s situation left us all on edge, and you arrived right when nobody knew how to deal with it."

"What exactly happened with him?" Izuku asked, glancing at her sideways.

Uraraka bit her lower lip before answering.

"I’m not sure if I should say much... I don’t want to overstep. But you’ll probably meet him at some point! He tends to wander around here, sneaking out of medical rest." She hummed a little tune as they walked down the hall.

Izuku recalled Kaminari, wrapped almost entirely in bandages, trying to hand in an assignment weeks early, literally begging Aizawa to let him back into class.

"I met him briefly this morning. He seemed nice," Izuku said.

"He’s one of the friendliest people here!" She said, her voice brightening — before a shadow crossed her expression again. "That’s why it hit all of us so hard when he had that accident with his metability. Bakugo... well, he was really close to Kaminari. Doesn’t seem like it, but he was."

Izuku pressed his lips together, absorbing every word. Bakugo, calling a close friend "Dunce Face"? It felt like someone had forced a broken puzzle piece into place, bending the whole picture.

"Did he… Bakugo… talk about me to the others?"

She paused for a moment before replying.

"Yeah. A little. He mentioned that you… reported him when you were kids. That it’s the reason he ended up here. He didn’t give a lot of details. But it was enough for some people to feel wary."

Izuku turned his gaze away, guilt burning in his throat even though he hadn't done anything. Because he hadn't. He never reported Bakugo. He never said a word. But Bakugo believed it — and that was enough.

"Do you believe that?" He asked, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.

"No," Uraraka answered firmly, without a second of doubt. "I think it’s a misunderstanding. I don’t know exactly what happened between you two, but I can tell you... even though I trust him, I also trust my instincts. And you... you don’t seem like someone who hides behind a lie."

Izuku swallowed hard. He wanted to thank her, but the words wouldn't come.

"Besides," she continued, "we’re all a little defensive these days. Kaminari’s accident was like a crack in the wall, you know? We kept it patched up, but when you showed up, it felt like the whole system collapsed. And Bakugo… he cracked a little more too. He’s not at his best, and how he acted toward you... has more to do with that than with you personally."

"Will they ever accept me?" He, almost in a whisper, as if speaking to himself.

"Definitely!" She admitted brightly. "They just need time. Like Shinso — he showed up all grumpy, saying he didn’t want friends, and a few weeks later, he was still grumpy but calling us his friends anyway!"

They reached a large metal door with a small plaque beside it: Principal Nedzu.

"This is it," she said. "If Nedzu’s not inside, he probably left a note or something. He’s kind of... eccentric."

Izuku nodded, still processing everything she had said.

"Thanks for all this… Uraraka-san."

"Ochako," she corrected with a smile. "I’m not a big fan of honorifics. And don’t mention it. Just… hang in there, okay?"

She raised a hand in farewell and turned around, leaving him in front of the door.

For the first time since he arrived, Izuku didn’t feel completely alone. And for him, that was already a beginning.

Izuku took a steadying breath and knocked.

A moment later, a voice called from inside, cheerful and crisp, “Come in!”

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office was surprisingly cozy, with shelves crammed full of books, strange trinkets, and maps pinned across the walls. At the center of it all, behind a large, polished desk, sat a small creature with white fur, bright eyes, and a welcoming smile.

"Midoriya," Nedzu said warmly. "Glad you made it. Did you find your way all right?"

Izuku stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I got a little lost," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, "but Uraraka-san helped me."

"Ah, excellent. Building connections already," Nedzu chuckled, motioning for him to sit. "Come, come. No need to stand there."

Izuku obeyed, perching nervously on the edge of the chair.

"How have you been settling in, Midoriya?" He asked, voice light and even.

Izuku hesitated before answering.  "It's... a lot to take in," he admitted. "But I’m trying."

Nedzu nodded, as if he expected nothing less.  "That's all you need to do for now."

There was a pause, then Nedzu’s tone shifted slightly, still gentle but more direct.

"I believe you’re already aware," he said, "but to be clear: the State has officially classified you as a metahuman."

Izuku stayed quiet, a faint tension crossing his features. He simply nodded.

"It’s not something that can be undone," Nedzu continued calmly. "Your name is now tied to the system. Quietly, yes — your registration isn’t public knowledge — but it is recorded."

Izuku let out a slow breath through his nose. He had known it, somewhere deep down. Hearing it aloud only confirmed it.

"U.A. is here to help you," Nedzu said, sitting back slightly. "Our purpose is to guide young metahumans. To help you understand your abilities, control them, and — if you wish — prepare to rejoin society safely."

Izuku’s hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve as he processed Nedzu’s words. He was grateful for the understanding, but the uncertainty still gnawed at him. There was so much he didn’t know.

Nedzu, sensing his unease, continued speaking with an air of reassurance. “You don’t have to have everything figured out right now. There are plenty of ways for you to explore your abilities without the pressure of rushing to an answer.”

Izuku looked up, surprised.  “Really? I... I can do that?”

“Of course,” Nedzu replied. “At U.A., we have several avenues for metahumans to begin their journey. There are specialized workshops that focus on different skills — some help you hone your senses, while others assist in controlling the more... unpredictable abilities. You’ll also have access to medical support should you need it.”

Izuku nodded, though he couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed.   “So, it’s okay to just... watch and wait?”

Nedzu’s smile widened. “Absolutely. This isn’t a race, Midoriya. You have time to figure out what works best for you, and you’ll have the support of your peers and the faculty all along the way.”

Izuku felt a little lighter. It was a small relief to know that the pressure wasn’t entirely on him to have everything figured out immediately.

He shifted in his seat, feeling a bit more at ease. “Thank you, Principal Nedzu. I just... I want to do this right.”

“You will,” Nedzu said with quiet confidence. “And remember, you’re not alone. We’re here to guide you — every step of the way.”

Izuku smiled, even if it was a small one.  “Thanks. I’ll try my best.”

Nedzu nodded as he stood up, his posture calm and welcoming. “Take your time, Midoriya. There’s no need to rush. And if you ever need to talk or have questions, my door is always open.”

Izuku stood as well, grateful for the kindness and reassurance.  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again.”

With that, he turned to leave, the weight on his shoulders feeling just a little bit lighter.

As he made his way out of Nedzu’s office, he allowed himself a deep breath, knowing that, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t have to figure everything out immediately.

He had time — and a place to do it.

Chapter Text

“Guess who passed by that donut shop you love so much?”

Denki barely lifted his head at the sound of the raspy voice by the door. He was already smiling before he saw him—partly because he knew it was Hitoshi, partly because the thought of a sugar-coated donut, the kind Mr. Aizawa would probably call a nutritional crime, made his day a little less heavy.

“Toshi!” He said and stood up before his brain caught up.

Big mistake.

The second he did, everything spun. The room twisted, the floor tilted, and then it all just… vanished. White. Blurry. His legs gave out and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he was falling or floating or just not standing anymore.

“Denki!”

He didn’t see how Hitoshi crossed the room, but suddenly he was there—one arm around his waist, the other hand steady on his back. It wasn’t just instinct—it was practice. This wasn’t the first time.

“I’m… I’m fine,” Denki muttered, low and tense, though he knew it was a lie. He said it more out of habit than conviction.

His body was still trembling. The exhaustion felt like a stone in his chest—one that had been there since the day everything spiraled out of control. Hitoshi didn’t argue. He didn’t believe it either. He just held him a moment longer before guiding him gently back to the bed. He helped him sit without letting go completely, making sure he didn’t fall again.

The silence that followed was thick. Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Denki’s breathing was still uneven, and in the middle of that dense air, came the soft sound of a paper bag being picked up.

“They were protected,” Hitoshi said, quickly checking the contents. “A little squished, but still edible.”

Denki let out a faint laugh—barely a sound.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, eyes fixed on the floor. He stayed like that for a while, not saying anything, until finally he spoke.

“I shouldn’t have gone out this morning.”

Hitoshi didn’t say anything. He just waited.

“I felt good. Better. I got up without that pressure in my chest, without the weight in my legs. I walked without getting dizzy. I thought I could do it. So I grabbed the assignment and went to find Aizawa. I wanted him to see I was okay—that I could come back. But the moment I saw him, everything blurred.” He rubbed his forehead, as if trying to organize his thoughts. “And he knew. He looked at me like he already expected it. He asked if you knew what I was doing.”

“He told me,” Hitoshi said after a second. “You scared him. You scared me, Denki.”

No immediate reply. Hitoshi stayed close, listening. Denki could feel him there, steady. Like a lifeline that hadn’t snapped, even if everything else had.

“I just wanted him to see I’m trying.”

“He did,” Hitoshi said. “But he also saw someone desperate to prove something no one’s asking for. You’re still recovering. You don’t have to prove anything right now.”

“It’s for me,” Denki murmured. “I’m tired of this.”

“So you run through the halls, no breakfast, no plan, just to prove you're fine? Who are you proving it to?”

Denki didn’t answer.

“Feeling good for a few hours doesn’t mean you’re back. Some days will lie to you. One morning you’ll feel strong, and five minutes later you’re on the floor again. That’s how it goes. It sucks, but it’s what it is.”

Denki swallowed hard. “I didn’t think I was still this bad. Not until I stood up.”

“Well, now you know,” Hitoshi said. “Next time, don’t be dumb about it. Or at least text me first before doing something reckless.”

Denki nodded slowly. “Sometimes I think… maybe I’m being dramatic. That it wasn’t even that bad. But when I woke up in the hospital, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t even know what had happened. Just the pain, the lightning, and then everything went black. Like… like something snapped inside.”

Hitoshi looked down, arms crossed tightly.

“I saw you fall,” he said flatly. “You seized up in the middle of the gym. Foam in your mouth. Eyes rolled back. You weren’t responding. I thought I was going to lose you.”

Denki went still. Hearing it like that, raw and unfiltered, hit harder than he expected.

“I’m sorry,” he said, head still down. “I don’t know why I did it. Well… I do, but it doesn’t make it right.”

Hitoshi didn’t reply right away. Eventually, he leaned in, forehead resting close to Denki’s—but not quite touching.

“Don’t do it again. I’ve taken your shocks before,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb along the edge of Denki’s glove. “You don’t need to risk your life just to touch me. Don’t prove it like that. I don’t want that.”

Denki lowered his head even more. He understood. Of course he did. But he also knew it wasn’t enough. He knew that no matter what Hitoshi said now, one day he might get tired—of the gloves, the limits, the careful distance. And Denki wouldn’t blame him. The problem was, if that happened… he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He didn’t know exactly what for. But he knew Hitoshi needed to hear it. Maybe he needed to say it, too.

And even if he didn’t say it aloud, part of him knew he’d do it all over again. He’d take the risk. He’d fall. If it brought him even a little closer to being able to touch him freely, without fear, without barriers—he’d do it.

“Please, don’t do it again,” Hitoshi said softly, not raising his voice. It was a line. One Denki wasn’t sure what would happen if he crossed again.

Denki stayed silent. He wanted to argue. Say it wasn’t that simple. That living with a power that could hurt someone in a split second meant you never got to relax. But he didn’t say any of that. He just shrugged, like he could shake something off that way.

He leaned his forehead away first and gave Hitoshi a quiet smile, which Hitoshi returned. Then Hitoshi stood and set the bag of donuts on the table.

“If you’re not going to eat them, I’m keeping them.”

Hitoshi stepped out, carefully closing the door behind him. Denki was finally asleep, body turned halfway to the side, breathing deep, with half a donut still between his fingers. It had taken hours for him to calm down, to let the tension wear off, to stop pretending he was okay.

Hitoshi cleaned up the leftover wrappers, tucked the remaining donuts back into the bag—maybe he’d give them to someone else. Uraraka. Ojiro. Whoever he ran into first.

He didn’t expect to find Aizawa leaning against the wall, watching him silently.

“So you ignored the medical team's instructions regarding Kaminari’s diet,” he said bluntly. “I expected a bit more from you, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi didn’t bother defending himself right away. He just rolled his eyes, exhaled slowly, and lifted his hands.

“It was half a donut. Shuzenji-san said he could have some sugar. She didn’t specify the form.”

“I didn’t expect you to take that literally.”

“I didn’t do it to be difficult. Denki hadn’t eaten since this morning, and he needed to feel like something was still under his control. He didn’t even finish it.”

Aizawa listened, his eyes steady. Hitoshi lowered his voice a bit, knowing there was no point in pretending.

“He’s been pushing himself past the edge every single day. He thinks falling behind in anything means he’s disappearing. He acts like he’s fine, but he’s not.”

Aizawa gave a small nod.

“And you?”

“I’m tired,” Hitoshi said plainly. “Tired of not being able to help the way I want. Of watching him fold in on himself every time he tries to prove something.”

The silence was short. Then Aizawa changed topics, in that abrupt way he used when he wanted to move on without negotiating.

“Tomorrow you’ll accompany Midoriya. Show him around the school—internal functions, safe zones, evacuation routes.”

Hitoshi didn’t answer right away, but his expression changed instantly.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no one else?”

“No,” Aizawa replied flatly.

“Then the problem isn’t that there’s no one else. It’s that you don’t want to ask anyone else,” Hitoshi said, not hiding the irritation spreading across his face.

“You’re going to do it.” Aizawa repeated. “At 8:00 a.m. He’ll be waiting in Wing B.”

Hitoshi looked away and clenched his jaw. What frustrated him most wasn’t the order—it was that it came from someone who knew full well that he didn’t want to be anywhere near Midoriya.

From the moment Aizawa, without a word, had placed him in Denki’s seat like it was just any other. Like it meant nothing. Like the space left behind could simply be filled. It wasn’t the action itself—it was what it said. And the worst part was, Midoriya hadn’t questioned it. He’d sat down, lowered his head, and accepted it. Didn’t ask whose seat it was. Just followed the plan.

Everyone saw it. No one said anything. Except him. Only Hitoshi reacted. And ever since then, something had lodged in his throat.

“There’s an empty seat behind Bakugō,” he said suddenly, his voice cold. “No one touches it. It’s still clean. But you sat him in Denki’s spot. Why that one?”

“Because of the history between them,” Aizawa replied without hesitation. “I want to keep them apart for now. It wasn’t the time to start another fight.”

Hitoshi held his gaze, refusing to let it go. What hurt most was how casually he said it. As if it made sense to fill that gap. As if that seat hadn’t belonged to someone for a long time. As if Denki wasn’t part of the picture anymore.

He remembered what Bakugō said before Midoriya even arrived—that the person he’d trusted most had sold him out. That someone revealed he had a metability, forcing him to run to U.A. And Midoriya hadn’t denied it. He just lowered his head and endured it.

And now he was here. Sitting in Denki’s place. Like it meant nothing.

“That’s Denki’s seat,” Hitoshi said again, as if clinging to the point.

“It was empty.”

“But not available,” Hitoshi shot back. “It’s Denki’s, and it should have stayed free until he came back.”

Aizawa didn’t respond. He just took a breath. “When he’s recovered, Kaminari will reintegrate.”

He said it like it was simple.

“And what then? You’ll move him somewhere else? Remind him that things changed while he was gone?” Hitoshi’s voice rose—he didn’t try to stop it. “Denki’s been here way longer than Midoriya. But he’s the one who gets replaced for the new with the blurry past.”

Aizawa tensed slightly. His expression hardened. “I understand your frustration, but it’s not Midoriya’s fault.”

No. Of course not. But because of Midoriya—because of his unresolved mess with Bakugō—Denki lost his seat. And now Hitoshi had to be the one to show him around.

“So now I’m supposed to give him time I don’t have? Add him to my list of priorities?” Hitoshi clenched his teeth. “Am I supposed to take hours away from Denki to guide someone I don’t even trust?”

“Midoriya needs guidance,” Aizawa said, his tone flat.

“Denki needs me.”

“Kaminari has everyone looking after him. Midoriya doesn’t.”

Hitoshi looked down for a second. Not to yield, but to keep the anger from boiling over.

“This isn’t a request,” Aizawa added.

Hitoshi didn’t respond. He stared at him, fists clenched, jaw tight. He said nothing else—not because he agreed, but because he knew arguing wouldn’t change anything. Aizawa had already decided. As always. No need to raise his voice. No need to ask permission.

Only then did Hitoshi lower his gaze, inhale slowly through his nose, and nod stiffly. “Hope you’re satisfied.”

Aizawa said nothing more. He turned and walked down the hallway, no explanation, no goodbye.

Hitoshi stayed still. Alone. With the bag hanging from one arm and his shoulders heavy with a decision that was never his. He was going to do it—because he had no choice.

But he wasn’t going to forgive anyone. Not Aizawa. Not Midoriya. And not himself—for not finding a good enough excuse to say no.

Izuku walked in silence, a few steps behind the principal. The building had long, well-lit hallways, high ceilings, and discreet cameras tucked into the corners. They weren’t intimidating, but they were constant. There wasn’t a single spot that wasn’t under watch. Nothing escaped surveillance.

Nedzu walked at a steady pace, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t fully turn to speak—only tilted his head slightly, as if expecting Izuku to follow both his stride and the content of the conversation without question.

“This will be your building for now, Midoriya. The rooms are assigned based on logistical compatibility, risk control, medical supervision, and, of course, certain practical considerations. Your room was chosen taking into account your sleep patterns, clinical history, response to confinement, and a few other… less documentable elements.”

Izuku didn’t answer. He didn’t even frown. He just nodded once, though internally he wondered when exactly the principal had gathered all that information.

Nedzu didn’t slow his pace.

“You’ll be sharing the room with another student,” he continued. “His name is Neito Monoma. An interesting profile. You’ll find him... talkative when he has something to say. Though that’s not always the case. He tends to adapt—in his own way.”

Izuku nodded again, still silent.

“He won’t be around much,” Nedzu added. “Between activities, training, and various responsibilities, you won’t see him often. Which can be a good thing. Or not. That depends on how you choose to handle it.”

It wasn’t clear if Nedzu was joking or serious. Izuku didn’t ask.

They walked up a short ramp. Ahead of them was a secured door with an ID scanner. Nedzu placed his palm over the reader, unhurried. The system recognized him instantly, releasing the lock with a soft hum.

“This is it,” he said finally, pointing to one of the doors. “Your assigned space. No key needed—the system will recognize your fingerprint and your pulse. You can also adjust settings from the internal panel. If you have any technical or medical requests, there's a digital inbox we check before eight each night.”

Izuku stopped in front of the door. He looked at it but didn’t touch it. The only thing he could think about was how light the backpack on his shoulder suddenly felt.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Rest tonight, Midoriya. Tomorrow, Shinso will give you a general orientation. But tonight is yours. I suggest you use it.”

The door opened with a soft click. Inside, the light was dim but sufficient. Two beds facing each other, individual desks, a window with no view, and slightly cool air. Clothes were folded neatly on one of the shelves, a lamp was turned on above the left desk, and that side of the room was arranged with near-clinical precision.

“Monoma has been informed of your arrival,” Nedzu added from the doorway. “He’ll give you space. Or he won’t. But he’ll know how to manage it.”

Izuku stepped across the threshold without answering, without looking back. Nedzu didn’t follow. He waited a few seconds, then walked off down the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Jiro was sitting on a mat, her headphones hanging loosely around her neck. Her back was slightly hunched as she stretched in silence. A few steps away, Ashido kept hopping on the same spot, quietly counting under her breath while keeping rhythm with her feet. In a corner, Asui was reading something on her tablet, wearing the same serious expression as always. Everything seemed to be following its usual course—until Ochako walked into the room holding up a paper bag.

"Anyone want some unauthorized carbs?"

Ashido turned immediately, her eyes lighting up.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Donuts. They were thrown at me. Literally."

"Who throws donuts?" asked Jiro, pulling out one earbud.

"Shinso. He had that face—like, don’t talk to me. He looked at me, handed them over, said ‘here’ and just kept walking."

Ashido carefully pulled one out, like she was expecting something weird inside. It was chocolate, slightly squished on one side. She stared at it for a second.

"So, what was his deal?" she asked eventually, not sounding too curious.

Ochako hesitated before answering, arms crossing over her chest. "I don’t know. I didn’t ask."

Sometimes people didn’t need more noise on top of whatever they were already carrying. She understood that. When they rescued her, she couldn’t speak either. Wouldn’t. It was easier not to look anyone in the eye.

"Probably about Kaminari," said Jiro, leaning back to stretch. "I saw him running down the hall. Thought he was gonna collapse."

"Or because Aizawa gave Kaminari’s seat to the new kid," added Hagakure from the back, just as a donut floated into the air. "Midoriya, right?"

Ochako went quiet for a few seconds. She thought about how Midoriya had looked when she found him. He was holding a crumpled map and walking like he didn’t want to bother anyone, like he was waiting to get bumped into and asked to leave. 

She had walked like that once too. After the accident. When it hit her that life wasn’t going back to normal, because there was no one left to go back to. 

"That guy showed up already marked," said Ashido, with a bite in her mouth. "First Bakugo tells everyone what he did, then he goes and sits in Denki’s spot. Just like that."

"I ran into him earlier," Ochako said finally. "He was lost, looking for Nedzu’s office. I walked with him."

"And?" Ashido asked.

"He didn’t seem like a threat," she replied without hesitation.

She believed it—because there was something in Midoriya’s eyes that couldn’t be faked. Something broken, but not dangerous. Like he was trying not to hurt anyone, like just carrying his story was enough of a burden.

"Or he’s just a good actor," Jiro muttered, but not too convinced.

Asui looked up. "How old were they when that thing with Bakugo happened? Five?"

"Amen!" Ashido jumped in. "Seriously, who hasn’t said something dumb at five?"

"It’s not the same," Jiro said. "But Bakugo’s a lot of things, and a liar isn’t one of them."

"It’s not a lie if the person truly believes it," added Asui softly, turning another page.

Ochako took a breath before speaking again. "Midoriya said that’s not what happened. That he didn’t turn anyone in. And… I believe him."

She didn’t need anyone to answer. She already knew that believing in someone new, when everyone had already made up their minds, was a lonely choice. But it was hers. And if Mr. Yamada hadn’t shown up back then—if he hadn’t believed in her when she was just a scared little girl inside that truck—she wouldn’t even be here now.

Silence. Just for a second. But it was enough.

"I feel bad for the guy," Ashido said as she pulled out another donut. "Maybe we’ve been a bit harsh."

"He’ll toughen up," Jiro said flatly.

"He’s just trying to find his place," Ochako murmured.

"And the rest of us trying not to break anything else," added Jiro, standing up. "Let him earn his spot. That’s how this works."

No one said Midoriya’s name again after that.  But they were all thinking about him. Ochako especially. Maybe more than anyone else.

Izuku stood at the doorway, frozen. He didn’t take off his backpack. He didn’t move further into the room. He just looked. The room was bigger than he expected, but it didn’t feel empty. One side was clearly lived-in—organized desk, made bed, books, a mug. The other side felt too clean. A folded blanket, empty drawers, space that seemed prepared for someone, but not exactly welcoming. Like everything had already been decided before he arrived.

It didn’t feel like it was his.

Behind him, he heard the quiet turn of a chair.

“So you’re the new guy.”

Izuku turned around. The boy sitting at the desk didn’t look surprised. More like he already knew everything he needed to.

“We saw each other when you got here,” the boy said, flatly. “Main classroom. You were standing next to Kaminari’s seat. Ring a bell?”

Izuku hesitated. “Not really... There were too many people. It was... a lot.”

“Yeah. It showed. Most people try to remember names. You looked like you were just trying to stay upright. You managed, though.”

Izuku finally stepped in and dropped his bag next to the empty bed. He still didn’t sit down. “Izuku Midoriya.”

“Neito Monoma,” the boy replied, like the name didn’t matter anymore. He closed the notebook in his hand and placed it calmly on the desk, as if now he was actually paying attention. “That all you brought?”

“Yes.”

“You ran away?”

“Yes.”

Monoma didn’t react. He just looked at him with a neutral expression. “Happens. Doesn’t help much with inventory, but at least you checked in properly.”

Izuku didn’t say anything. He’d spent the whole day feeling like a stray being absorbed into a system that didn’t really know what to do with him. Everything about his arrival felt pre-arranged—the paperwork, the silence in class, the strange glances, the seat next to the boy with the purple hair. Like he’d been dropped into a puzzle that didn’t have room for new pieces.

“Did they assign your orientation tour?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“Who’s doing it?”

He answered automatically. “Someone named Shinso.”

Monoma gave a short, dry laugh without moving. “Of course. Had to be him.”

Izuku looked at him, confused. “You know him?”

“Well enough to know he didn’t volunteer. Tall, tired-looking, purple hair like he lost a fight with the wind. If he doesn’t talk to you, don’t take it personally. If he does, thank the system.”

Izuku looked down. That was the boy from earlier. The one sitting next to him in class. Silent. Irritated. Never said a word, but it had been obvious he didn’t want him there.

“I’m not expecting anything,” Izuku said quietly.

Monoma turned slightly in his chair and grabbed his mug. “You probably already figured it out. Not many people with purple hair walking these halls.”

Shit.

“He sits next to you. Or—well, next to Kaminari’s seat. Which, now, is yours.”

Izuku felt something twist in his stomach. He remembered the way Shinso looked at him. Not with hatred, but like his presence was wrong. Like just sitting there was some kind of offense. Like he was trying to replace someone.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t. Even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.

He’d met Kaminari. Even like that, recovering, the energy around him was real. Something people noticed. Something that didn’t just disappear. He remembered how Aizawa spoke about him. How Uraraka talked about the seat. How even Shinso had made it clear—he didn’t want Izuku sitting there.

“Irony’s got good timing,” Monoma said, almost amused.

Izuku didn’t answer. He just stood there, next to a bed that didn’t feel like his, thinking that maybe the worst part wasn’t that Shinso hated him.

The worst part was that maybe he didn’t belong here either.

Chapter Text

No matter how much he tried, Izuku couldn’t sleep that night.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind stirred with fragments that refused to settle—voices, memories, guesses. Bakugo’s expression when he talked about him. Uraraka’s voice. Shinso’s eyes the first time they met. Monoma’s comment about Kaminari’s seat, the way he said it like it was a fact, not up for debate.

At some point—maybe around three or four in the morning—Izuku had finally lain down, more out of exhaustion than intent. But even lying flat, he couldn’t relax. His breathing was uneven. His chest ached. His neck felt heavy. The mattress felt foreign, like it was pushing back, like it knew he didn’t belong.

Damn it, Izuku muttered to himself.

By the time the first pale light filtered through the blinds, his eyes were still wide open.

Shit.

He got up without making a sound, walked to the bathroom, and washed his face twice—more out of habit than hope.

Across the room, Monoma was fast asleep.

After a few more offhand jabs at Izuku’s misfortune, Monoma had lost interest in conversation. He’d gone about his routine without another word—got into bed, no questions, no goodnights. No lamp, no phone. Just silence, thick and settled.

Maybe, over time, they’d talk more. They were roommates, after all. They’d have to learn to share space.

But that thought didn’t bring Izuku any comfort.

He checked the time: 4:45 a.m.

Still hours before the morning tour.

He sat on the edge of his bed, towel still damp in his hands. He ran it slowly across the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension that hadn’t let go all night.

Why me?

"Hey, rookie." The voice came from across the room—distant, but persistent. "New kid. Up."

Izuku’s eyes snapped open, disoriented. He had no idea when he’d fallen asleep. The last thing he remembered was sitting at the edge of the bed, arms resting on his knees. He’d only closed his eyes for a second—or so he thought.

“If you want to make it to the eight o'clock tour, move,” Monoma said from the other side of the room, making no effort to lower his voice. “Shinso hates being kept waiting.”

It took Izuku a few seconds to process the words. His body ached like it had been compressed all night. He blinked. Slowly straightened. His neck was stiff, arms numb from sleeping curled up.

Monoma watched him with one eyebrow raised, a mug in hand. He wore a loose hoodie over his pajamas, and his hair was flattened by a soft beanie.

“Thanks,” Izuku mumbled, barely audible.

He went straight to the bathroom. Washed his face. Brushed his teeth. Ran his fingers through his hair. He didn’t dare look in the mirror longer than necessary—he was certain he looked like someone who hadn’t slept more than half an hour. No need to confirm it.

When he stepped out, still groggy, the room felt unchanged. Quiet. Still.

Monoma had settled at his desk, flipping through something, his half-finished mug next to him. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

Izuku moved toward the door, unsure whether he should say goodbye or just leave.

He was about to turn the doorknob when Monoma’s voice stopped him. “Good luck with Shinso.”

Izuku turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Monoma raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t expected a reply. “You’ll need it.”

Izuku nodded, not sure whether Monoma was being helpful or just toying with him.

And with that, he stepped out into the hallway.

Izuku got lost on his way to Wing B.

It didn’t happen right away. At first, he thought he was heading in the right direction.

But the hallways kept splitting, the signs were discreet, and the spaces all looked so similar that, after two turns, he couldn’t tell if he was still descending or had ended up in the same place for the third time.

He tried not to panic. Pulled out the map they’d given him—but it still made no sense.

No matter how long he stared at it, nothing added up.

“Wing B… Wing B…” he muttered, as if saying it out loud would anchor him somewhere.

No reply. Just his own breathing and the soft echo of his footsteps.

He glanced at the clock—and froze. 8:10.

I’m screwed.

Heat rose to his face, sharp and immediate. He considered retracing his steps, but couldn’t remember where he’d taken the first wrong turn. And even if he wanted to run, he’d probably just get more lost.

Finally, after taking a hallway at random, he pushed through a sliding door and—there it was: a sign that read Wing B. He almost missed it, nerves clouding his vision.

He quickened his pace, breath catching in his chest, until he rounded the last corner—and there he was. The one Monoma had described as Shinso. Arms crossed. Eyes cold enough to kill, if he wanted.

Izuku stopped a few meters away, chest burning from the effort. His backpack felt heavy. So did his whole body.

“Sorry—Shinso?” he said, trying to sound calm. “I… I got lost.”

Shinso didn’t answer right away. He looked at him in silence, then lowered his eyes to his watch.  “You’re ten minutes late.”

“I know. I’m really sorry,” Izuku said quickly, forcing himself to hold the other boy’s gaze. “I took the wrong turn.”

“Not my problem,” Shinso replied, not even pretending to be polite. “They told me to give you the tour.”

Izuku gave a small nod, swallowing his discomfort.

“You’re already late. And you’re wasting my time.” That last part was muttered under his breath, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but just loud enough for Izuku to hear.

“Let’s get started.” Shinso turned and began walking, adding nothing else.

Izuku followed in silence.

Shinso was a very practical guide; he said only what was necessary. He pointed, explained, moved on. Still, Izuku could barely keep up.

The lights were soft, warm. The hallways were clean, but not empty. There were whiteboards with drawings, bulletin boards with handwritten schedules, backpacks leaning against walls. In some areas, the signs of constant use were obvious. In others, the silence was nearly complete.

At one point, they passed the cafeteria. It wasn’t very large, but it had tables with chairs of varying sizes, trays organized by section, and a screen displaying the menu of the day. There were colorful mugs too, some with hand-drawn decorations.

Farther down, they walked through a gallery that connected to the training areas. Behind the glass, students could be seen going through individual routines under the supervision of sensors and monitors. Most worked in silence, focused and composed. Some wore gloves. Others, helmets. A few had some kind of body adaptation that Izuku couldn’t immediately identify.

He lowered his gaze when they passed a medical observation room. Inside, a pair of nurses reviewed a digital chart, while a student sat on a cot reading a folded magazine.

They walked for a while longer. The space was full of sensors and small screens, but also had windows open to the outside, simple plants, and framed quotes hung quietly on the walls.

When they finally stopped, Shinso pointed toward two different routes.  "From here, you’re on your own", he said. Then checked his watch. "If you have a question, ask anyone. Just not me."

Izuku dipped his head slightly.  "Thanks for the… tour." It took effort to say it, but he did. "I know you didn’t have to do it."

Shinso glanced at him sideways, expression unchanged. “It’s good that you know that.”

Izuku nodded, swallowing. "I get it. And… sorry. About the seat. Kaminari’s seat, I mean. I didn’t know… I didn’t mean to…" He stopped. "I can sit somewhere else. The spot behind Kacchan is empty. I don’t mind."

There was a brief pause. Shinso looked at him then—without softness, without sympathy.  "You think this is about chairs?"

Izuku barely held his gaze. He couldn’t say a word.

"This is about you not understanding where you’re standing." His tone wasn’t loud, but it was firm. "We’re not going to be friends. You’re taking time away from someone who actually matters to me. So stop thanking me. And don’t talk to me unless it’s necessary."

With that, Shinso turned and walked away without waiting for a response.

Izuku didn’t follow.

When Izuku entered the room, he didn’t think about much.

His head was heavy, his shoulders tense, and his body moved by inertia alone. 

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he let the backpack drop to the floor and walked straight to the side he was already starting to recognize as his own. He didn’t even take off his shoes. He just collapsed face-first onto the bed, releasing a sigh that wasn’t loud but felt like a silent scream. He buried his face into the blanket. He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to replay the conversation with Shinso. Didn’t want to go over every word—though he knew he would anyway.

Then he heard something.

A soft crinkling sound. A bag being opened, followed by a quiet chuckle.

Izuku turned quickly. He wasn’t alone.

On the other side of the room, Monoma was sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, a drink in hand and an expression that mixed amusement with mild annoyance.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Across from him were at least three more people—one sitting in Monoma’s chair, another on the floor against the wall, and a girl perched at the edge of the other bed. They looked relaxed. Comfortable. As if the room belonged to them, too.

Izuku sat up instantly.

There was a red-haired girl with a long ponytail, a thin boy with very dark skin, and another boy with brown hair who had just shoved a whole donut into his mouth.

“Look who’s here. Just as we were starting to talk trash about you,” Monoma said, cutting through the silence.

The comment hung for a second. One of the others let out a soft laugh, but it wasn’t mocking. The rest simply looked at him—no judgment, no welcome either.

Izuku stood stiffly. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know… I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting, rookie!” the brown-haired boy said with his mouth full as he stood and wiped powdered sugar off his hands. “Kosei Tsuburaba!” He held out his hand.

Izuku took it, noticing the chocolate smudges still on his fingers. “Izuku Midoriya.”

The girl’s hand grew larger as she waved from where she sat.

“Itsuka Kendo! Welcome to UA!”

“Shihai Kuroiro,” said the dark-skinned boy in a low voice, “so you’re the new kid who ratted Bakugo out?”

Izuku’s forced smile froze. His extended hand lowered.

“Kuroiro!” Kendo snapped, turning toward him. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Kuroiro shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Dude, really?” Tsuburaba muttered, dropping back onto the floor.

“Better to be blunt than let him think everything’s fine,” Kuroiro said, grabbing a bag of chips and fixing his eyes on Izuku. “Nothing personal. But people have been talking since you arrived.”

Izuku didn’t know what to say. His arm was still halfway in the air, as if stuck mid-motion. Cold tension crept up the back of his neck.

He knew it, of course. He knew people were watching, whispering. But hearing it so plainly, so directly, made it feel like he’d walked into a conversation that had started long before he arrived. “It’s fine,” he said at last—more reflex than belief. “I’m used to it.”

Kendo looked at him with a mix of surprise and sympathy but stayed quiet. Tsuburaba opened another donut. Monoma smirked.

“Don’t take it personally,” he added, sipping his drink. “No one here has a filter. And if we did, we wouldn’t waste it on newbies.”

Izuku forced a smile. “It wasn’t like that,” he said eventually.

He sat back on his bed, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the floor as if it held something important.

For a moment, the room went quiet. Not completely, but enough for the sound of Kuroiro’s chip bag to seem too loud.

“You were gonna say it sooner or later,” Monoma commented, crossing one leg over the other. “Not like anyone here can confirm or deny it. But relax—the group’s already decided what it wants to believe. That’s how this works.”

“Hey!” Kendo cut in before the tension could rise again. “Don’t talk like we’re at a trial. He’s already here. The least we can do is not make him feel like he walked through the wrong door.”

Tsuburaba nodded, mouth full. Kuroiro only raised his eyebrows and stayed silent.

“Thanks,” Izuku murmured, almost automatically, still not looking up.

“Don’t thank us yet,” Monoma said. “You’ve only been here two days.”

Izuku didn’t answer. But he didn’t lower his head any further either. He just leaned back a little, his back against the wall, hands loosely folded in his lap.

“Did you get your tour already?” Kendo asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Izuku said with a slight grimace. “Didn’t retain much.”

“Who gave it to you?” Tsuburaba asked.

“Shinso.”

“You’re serious?” Kuroiro whistled, half teasing, half surprised. “Bad luck. That guy has one mode: rushed and annoyed.”

“Yeah,” Izuku nodded. “He told me I was wasting his time.”

“Sounds about right,” Tsuburaba muttered.

“Must’ve been Aizawa’s doing,” Kendo said thoughtfully. “Shinso wouldn’t volunteer for that. If he did it, he was told to. Or couldn’t say no.”

Monoma chuckled softly, not looking up.

“That’s the kind of favor you do out of obligation, not kindness.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Kendo added. “Shinso has… other things on his mind right now.”

Izuku remembered the hallway. Kaminari, limping slightly, holding the wrinkled paper, smiling despite the pain. Toshi’s gonna go gray, he had joked. At the time, Izuku hadn’t thought much of it. Just a name. A casual nickname.

But now it clicked. Shinso. Hitoshi Shinso. Toshi. It all fit.

The reaction to the seat. The tension in class. The silence. The way everyone talked about Shinso like his priorities were elsewhere—more important.

“Is he okay?” Izuku asked suddenly, without thinking. He didn’t look at anyone in particular. The question just came out. And it surprised even him.

Tsuburaba set the box of donuts aside. “Kaminari? Yeah… I mean, as okay as he can be. He has good days and bad ones.”

“He’s a mess,” Kuroiro added in a neutral tone. “But a likable one.”

Kendo nodded. “And he has Shinso watching out for him.”

“They’re weird,” Monoma summarized. “But it works. And if anyone messes with Denki, Shinso will tear their head off. End of story.”

Izuku nodded in silence. The tension in his shoulders had started to ease—not completely, but enough that he didn’t feel like a total outsider. Maybe just someone late to the party.

“I don’t know him,” he admitted. “Kaminari, I mean.”

“You will,” said Tsuburaba, smiling. “If he likes you, you’ve won over half the class. And honestly? He’ll probably befriend you before Shinso can even tolerate you.”

“And if he hugs you, you’ve made his day,” Kendo added. “Literally. His hugs are the best. Though he still can’t touch us without gloves, so…”

“But he tries,” said Kuroiro, this time with no sarcasm.

Izuku looked at the floor for a second, then up at the group.

There was a warmth here he hadn’t expected. And even if it wouldn’t last, for now, he was grateful.

“Thanks,” he said again—clearer, firmer.

“Yeah, yeah,” Monoma muttered, sipping his drink. “But if you’re gonna stick around, at least bring snacks next time. This isn’t a shelter.”

Izuku let out a soft laugh. He didn’t try to hold it back.

It wasn’t much. But for now, it was enough.

The punch landed with a dry, solid thud against his knuckles. Then another. And another. The punching bag swung hard, brushing the chain at its highest point, but Katsuki didn’t stop.

The UA gym at night was almost empty, lit only by the dim automatic lights and the muffled echo of his strikes. The wraps around his hands were soaked with sweat, tied so tightly they nearly cut off circulation—but he didn’t care.

Each hit was an unspoken name. Every creak of the worn-out leather, a memory slammed against the wall.

Deku.

The bag shuddered with a direct blow to the center. Katsuki snorted through his nose. He wasn’t thinking about him. He wasn’t going to. He wasn’t going to let that idiot’s face loop in his mind again, that hurt expression that didn’t ask for forgiveness—but didn’t fight back either.

“Tch,” he spat through clenched teeth, stepping back just enough to throw a quick hook. Then another. Then a straight punch—no technique, just raw power.

The bag shook under the force of another blow, this one so violent the leather groaned. Katsuki gritted his teeth, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He had seen him—walking through the doors like he belonged, like this place was his. Like he wasn’t the goddamn reason everything went to hell.

UA was all he had left. The only place untouched by the filthy hands of normal humans. The only thing not stained by that afternoon—by the moment they dragged him away from his life. Locked him up. Reeducated him. Watched him. Marked him. All because of a betrayal.

His betrayal. And now he was here.

“No…” Katsuki growled, body coiled like a spring. He hit the bag again. Harder. Faster.

He couldn’t allow it. Katsuki knew what Deku was capable of.

Because he had seen him stay silent. Smile. Swear to keep a secret to the grave. And in the end… it was him. He was the one who sent him to hell.

“Fucking traitor…” he muttered, voice low and bitter.

UA was his refuge. The only place where they didn’t look at him like a bomb waiting to go off.

The bag swung again, chain squeaking overhead. Katsuki didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. He felt the anger boiling in his throat like old bile, rising fast and thick.

He struck again, this time with his wrist misaligned. The pain shot up his arm, sharp and searing. He didn’t care.

“That bastard shouldn’t be here,” he growled.

Deku was a threat. Not because of what he’d done—but because of what he could do again. No one betrays just once. Not when they do it so easily. So cleanly.

No one who can look you in the eyes and say, “It wasn’t me,” after leaving you alone under the weight of the world deserves to walk these halls. Not after what they all had to survive. Not after what some of them had to sacrifice to get here.

What if one of the others opened up to him? Said too much? Trusted someone who only knew how to stay quiet until the perfect moment to drive in the knife?

He thought of Shitty Hair. Pinky. Dunce Face. All the extras he shared his days with. If any of them let their guard down… Deku would only need to say the right words. Look at the right person. Speak at the right moment.

And everything would burn again.

He hit the bag with his forearm. Again. His breath was uneven now, sweat dripping from his jaw. The bag wasn’t swinging as much anymore. It didn’t push back. As if it, too, understood this wasn’t training.

It was a warning.

“I won’t let him ruin it,” he whispered, feeling the words drag from his mouth like ash. “Not again. Not this time.”

He imagined Dunce Face, drained of his electricity. The experiments they could run with Shitty Hair’s skin, or Pinky’s acid. What if they tested the limits of Soy Sauce’s tape? Or wrung every last drop of fat from Ponytail?

Katsuki clenched his fists so tight the wraps dug deeper into his skin, cutting off what little circulation was left.

He wasn’t going to let anyone else fall.

Nedzu’s office was silent. The city stretched beyond the wide windows, cloaked in distant lights and muffled noise, but inside, only the soft ticking of the wall clock could be heard.

Seated in his chair, the principal held a cup of now-cold tea between his paws.

On the screen in front of him, small windows shifted in sequence: internal cameras, routine reports, access system updates. Nothing that required the attention of someone in his position. Yet among all those mundane data points, one stood out. Not for what it showed—but for what it implied.

 

IZUKU MIDORIYA

— Status: Active

— Access Level: Limited

— Classification: Unregistered Meta-Human

— Observation: Permanent

Nedzu tilted his head slightly, his small claws laced together on the keyboard. A flicker of something resembling amusement crossed his eyes.

What an interesting case.

Chapter Text

"That's strange," the doctor had murmured. "Did you know you're missing a joint in your pinky toe?"

Izuku hadn't known. No one had.

"It's nothing serious," the man added, almost offhandedly. "But... it's rare. Very rare. I'll make a note of it and give you a few forms to sign."

Izuku jolted awake.

His heart was pounding, even though he couldn’t recall any specific dream. Just a chill at the base of his neck, and the nagging feeling that something was watching him—from inside his own skin. He blinked a few times. The room was still dim, washed in the bluish light of dawn seeping through the half-closed blinds.

He sat up slowly. The mattress creaked beneath him. There was no need to check the time. He already knew it was too early.

Elbows resting on his knees, he let his head hang forward.

Just one full night of sleep, God. That’s all I ask.

He lifted his head sluggishly. Monoma was still asleep on the other side of the room, one arm tossed over the blankets, his face turned toward the wall. His breathing was steady. Calm. As if nothing lurked behind his back. As if the world still made sense.

Izuku stood. The floor was cold under his feet, but he didn’t bother looking for his sandals. He walked quietly to the bathroom and closed the door behind him with care. He turned on the tap. Splashed cold water on his face with shaking hands—not from fear, but from exhaustion he no longer knew how to shake off. Then he looked up at the mirror.

Nothing strange. No marks. No signs.

And yet, the pressure was still there beneath his skin. That weight. Like something was there, barely contained. Waiting.

Izuku clenched his jaw.

He didn’t know what it was. No one did. Not even him. Just a clinical report, a damn X-ray that shouldn’t have shown anything. And yet… it had changed everything.

A missing joint. A note in a medical file. And suddenly, the world stopped treating him like he was human.

As if he’d never been.

He turned off the tap.

The water dripped once more before falling still. Izuku grabbed the towel and dried his face slowly. He didn’t look at the mirror again. He switched off the light, as if doing so could also shut off the feeling crawling down his spine.

Back in the room, he moved quietly toward his bed. Slipped under the blanket without changing. The sheets were cold. The mattress, too worn from sleepless nights. He laid his head on the pillow, hoping—foolishly—that fatigue would finally do its job.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to breathe evenly. Think of nothing. Let the soft hum of the sleeping school lull him. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

This time, he just thought: if I stay still… if I don’t make a sound… if I pretend nothing’s wrong… maybe, just maybe, it’ll work.

And he forced himself to lie there, in silence, as the light of dawn kept creeping in through the blinds—slow and inevitable.

Sundays in the cafeteria were different.

There was no rush, no schedule. Most students came down half-asleep, still in pajamas or loose clothes, and no one said anything about it. Some wore blankets draped over their shoulders, others hadn’t even brushed their hair. Conversations were more relaxed, laughter more frequent. No one was in a hurry to finish eating.

Neito was already seated, a slice of bread in one hand and a half-full plate in front of him. Across from him, Kendo sipped juice while reading something on her tablet. Tetsutetsu was laughing at everything, as usual, and Tsuburaba was halfway through retelling a story Neito had already heard. Something about a game with Kuroiro and a supposed win he wasn’t going to let go.

He glanced around. Small groups had gathered at different tables. Some were talking about movies, others making plans for the afternoon. In one corner, someone was playing music from their phone.

And amidst all that, in the farthest corner—right next to the trash bin and a vending machine that had been broken all week—sat Midoriya. His shoulders were slightly hunched, elbows on the table, a barely touched tray in front of him. He was stirring his food in circles with his fork, as if unsure whether he was actually hungry or just there because he had nowhere else to go.

For a moment, Neito thought about raising his hand and calling him over. He could invite him. Tell him to sit with them. Tetsutetsu wouldn’t care. Kendo might raise her brows in that half-surprised, half-approving way of hers. Tsuburaba would just keep eating.

But before he could move, he saw her.

Uraraka was crossing the cafeteria with a calm pace, tray in her hands and a gentle smile on her face. Asui was walking beside her, just as composed. Uraraka said something. Midoriya looked up, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to approach. And then… he smiled.

Neito let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He gave a small shrug and looked back down at his plate.

That’s it. He’ll be fine.

When Denki opened his eyes that morning, he knew it was going to be one of those days.

His limbs were heavy, dead weight . Just lifting his hand to rub at his face felt like too much. The light seeping through the window stung behind his eyes, and even the soft hum of voices from the hallway made his skin prickle. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to speak. He didn’t want to exist outside the comfort of his blanket or the small world of silence he had created between the mattress and his thoughts.

He just wanted to sink. Into the bed. Into himself.

The door creaked open softly—just a whisper against the frame. Denki didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.  “What’s going on, sunshine?”

Hitoshi’s voice was quiet. Not teasing, not pushing. Just… there. Steady. Denki didn’t answer right away. He tightened his fingers into the blanket, enough to wrinkle the fabric under his palms.

“It’s too much,” Denki whispered, barely audible. “Everything is too much.”

Hitoshi didn’t respond right away. He walked over in silence and sat gently at the edge of the bed. Both of his hands rested on the blanket, just inches from Denki’s. He didn’t touch him. He couldn’t.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

Denki stared at them, jaw clenched. That distance. That impossibility. It always hit harder on days like this. He hated it. Hated himself for needing this space. For making something so basic—touch—so dangerous.

He hated his skin. He hated the hum underneath it. He hated the flickers of energy that betrayed him even when he was still.

I hate myself for being so stupid.

“You should get some fresh air,” Hitoshi said eventually. “It’s warm outside. Light breeze. Not too bright.”

Denki didn’t move.

“I don’t want to,” he whispered. “I just want to stay here.”

“Okay,” Hitoshi said. No pressure. No guilt. He just stayed there. Breathing with him. Matching his stillness.

Then came the sound—soft, familiar. The scrape of wheels. The click of brakes. The light rustle of fabric as Hitoshi unfolded the chair and adjusted the backrest with quiet, deliberate motions.

“Just for a while,” he said, still not looking at him. “It might help.”

Denki turned his head slowly. His body didn’t want to cooperate, but he did it anyway. He watched as Hitoshi set everything up without a word of complaint.

“Do it for me, Denki, please?”

He watched Hitoshi quietly—how he adjusted the footrests, how he set the backrest with care, no rush, no pressure.

And even though part of him still wanted to disappear in that dark, quiet room… The other part—that small part that hadn’t given up yet—held on to the simple fact that Hitoshi was already waiting.

So he took a deep breath and nodded. “Sounds good. I kinda wanna see the guys too.”

“Is this seat free?” Ochako asked softly, gesturing to the spot across from the boy.

Midoriya lifted his head. His expression was distant, the kind of blank look someone wears after pretending to care about their food for far too long. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, then shifted briefly to Tsuyu standing beside her.

“Yes,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Ochako nodded without another word and sat down carefully, placing her tray on the table. Tsuyu followed with her usual calmness, settling in quietly. Around them, the cafeteria buzzed with the slow energy of a Sunday morning—students dragging their feet, full tables, scattered laughter, conversations flowing between bites.

Ochako took a small bite of her bread before speaking.  “Did you get any sleep?”

Midoriya nodded after a short pause, but without much conviction. “A little,” he said, still not touching his food.

Tsuyu watched him in silence for a few seconds, then calmly returned to slicing her fruit.

Ochako thought about pressing him, about asking more. But before she could, her eyes drifted toward the side entrance of the cafeteria.

Shinso had just stepped in, pushing Kaminari’s wheelchair with steady hands. He said something that made Kaminari smile with his eyes closed. The tiredness showed in the way Kaminari let himself be guided, but his smile was genuine.

Kirishima moved ahead to hold the door open for them, grinning as he tossed a joke back to Ashido, who laughed loudly without a care for who heard. Sero walked beside her, chewing on something and nodding along like he was in on it. Jiro trailed just behind, one earbud in, eyes on her phone, walking slowly but staying close. Yaoyorozu walked beside Bakugo, explaining something on her tablet in a low, even voice, while Bakugo listened with his usual frown, nodding every so often.

Then, Bakugo turned his head—and locked eyes with Midoriya.

Just for a second. A sharp, flat look, full of judgment. A look that said, clear as day: You don’t belong here.

Midoriya looked down instantly, his gaze dropping to his untouched breakfast as he hunched over the table, as if trying to disappear.

This isn’t fair.

“Uraraka?” Said a quiet voice, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She turned slightly. It was Komori, standing by the table with a crumpled paper cup and a used napkin in her hands. She kept a polite distance, as if unsure how to approach without interrupting something.

“Would you mind throwing this out for me?” she asked, motioning to the trash can next to Midoriya. “It’s too close, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

Ochako blinked, grounding herself again. She nodded gently, took the trash, and walked to the bin. Midoriya didn’t look up once as she leaned down to toss it out.

When she returned, Tsuyu was still eating in silence. The nearby table had gotten louder—laughter rising between mouthfuls—but in their corner, everything still felt quieter. Slower.

Ochako cut a piece of fruit with her fork. She hesitated, then lifted the plate slightly toward Midoriya. “Want some?” 

Midoriya shook his head almost immediately. “Thanks, but... I’m not hungry anymore.”

She could’ve let it go. Let the silence settle in and finish breakfast quietly. But it didn’t feel right to leave it there.

“Did they give you the activity schedule yet?” Ochako asked, shifting the topic. “I saw there’s an optional first-aid seminar next week.”

Midoriya looked up, just slightly. He paused, then shook his head.  “Not yet.”

“I can send it to you, if you want,” she offered. “I took a picture of the one on the board. It’s kind of messy, but... it works.”

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was lower now, softer. “That’d be good.”

Ochako nodded, not forcing a smile. She returned to her food, cutting another piece of bread with the fork. It wasn’t much, but he had answered. For now, that was enough.

I’m not leaving him alone , she thought, without looking directly at him. Even if he doesn’t say it. Even if he doesn’t want it. I won’t leave him alone.

Steam curled slowly from the coffee cup in Shota’s hands. He stood by the window, barefoot on the wooden floor, eyes fixed on the tree line separating the dorms from the training fields. There was no one outside at that hour. Only the faint murmur of birds and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

“What’s going on in that little head of yours?” asked a familiar, soft voice behind him, just before a pair of arms wrapped around his waist.

Hizashi rested his chin on Shota’s shoulder, not needing to see his face to know something was weighing on him. Shota didn’t answer right away. He just sighed and leaned back against his husband’s chest, as if the warmth alone could ease the tension that had held him stiff for days.

“I’m worried about the kids,” he said finally.

“The new one?”

Shota shook his head once, barely a motion.  “Not just him.”

Hizashi stayed quiet. His fingers loosened slightly against the fabric of Shota’s shirt, waiting for him to go on.

“I don’t like what I’m hearing out there,” Shota continued, still staring out the window. “Public opinion is shifting. It’s getting worse for us.”

“Has Nedzu said anything?”

Shota tightened his grip on the mug.  “That’s what worries me. He doesn’t know what they’re planning either. Senate is closing ranks. No one’s reaching out. No dialogue..”

For a moment, the only sound in the apartment was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

“UA’s always been a safe haven,” Hizashi said, his tone more serious than usual.

“It still is. But if things escalate—if they come after us—I don’t know how long that’ll last. And if that happens, I don’t want the kids to find out the hard way.”

Hizashi looked down at the side of Shota’s face, then at the steam still rising from his cup.

“Then we prepare them,” he said. “But we don’t take away their peace too soon.”

Shota gave a small nod. The coffee was still untouched. Outside, the sky had begun to lighten for good.

“I want to believe we still have time,” he murmured. “But when Nedzu goes quiet, it means he’s thinking too much. And that’s never a good sign.”

This time, he did take a sip—though the coffee was nearly cold.

“If they decide metahumans are a threat… if someone with enough power pushes that idea, they might come for us. For the school. For them.”

Hizashi lowered his eyes to the back of his neck, still silent. He knew Shota wasn’t prone to panic. If he said something like that, it was because he’d already gone through every scenario. Including the worst ones.

“Do you really think they will?” Hizashi asked quietly. His arms stayed around him, steady and loose, like he knew it was the only way Shota ever allowed himself to relax.

“I don’t know,” Shota answered, gaze still fixed outside. “But I can’t afford to be naive. People want a common enemy. And metahumans have played that role more times than I care to count.”

Hizashi didn’t respond right away. His fingers moved lightly over the back of Shota’s shirt, attentive to the way his body tensed at certain silences.

“For the past few weeks, in underground circles, there’s been talk,” Shota said quietly. “Not a name at first—more of a story. About a metahuman with no limits. The first of all of us. Like he was the origin.”

“A myth?” Hizashi asked with a breath of laughter. “The original metahuman? What’s next, walking on water?”

Shota didn’t smile. He didn’t even turn to look at him.

“That’s what I thought too. But it doesn’t sound like a legend. And I’m not sure what scares me more—that it’s a lie, or that it isn’t.”

Hizashi let out a faint sigh, his smile dimming. He wasn’t mocking. He just didn’t want to imagine things going that far. Because if someone like that did exist, then they weren’t just talking about laws or politics anymore. They were talking about something much older.

“Do you have a name?”

Shota lowered his eyes.  “They call him All For One.”

The murmur on the other side of the curtain sounded like a tide held in check. Low voices, pressed suits, camera flashes being tested, digital tablets lighting up one after another. The kind of audience that would applaud before knowing what for. Important people. Journalists. Advisors. People with clean hands and practiced lines.

He stood behind the curtain. Not far. Just close enough to listen.

“…recent incidents have raised public concern about the need to establish clear national defense parameters against non-conventional threats,” said a male voice through the microphone. Calm. Steady. Read directly from a script. “But not all is lost. Not all metahumans have chosen chaos.”

His hands burned slightly.

The skin didn’t hurt anymore. The scars were old—faded, invisible even—but still there beneath the surface. Like everything else they left inside him. The humming electrodes. The blindfolds. The voice that said, “You’re special. Let us prove it.”

“Among the youth evaluated by the state, a few have shown exemplary conduct, outstanding discipline, and—above all—a deep desire to serve the nation.”

Silence followed. Perfect. Measured. He could almost hear the weight of it pressing against the walls.

“What was once fiction… today becomes reality. With full governmental support, rigorous training, and the will to defend the people, we take the first step toward a new era.”

He took a step forward.

The curtain grazed his shoulder as the lights bled through, drawing hard outlines on the floor. 

“The world’s first superhero.”

He remembered the closet they found him in. The toy in his hands. The way he had smiled at the officers because he thought they were there to save him.

It was never about rescue. It was about use . The wings, the injections, the drills. His body was no longer his.

They said it was for a good cause.

Always a good cause.

The applause erupted like a rising wave. Cameras clicked in hungry bursts. A dozen lenses pointing toward him. He hadn't even stepped into view, and yet they were already cheering.

“Please welcome: Hawks!”

He didn’t move right away.

He inhaled, slow and steady. The noise on the other side was deafening now. They were expecting hope. They were expecting him.

He wasn’t free—not really—but this was the closest he’d ever been.

He adjusted his posture. Rolled his shoulders back. Straightened his spine.

The air was too clean. The lights too bright. But the smile came easily now.

“Good afternoon,” Keigo said, voice smooth and steady. “It’ll be an honor to serve this great nation.”

And as the crowd rose to their feet, roaring approval like they had witnessed a miracle, Keigo held the smile in place… and tried not to flinch.

He saw them—row after row of clean hands, polished shoes, and satisfied expressions. So convinced they had done something noble.

And all he could think was how disgusting they looked.

Because nothing born of a good cause should ever feel this rotten.

Chapter Text

The news of the first superhero spread across the world far too quickly.

Before dawn had broken on other continents, thousands of headlines were already echoing his image, analyzing his smile, and hunting for unseen angles of the broadcast.

The first superhero was from Japan.

A charming twenty-two-year-old with large red wings that opened behind him like banners. His voice was clear, his posture flawless, and his presence… magnetic. He knew how to move. He knew how to look. He knew when to stay silent and when to let the crowd fill the pauses with applause.

"Hawks: A Symbol of a New Era."

"Humanity Finds Hope on Wings."

"Japan Takes the First Step Toward the Legitimization of Heroes."

"Metahumans: The Superheroes of Tomorrow."

The international press wasted no time comparing his movements to those of a dancer, his sharpness to that of a strategist, his charisma to a movie star’s. They spoke of him as if he were a gift—found on a pedestal, complete, perfect, made for hope.

In diplomatic offices, ministerial halls, and the private dinners of executives and advisors, the news stirred more than admiration. It sparked expectation. Unease. Possibilities. If Japan had a superhero… what would stop other countries from creating their own?

But outside—in the nameless neighborhoods, in the fields where metahumans were still hunted in silence—the reaction was different.

Not everyone was convinced. Because they knew he wasn’t one of them.

That boy, no matter how bright his wings were, was not free.

Shota couldn’t remember the last time a class had started without him having to say a word. Or the last time he walked into a room and didn’t need to call for silence. But that morning, it hadn’t been necessary.

The TV at the back of the classroom—already on before he arrived—was playing the same clip that had caught the entire country off guard the night before.

The young man with bright red wings outstretched, waving with a perfect smile to the crowd. His voice—confident and rehearsed—repeated the same phrase everyone knew he hadn’t written himself:

“It will be an honor to serve this great nation.”

The murmur in the classroom wasn’t unified.

Kamakiri had his arms crossed and spoke loudly, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “This is it! They’re finally doing something! Someone out there is fighting for us!”

“For us or for them?” Jiro replied, not even glancing up from her phone.

Kamakiri turned, irritated. “What difference does it make? He’s a metahuman! One of us! Or would you rather keep hiding in this school like we’re bombs about to go off?”

“Maybe because we are,” Shoda said from his seat. His tone wasn’t sarcastic—just flat.

Shoji sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of his face. His expression was hard. “They’re going to come for us. They’ll want us to take sides.” 

Komori sat beside him, legs crossed, hugging herself. She murmured almost inaudibly. “All that attention… the whole world watching. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

The classroom was a mess. No one in their seat, voices overlapping, emotions held back. Even so, most had gathered in front of the television. There was an empty chair beneath the screen—Kaminari’s. But he wasn’t absent.

Kaminari sat in his wheelchair, right where his desk used to be. Shota felt a pang in his stomach; he was supposed to be at a medical check-up that morning. And yet, there he was. His gloved hand rested on the armrest, tightly held by Shinso’s, who remained silent at his side.

Shota scanned the room and finally spotted Midoriya’s curly hair, hunched over his desk, just behind Bakugo. He was completely still, as if the weight of everything he was hearing had pinned him to the seat. Bakugo, for his part, seemed unfazed. He didn’t look back. Only at the television, frowning.

“But that model… it works,” Yaoyorozu said cautiously, as if weighing each word. “He’s trained, approved by the State. He might actually change things.”

“Change what?” Sero cut in, letting his arms fall onto his legs with a tired motion.

A short silence followed.

Kirishima broke it, scratching the back of his neck, visibly uneasy. “I mean… there’s no way they threw him out there without a plan, right? Maybe they really do want to help.”

Tokage, eyes red-rimmed, simply said: “And what if they don’t want to help? What if they just want to use us?”

Kamakiri scoffed in frustration. “What if, for once, we stop being afraid of everything? He’s a metahuman like us! With wings, damn it! They didn’t lock him in a basement or a cell. They gave him a place.”

“A place under conditions,” Shinso said, for the first time.

Everyone turned to look at him.

He wasn’t raising his voice, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “That boy was trained. Educated. Tested. He isn’t free. He only looks like it.”

Kaminari, beside him, tightened his grip on his gloved hand. Shinso held it just as firmly, still without turning.

“So what?” Kamakiri pushed on. “You’d rather stay here forever? Be protected like we’re shattered glass wrapped in bubble wrap?”

“It’s not about that,” Jiro said from her seat, not loud but with enough force to silence a few voices. She had her arms crossed and her earbuds hanging around her neck like always, but her posture was more defensive than usual. “If they made an official hero, that means everything else that’s not official is a threat. And in case you forgot, we were hunted by that same people.”

Koda lowered his head. “And what if now they expect us to be like him?” He whispered. “What if we can’t?”

“I don’t want to disappear!” Kuroiro suddenly burst out from the back row, his body leaning forward as if desperate to be heard. “If doing whatever it takes is what it means to stay here, I’ll do it! I’m not going back to a basement. Not again!”

Silence fell over the classroom. No one responded immediately.

“We don’t have to be like him,” Kendo said, arms crossed. “But we should decide for ourselves how to respond to this. Not let others decide for us."

“Or hand us out like weapons,” Awase added.

“Or trophies,” Shishida said dryly from the back.

Bakugo was still staring at the screen. He hadn’t said a word since the clip began playing, but his right leg bounced non-stop against the floor—betraying the tension.

Midoriya, seated right behind him, was also silent. His hands were clasped tightly on his knees, fingers tense, head slightly bowed. He didn’t need to speak for Shota to know he was absorbing every word.

The blonde exhaled harshly through his nose, like the whole thing was getting under his skin. “So much talk”, he muttered. “The world was a shitshow long before that guy showed up. The only difference now is they put a pretty face at the center of the bullseye.”

“There’s no easy answer,” Uraraka finally said from her seat. Both hands were resting on her desk. She had stayed composed through the entire exchange, but even she looked visibly tense. “What happened is huge. But it’s also dangerous. I think we need to be really careful about what we choose to believe… or hope for. We need to think about what this actually means for us.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” Monoma chimed in, finally turning off the TV.

“Maybe it means we finally have permission to use our powers outside,” Ashido said, hopeful and hesitant at once. “Not hide anymore.”

“Mina, please,” Sero replied with a shrug. “Let’s be realistic. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be used. But I don’t want to be hunted either.”

The classroom felt too small to hold the weight of what was unfolding.

And the worst part was: there wasn’t a single right answer. Not yet.

"Alright," Shota said at last, stepping away from the doorway and entering the classroom. His voice was steady enough to cut off Kamakiri’s next outburst. “You don’t have to decide anything today. But you’re going to need time. And you’ll need to do it together.” He looked at them, one by one, without raising his voice. “Public opinion can shift. The government can put heroes on screens. But you are not tools. You are not anyone’s property. You’re children. Students. And as long as I’m in charge, that’s not going to change.”

“But what if the government does have tools to help us?” Kaminari asked suddenly, his voice low, but clear enough for everyone to hear. “What if… there really are ways to live better? Without being scared all the time… without waiting for something to go wrong.”

Shota noticed the silence just before it started to fill again.

Some students turned toward Kaminari. Others had already been looking.

“I mean… maybe they have treatments, devices, ways to stabilize things. Or help us live better. But only for the ones they think are useful. The good ones. The ones who fit in.” Kaminari turned slightly toward Shinso, then lowered his gaze to his gloved hand, trembling slightly against the wheel. “What happens if they see us as too broken?”

No one answered immediately. Shinso leaned toward him, not touching, just close.

Shota felt a tightness in his chest.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, still standing by the door. The room didn’t erupt in replies like it usually did. This time, the kids were processing. In their own ways. Some with fear. Some with cynicism. Others with that particular anger that came from knowing it wasn’t enough to be strong. You also had to be useful.

And that was what worried Shota the most.

Because that wasn’t how things should work.

Because no child—not even someone like Kaminari, with his back marked by his own metability—should ever have to ask if their life was worth something only when they had something to offer the State.

That wasn’t the world he wanted for them.

What Kaminari had said—and the silence that followed—meant more than any speech.

“Thank you, Kaminari,” he said again, more softly this time, like each word cost more than he let show. “What you said… shouldn’t be true. But we need to prepare in case it is.”

Shinso lowered his eyes slightly toward his boyfriend. Bakugo was still facing the screen, arms crossed, but Shota knew that rigid posture. He was holding something in.

In the corner, Midoriya hadn’t moved.

And Shota knew: every single one of them, even the quietest, was working through the same idea.

That maybe being the first wasn’t something to celebrate. That the cost of visibility might fall on them. On the most vulnerable. On those still learning to carry their powers without breaking.

He swallowed hard, more tense than he wanted to admit.

“I can’t promise what the government will do,” he said finally, voice low. “But we won’t abandon you. Not here. None of you are expendable. This isn’t about power. It’s not about usefulness. It’s about who you are. And that is not negotiable.”

The class didn’t respond right away. But the air had shifted. Less frantic. More grounded. More real.

Somei Private Academy

For the past few days, Tenya Iida had been walking with a discomfort he couldn't quite shake. At first, he’d assumed it was just a poorly healed scrape or a mild allergic reaction. But today… today was different.

The itching in his calves had turned into something maddening. Each step made his teeth clench. The fabric of his pants felt like sandpaper dragging over raw flesh, and the worst part was—he couldn’t say anything without sounding weak.

"Bathroom again, Iida?" One of his classmates mocked as he stood up for the third time that morning.

"Careful, he’s gonna fall apart in the toilet!" Another added with a snort, not bothering to hide the laugh.

The nurse had been no better. She’d looked him over with one raised brow and a barely stifled yawn, like his pain was just another excuse to ditch class.

Tenya didn’t respond. He kept his back straight, jaw locked, and walked stiffly to the bathroom.

Once inside, he checked that it was empty. Locked the door. Gripped the edge of the sink.

Breathe, Tenya. It’s everything okay. Don’t be dramatic.

Then, with shaky fingers, he rolled up the pant leg.

The rashes—what had once been harmless spots—had swollen into dark, raised welts, pulsing like something alive beneath the skin. They throbbed with heat. One of them split open.

No noise. Just the quiet tear of flesh.

A thick line of blood oozed down his leg, slow and dark. Tenya gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. His breath quickened. His eyes widened.

Because there—beneath his skin—was something else.

Metal.

Jagged pieces, slick with blood, catching the fluorescent light like fresh blades. They looked like they were growing out of him. Like his own body had turned against him, forging pieces of machinery inside his muscle and forcing them out. As if he were just a shell—one that was breaking open.

His fingers fumbled for his phone.

No. Please, no.

When the line picked up on the other end, he didn’t wait.

"Brother…" His voice cracked. "Come get me. Something's wrong."

"That whole superhero thing is bullshit!" Monoma raised his voice again, with the theatrical tone of someone convinced he held the ultimate truth in the palm of his hand. "A public distraction! A manufactured illusion! Since when do we need a government-approved figure to feel validated? Fuck the government!"

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore him.

He was lying flat on his back in bed, arms crossed over his chest, blanket pulled up to his shoulders. He'd stopped actually trying to fall asleep a while ago, but still clung to the position like it might fool his brain into resting. It was too late for real sleep, and too early to pretend none of this was getting to him.

"And all because of some pretty boy with wings and a camera-ready smile," Monoma went on, pacing the room like it needed patrolling. "Of course the government would love him! Of course the public would fall at his feet! They wrapped obedience in red feathers and sold it as hope!"

Izuku turned his head toward the wall, pressing his forehead against the pillow. He shut his eyes even tighter.

"You know what really gets to me?" Monoma continued. "Some of our classmates are actually celebrating this. Like they don’t see what it really means. This isn't progress—this is a quiet war."

Izuku thought, without opening his eyes: Why hasn’t someone launched this guy to the moon yet?

He still didn’t know everyone’s ability, but in that moment, he would’ve gladly traded anything for one that could knock Monoma out from across the room. Or better—teleport him. Far away. Permanently.

"And you, Midoriya?" Monoma suddenly stopped next to his bed. "Don’t you have an opinion?"

Izuku forced his eyes open just a little. He turned his head barely enough to look at him from the corner of his eye.

"I'm trying to sleep," he said flatly. No bite, no emotion. Just tired.

Monoma stared at him like he'd just insulted democracy. "So sensitive," his silence seemed to say.

But thankfully, he didn’t press further.

Izuku closed his eyes again, clinging to the silence more tightly than to the blanket. The noise in his head didn’t stop, but it dulled just enough. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but yeah—part of him was scared too. Scared of what all this meant. Of what would come next.

But for now, more than anything else, he just wanted to be left alone.

Classes had been suspended, but Nedzu remained in his office.

A cup of tea sat untouched on his desk.

The television screen kept looping the same images—red wings spread wide, interviews, close-ups, conflicting opinions—but the volume was muted. The only sound that mattered came through the earpiece pressed to his ear.

“The Metahuman Pact is going to be dissolved,” said the voice on the line. Formal. Tense. That particular kind of calm only used when something irreversible had already begun. “They’re demanding a full registry of every metahuman under your care. Metabilities, medical reports, psychological profiles. Everything.”

Nedzu didn’t respond right away. His hand was steady, but his fingers had tightened just slightly around the phone. 

“There’s no way to renegotiate?” He asked, his voice even. “These children aren’t ready for that kind of exposure. Many of them came here precisely for anonymity. They’re not assets. They’re refugees.”

A pause. Then the voice returned. “I know,” said Toshinori. “I do. But I’m not the one making the calls. They only brought me in because… some of them still believe I can help.”

Nedzu shut his eyes briefly.

The silence that followed was filled only by the quiet ticking of the wall clock.

“No other option?” He asked again. “Nothing left to propose?”

“They’re talking about public academies,” Toshinori said, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Specialized training, secured facilities, regular evaluations. I saw their faces, Nedzu. They think they’re offering salvation.”

Nedzu exhaled slowly, almost inaudibly. “They’ll be prisons. Concentration camps with polished signage. I don’t doubt they’ve already designed the cells. If they’re asking for control now, it’s because they’ve already made their move. They always do.”

Toshinori didn’t argue. “I’ll use what influence I have,” he offered. “Try to preserve U.A.’s autonomy. Push where I can. Talk to who I must. But I can’t promise anything.”

Nedzu gave a silent nod, knowing the gesture wouldn’t reach the other end. “Then we start preparing,” he said. “If it escalates, we run.”

“Make sure you have an exit plan,” Toshinori told him.

“For all of them. Just in case things spiral faster than we expect.”

“I already do,” Nedzu replied. “Thank you for the warning, Toshinori. For everything.”

The voice softened just slightly.

“It’s nothing,” Toshinori said, though they both knew it was anything but. “I’ll call you when I have more.”

The line went dead.

Nedzu set the phone down gently. 

And for a while, he simply sat there, staring out the window at the heavy grey sky.

The blue glow of the television lit up the peeling walls like a sick joke. The camera lingered on his face. Young. Impeccable. 

The first superhero in the world, said the banner below, bold and triumphant, like it meant something. Like they hadn’t just spat on the rest of them.

His eyes stayed locked on the image while the muscles in his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. One hand—scarred, marked with dried cracks and burn grooves—lifted with an eerily calm motion. He dragged his thumb across his palm, feeling the raised texture of scars like he was checking if they were still there.

I’m still here….

His other arm rested over the back of an old couch, covered in a threadbare cloth that reeked of smoke. The damage there was visible too—poorly healed stitches, discolored skin pulled too tight, seams that had fused with the body long ago.

They had the balls to replace him.

That idiot.

Another toy polished for the government’s shelf. Wings painted red so the public wouldn’t notice the blood.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, the sound sharp, mean.

Congratulations? Go fuck yourself?

His hand moved forward, fingers loose. Fire didn’t roar — it whispered. A cold kind of rage that flickered blue and pure. It slid across his fingers like breath before leaping toward the screen. First a flicker. Then a hiss. The glass didn’t shatter right away. It sagged, warped, bubbled. The perfect little hero-boy started to melt — his face stretching, eyes warping, teeth twisting until all that was left was a mess of light and heat.

“Oh, little bird,” he finally said, voice rough, low, like gravel soaked in smoke. “You never learned, did you?”

The screen cracked with a wet pop, sparks flying. The room went dark except for the flicker of flame still chewing on the casing. The plastic stank. Burned wires curled in on themselves like veins shriveling under heat.

“Icarus flew too close to the sun,” he muttered, watching the fire finish its work. “And his wings burned just for fun.”

Chapter Text

The next few days were the same old crap for Izuku.

Didn’t matter if he was in the hallway, the cafeteria, or just waiting his turn for the showers in the common wing—there was always someone staring too long, or going quiet the second he walked in.

Still, in the middle of all that, a few things weren’t quite as bad.

Uraraka would always find him in the cafeteria, meeting his eyes before sitting with him, even if plenty of other seats were open. She did it like it wasn’t even a decision. In class, whenever they had to work in groups, she didn’t hesitate to join him or make space for him, no explanations needed. She was natural about it—no over-the-top friendliness, no pity. They didn’t talk much, but in that quiet, Izuku found a strange kind of relief. A small break from the constant discomfort.

Monoma had his own approach. He’d pull Izuku into the nightly gatherings in their shared dorm—no permission asked, but no malice either. He always made sure Izuku was included, whether as an unwilling audience for his theatrical rants about the state of the world or for his more conspiracy-driven theories. He’d also helped Izuku catch up on schoolwork, going over notes and explaining things with an almost surprising patience. He never said as much, but it was there.

So calling his time at U.A. “the same crap” wasn’t exactly fair—it was a little less crap.

Even so, the atmosphere stayed tense, thick, like a rope no one dared to cut. The whole “first superhero” thing still hadn’t been addressed by the government, let alone by U.A. All anyone knew was what the rest of the world knew: a boy with red wings, a perfect smile, a voice made to calm people down. Too perfect not to be suspicious.

Ese silencio institucional era lo que más inquietaba a Izuku.

That silence from above was what unsettled Izuku the most.

Because if even the adults had no idea what to do… what were they supposed to do?

When big news breaks, everyone wants the first scoop of the scoop.

What Izuku didn’t expect was for every news outlet to have the exact same idea at the exact same time.

The rumors arrived before the reporters did. At first, there was only the faint buzzing of drones circling the perimeter, like mosquitoes unsure whether to bite or just keep watching. Then came the flashes. The voices. Questions shouted from beyond the front gate, as if someone inside might answer them out of pity.

Izuku heard them from inside the locked classroom, the glass trembling slightly with every attempt to snap pictures through the containment walls. No one had let them in, but that didn’t matter. They were here. And they weren’t going anywhere.

The press swarmed around U.A. like they were waiting for one of them—one of the so-called “kids of the future”—to step forward. As if they had the right to demand answers. And the worst part was, with every passing minute, they seemed more certain they deserved them.

Someone in class said they’d tried to sneak in through the maintenance access. 

Another swore they’d seen a camera mounted inside a car parked across from the training wing.

Kill me, God. Please.

Nedzu kept a serene smile, but his nerves were notorious. Anxiety was eating at him.

“We can’t let this escalate,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the real-time feeds split across multiple surveillance angles.

To his right, Aizawa stood with his arms crossed, saying nothing; his expression was enough—exhausted, tense, like every fiber of his body was begging for five minutes of peace.

“And what if it does escalate?” Yamada asked, perched on the edge of the desk with one leg bouncing nonstop. “I mean, what if tomorrow it’s not reporters, but armed drones—or whatever the government decides is ‘necessary’ to investigate? How long are we going to pretend U.A. is a safe haven and not a target?”

“Until it stops being one,” Nedzu replied, still watching the screens. “But that won’t be today. For now, we remain autonomous. And as long as that lasts, our students answer to no one but us.”

Aizawa exhaled slowly through his nose. His gaze flicked briefly to the top corner of the screen: a reporter holding a microphone, shouting something about “the future of heroes” and “the moral duty of transparency.”

“What do they even want?” he muttered, more to himself than to the others.

“The same thing they always want,” Nedzu said, still smiling. “A face. A name. Something they can repeat on TV until fear changes shape and starts to look like hope.”

Silence.

Yamada rubbed his hands together, uneasy. “We’ve got kids down there who can’t even talk about their childhood without shaking. They’re not ready for this.”

 “I know,” Nedzu answered calmly. “That’s why we’ll protect them. Even if it means closing every single door with our own hands.”

The flashes were like gunshots. Hitoshi watched them ricochet off the glass like flares against a pitch–black night. One. Two. Three. Then another, aimed straight at the window where Ojiro was sitting. Then at the corner of the room, where Kuroiro had tried to hide his face under his hood.

Hitoshi stayed seated, one hand resting on the desk, the other folded across his chest, chin tilted slightly down as if looking at the floor was enough to block out what was happening beyond the windows. But it wasn’t. Not when he could hear the click of cameras even with the glass shut.

They were out there—just beyond the fence—perched on cranes, standing on truck beds, aiming their lenses like that gave them the right to see them. To show them. To sell them.

“Leave us alone, you sick freaks!” Jiro shouted, desperate, trying to shield her face with her hands.

Sero moved from one side of the room to the other, pulling tape across the upper corners of the windows in clumsy strips, trying to block the view from outside. Kendo helped from the opposite side, enlarging her hands to hold the makeshift covers in place while trying to keep the others calm. Farther back, Komori had begun growing a cluster of dark mushrooms along the glass, covering an entire section in a damp, opaque layer.

Hitoshi turned his head just enough to look at the chair beside his. Empty. He hadn’t expected Denki to be there, but not seeing him—not knowing if he could hear the flashes too, if he could feel them this close—was a dull, gnawing worry he couldn’t explain to himself.

The hand on the desk curled into a fist.

He thought of Denki’s face the last time they’d heard a siren too close. The way he still gripped his hand tighter than necessary whenever something scared him. The nervous laugh, the apologies he gave even when he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He’s alone.

And Hitoshi couldn’t stand it.

He stood without a word, without asking permission, without looking at anyone.

 I don’t care if some damn reporter shoves a camera in my face.

The hallway became a corridor without edges. Cold light on the walls. Closed doors. The echo of his own footsteps. Everything else faded away.

He’d heard some reporters had tried to sneak in—that one had almost made it through the side gate. But none of that mattered now. If someone crossed his path, he’d avoid them. If they threw questions at him, he wouldn’t listen. If they pointed a camera at him, he wouldn’t blink.

I just have to get to him.

He opened the door without knocking. The room was silent. No music, no TV, no fan. Just dim light. The curtains were drawn, the bed unmade.

And there, in the darkest corner, behind the half–open closet door, he saw him.

 Denki.

He was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around a portable battery pack. He held it tight against himself like a life preserver, cables tangled between his fingers, as if that alone could keep him steady. His right hand was gloved, but the left was bare, nails pressed so hard into the plastic that they’d gone white. It was the only way to keep from overloading the campus’s electrical system. Or worse.

Hitoshi didn’t say anything. He just stood there, holding his breath, watching. He understood. Denki wasn’t just scared—he was holding back, regulating himself. If he didn’t, if that battery failed, one discharge could endanger everyone at U.A. And Denki knew it. That’s why he clung to it so fiercely, like it was the only thing keeping him in one piece.

Denki turned his head just slightly, their eyes meeting for a moment. He said nothing. But he let go of one of the cables, and when he plugged it back in, his fingers had stopped trembling.

“I’m here,” Hitoshi said quietly.

Denki didn’t answer right away. His breathing was still uneven, but not as erratic.  “It’s like that day,” he murmured, voice cracked—so far from the usual energetic tone Hitoshi knew by heart.

Hitoshi would’ve gladly seen his own face plastered across every news outlet in the country if it meant never seeing Denki like this again: trapped, alone, cornered in the dark by his past.

“No,” Hitoshi said firmly, reaching for Denki’s gloved hand.

The blond flinched, pressing himself harder against the closet wall. But he didn’t pull away. Hitoshi took his hand and held it.

A jolt shot through his arm instantly, sharp as a burning needle under his skin. He didn’t look away. Didn’t even flinch. In front of him, Denki’s eyes filled with tears, wide as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake or collapse.

Hitoshi met his gaze with calm and allowed a faint smile to reach his lips. Warm. Steady. Real.

“It won’t be like last time,” he said, his voice even, thumb brushing against Denki’s hand. The current slowly eased, as if it had heard him too. “Because this time, I’m here with you.”

The tension in the classroom was so thick it was hard to breathe. They’d barricaded themselves in like they were expecting an assault—and in a way, they were.

Izuku sat against the wall, wedged between two desks pushed aside. He couldn’t remember if he’d offered to help cover the windows or if he’d simply stayed where he was, trying not to take up space. A tall boy with a speech–bubble–shaped head—Izuku thought his name was Fukidashi, but he wasn’t entirely sure—paced from one end of the room to the other, hurling insults every time someone so much as leaned toward the covered glass.

“Media parasites! Rats with microphones! If I could, I’d send them flying one by one!” he shouted, black–ink onomatopoeia bursting from his head like his rage was spilling into the air. “Scavenger scum! Bloodsuckers of the entertainment industry!”

Katsuki let out a low growl from his seat, arms crossed, his leg bouncing violently against the floor.

“If I could, I’d make them explode for real,” he muttered through his teeth. “Screw their so–called ‘Press freedom’”

Fukidashi nodded in furious agreement, the words above his head swelling like a war banner. Izuku watched them silently, unmoving. He knew they weren’t talking about him. But with Bakugo, you could never be entirely sure.

Across the room, Kendo raised a hand to signal Fukidashi to lower his voice, but he didn’t seem inclined to stop. Yaoyorozu, who had been making a rotation schedule to guard the doors, tore the paper in half and stood with a tight sigh.

“This isn’t helping anyone,” she said. And for a second, the room fell quiet.

“Please, everyone, keep calm,” Yaoyorozu continued firmly, arms crossing as if to punctuate her task. “This isn’t a raid. There are no police. Just desperate reporters.”

“And the last thing you should do is lose control,” Kendo added. Her tone was gentle, but unyielding. “They’re not looking for the truth. They’re looking for a reaction.”

Izuku lowered his head, elbows braced on his knees, fingers tightly intertwined, eyes shifting toward the door.

No one had tried to get inside yet, but everyone knew it wasn’t impossible. The windows were covered. The furniture blocked the entrances. And still, they felt exposed. Like somewhere, in some corner of the campus, someone had already gotten their shot.

“And if we give it to them,” Yaoyorozu finished, “we’re done.”

The TV flickered in front of him, annoyingly sharp. Even the midday light couldn’t soften the flat gray of the apartment around him. There were unwashed dishes in the sink, empty cans on the counter, and the faint buzz of a surveillance drone passing every half hour through Tokyo’s caged sky.

Keigo kept his eyes on the screen, where the small figure of Nedzu stood at an improvised press room podium, flanked by Aizawa and Yamada.

He’d heard about them from his handler, seen their photos, but most of the focus always landed on Aizawa. A curious ability, and the kind that made the government keep him in their sights.

The room was packed with reporters—some with cameras slung over their shoulders, others with tablets and notepads glowing under the lights. They looked like wild animals.

“Until formal communication is established with the relevant entities,” Nedzu said, every word sharp, “U.A. will not issue statements or take any course of action. Our institution will remain autonomous, and our mission as a refuge for those persecuted for their abilities or physical traits remains unchanged.”

Keigo clicked his tongue. Refuge? They are still calling it that?

He rubbed his eyes, as if he could scrub away the sting with his fingers. He’d been up for hours. The coffee on the table was cold. He hadn’t showered. His patrol shift had left him running on fumes.

“Our work is, above all, humanitarian,” Nedzu went on. “We provide education, medical care, and protection to children who, in most cases, have no family or legal network. Their protection under the Metahuman Pact is still a priority. We will not change our stance. We will not allow their exposure. They are not weapons. They are not tools.”

The camera panned over the reporters—some angry, some frustrated. One of them shot to their feet, mic raised like a blade.

“Principal Nedzu, are you saying none of your students are considering working with the government under the Hawks model?”

The silence lasted a beat too long. But Nedzu didn’t look away. His face didn’t even shift.

“I’ll repeat myself,” he said. “We will not speculate on the futures of the minors under our care. Until the proper authorities make official contact and begin the necessary negotiations, we have nothing further to say. As their legal guardians, we will not subject any of our students to political, media, or institutional pressure.”

Keigo sank deeper into the couch, eyes half-lidded, heart beating slow but steady, like it was trying to counter the noise outside.

He knew how the game worked. He knew what was being said in the halls of  chamber, in closed-door cabinet meetings, in the Defense Ministry’s private sessions.

It wasn’t a matter of if the government was coming for them. It was when .

Nedzu could throw up walls, lock down files, wave around pacts and international declarations—but that only bought time. The higher-ups weren’t going to let the most promising metahuman arsenal in Japan stay under the care of a talking animal and a few bleeding-heart teachers forever.

The government wouldn’t wait. And if U.A. didn’t cooperate… they’d find another way.

They were already talking numbers. Which kids. Which Metabilities. Risk levels. Protocols for transfer, containment, usage. How much control they’d need to prevent “escapes” or “accidents.” Everything was on the table.

And Nedzu… could he really not see it?

Keigo watched him for another moment, frozen on the screen with the mic still in front of him, calm expression, back straight. Like he still believed decency alone could protect them.

But it couldn’t.

Nedzu was surrounded. U.A. wasn’t a stronghold anymore. It was a target. A prize.

Keigo’s fists tightened on his thighs. Outside, a helicopter passed in the distance, unseen but there. On-screen, Nedzu stepped away from the podium, Aizawa and Yamada behind him. No one answered another question.

Do they really not see it? Keigo thought, swallowing hard. Do they really think they can keep playing school?

The kids weren’t safe. They never had been. And if the State had learned anything from its most successful creation—from him, the boy with red wings who became an idol—it was that they didn’t need all of them. They just needed one. One who worked. One who obeyed.

Keigo finally stood, slow. Walked to the window, cracked it open, and let the city’s heavy air hit his face.

“It’s not enough, Principal,” he murmured to himself. “Not this time.”

The television hung over the street like a mechanical eye, surrounded by a small crowd that had stopped to watch. The national news was broadcasting the live conference given by U.A.’s principal, the white-furred creature speaking in a polite yet unyielding tone. Around him, people muttered with growing hostility.

“Always the same thing…” a middle-aged man said, arms crossed. “They play the victims, and then they end up blowing us to pieces.”

“And what the hell is that about not negotiating? Isn’t it illegal to hide those kinds of… things?”

“If they want protection so badly, they should stay locked up. Or better yet, wipe them out already,” another woman added, not lowering her voice.

Among them, standing like any other passerby, was a man in a dark suit and black hat, watching the screen with his hands in his pockets. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but his eyes—hidden beneath the brim—scanned the scene with a mix of apathy and disdain. The air around him didn’t change, but anyone standing close enough might have felt a misplaced chill in the warm morning.

Zen Shigaraki listened to the human voices around him as if they came from a sick pack of dogs. The same words repeated across centuries. The same fear, the same ignorance, the same poison spilling from the mouths of people whose only talent was mediocrity. They said it with stupid confidence, as if they had the right to decide who deserved to exist, as if their cowardice deserved protection.

Had it really come to this? Metahumans hiding? Letting themselves be sheltered under banners of mercy and humanitarian speeches? He remembered times—not so long ago—when people like that were revered as deities. When fire in your hands or blood that healed was a mark of divinity, not a threat. He remembered villages kneeling. Temples being built. Children offered in tribute.

And now… shelters. Words like “containment” and “protection.” A world that only offers freedom in exchange for servitude. What dignity is there in that? What strength can come from someone who asks for permission to exist?

“If they call us freaks,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “if they condemn us to hide… then they’d better be ready to call us demons too.”

A woman next to him didn’t notice. She was speaking in a sharp voice, spitting out words like venom: “They should be wiped out. Every single one. Remember what happened at that public pool years ago? People like that shouldn’t exist.”

Zen barely glanced at her. Not with fear or hatred—just contempt. Everyone talked about containment, about regulation. About locking away or destroying what they couldn’t understand. Same as always.

But he understood. He remembered. And he wasn’t going to just stand there while they bound his people in chains—only this time, more elegant ones. Let the world keep pretending it could domesticate the inevitable. Let Nedzu play at being a bridge between humans and metahumans, as if that wasn’t a structural contradiction.

Zen Shigaraki didn’t move when one of the reporters asked off-camera if any U.A. students might cooperate with the government the same way Hawks had. He just listened. And when Nedzu firmly said no, Zen didn’t feel relief—only pity. They still believed they could negotiate from a position of weakness.

The smile that crept across his face was slow, patient, like a crack forming before a collapse. He looked one last time at the screen, the speech, the diplomatic reply. Then he let his gaze drop to the crowd—common faces, common mouths, common thoughts.

Ordinary people judging those who were once worshipped as gods.

“Then they’d better prepare for the wrath of demons,” he murmured. And after a pause, with something almost ceremonial in his tone: “It’s time for the Demon Lord to return.”

And he vanished into the crowd like a shadow that leaves no trace.

The Capitol was an amphitheater of polished wood, hushed voices, and upholstered chairs that creaked with every shift. Conversations blurred under the steady hum of the air conditioning, softened only by the murmurs of aides and officials.

Toshinori Yagi stood by one of the tall windows, his gaze fixed on the gardens outside.

“We need control,” came a deep voice behind him. No need to raise it—Enji Todoroki didn’t have to. His presence was enough.

Toshinori turned. Enji was walking toward him, hands clasped behind his back. The black suit looked more like a combat uniform than political attire. He stopped just a few steps away.

“Control?” Toshinori echoed, not bothering to hide his disbelief. “That’s what you’re proposing?”

“Regulation,” Enji clarified. “A national metahuman registry. Protocols. Legal limits. A framework. This isn’t about repression, Toshinori. It’s about prevention.”

“Prevention for who?”

The silence that followed was brief, but far from comfortable.

“For everyone,” Enji finally answered. “For the majority. That’s my job now—protecting the public good. And an unregistered population with potentially destructive abilities is a constant risk.”

“That population,” Toshinori shot back coldly, “is made up of people. Mostly children. You want to watch them? Lock them up? Rank them by usefulness?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And what do you expect them to think? If you decide they can only live free by signing their submission into a state registry. That’s like asking permission to exist.”

Enji held his gaze. He didn’t seem angry, but something in his expression tightened. Toshinori didn’t stop.

“Is that why you handed over your own son?”

The words hit like a stone breaking the surface of a frozen pond. The silence was instant and heavy.

Enji’s face didn’t change, but his eyes did. A barely-there blink, a twitch in his jaw. “My reasons are none of your business,” he said, like he was holding something back.

“Really?” Toshinori didn’t step away. “You’re pushing a law that will impact every metahuman child in the country, and you talk about them like they’re ticking bombs. If you don’t understand what it means to be a parent… you shouldn’t be legislating over them.”

“I want what’s best for everyone. Including metahumans,” Enji insisted. “If they feel protected, if they have clear rules, they’ll stop being seen as a threat. Registration is a step toward integration, not exclusion.”

Toshinori shook his head. His voice dropped, but his resolve only sharpened. “That would just hand over the information on a silver platter to the wrong people. Can’t you see how easy it would be to use it against them? Their names, their abilities, their weaknesses. You can’t legislate like the world’s only full of good actors.”

“The world isn’t full of them. That’s exactly why I’m doing this.”

The reply caught Toshinori off guard. His brows drew together slightly, as if expecting a follow-up that never came. But Enji had already turned toward the main floor, where the other lawmakers were still debating the details of the bill.

Toshinori stayed still for a few seconds. There was something in the way Enji had said it—something he didn’t fully understand. Or maybe didn’t want to.

He slowly clenched his fists. This wasn’t the kind of fight he was used to. But if he had to fight it for the sake of kids like the ones he’d seen at U.A., he would. Even if it meant doing it alone.

Even if Enji was on the other side.

Chapter Text

The suspension of classes was the perfect excuse Izuku had been waiting for ever since he arrived at U.A.—a chance to shut himself off completely.

It wasn’t that he refused to have friends; he just knew when the atmosphere wasn’t in his favor. And right now, it definitely wasn’t.

Ever since the whole “first superhero” revelation, the campus had turned into a circus. People lurked around the gates like vultures. Some only wanted to ask questions. Others filmed from parked cars with their engines off, pretending they weren’t obvious. One idiot even managed to sneak into the dorms, disguised in a sports jacket and a borrowed backpack. They caught him before he caused any damage. Lucky break.

Since then: patrol shifts, reinforced security, cafeteria access in waves. Restrictions on top of restrictions.

But none of it made any difference to Izuku.

He still waited until the very end of lunch, when only lukewarm scraps were left on the trays and the cafeteria lights flickered in standby mode. Head down, he would serve himself whatever was left, then slip away without a word. Sometimes he didn’t even eat—just needed to breathe somewhere else for a moment before going back.

It wasn’t how he thought it would be.

He thought U.A., surrounded by others like him, would finally make him feel like part of something. Instead, it just made him tired. More alone than ever. 

And the worst part was that he had nowhere else to go.

“Midoriya,” Monoma called, snapping a book shut on his desk. “It’s about time you crawled out of that shell.”

Izuku didn’t answer. He lay sprawled on the bed, arm over his eyes. The clock read 12:42. Outside, the hallways were quiet. Nobody expected formal classes that week, but everyone—well, almost everyone—was still clinging to their routines. Everyone except him.

“It’s been almost two weeks,” Monoma pressed, striding toward his bed with that overconfident walk of his. “And don’t start with your usual lines. That you’re processing. That people are staring. We’re all being stared at. So what? You gonna rot in bed until they blink first?”

Izuku turned his face to the wall.

“I’ve talked with Uraraka. With Asui. With you. With your friends. I’m trying to fit in,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction, lacked strength.

“That’s them fitting you in,” Monoma shot back without missing a beat. “Fitting yourself in is something else. It takes initiative. Movement. Presence.”

Izuku sat up slowly, rubbing his face. His eyes were bloodshot from staring at the ceiling. His body felt heavy, as if the mattress had already molded to him. “For what? To keep pretending I’m fine? To let the people who already think I’m a traitor watch me like I’m about to explode? Honestly… if I wanted to feel like an exhibit, I’d just give those reporters an interview. At least they actually want to hear what I have to say.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Monoma snapped, his frown deepening. “That’s not gonna help you, got it?”

Izuku lowered his gaze, voice barely audible. “As if it makes any difference…”

The silence that followed lasted only a few seconds. Then came the sound of Monoma’s steps—closer, heavier. The air seemed to shift, like pressure pressing down on him.

Something cold crawled up Izuku’s spine, invisible but tangible, like mist brushing against his skin.

He tensed instantly.

“Sorry, Midoriya,” Monoma said, his voice different now—sharper, weighted with intent—“but you’re getting out of that bed whether you want to or not.”

Izuku’s thoughts went hazy. His mind felt fogged, slipping out of his control. By the time he realized what was happening, his feet were already on the floor, his body standing up without his permission.

What the hell—?

He fought back, or tried to. But something inside him was yanked forward, like his will was no longer his own. That was when he remembered the little he actually knew about Monoma: dramatic, obnoxiously refined, self-declared expert in French cuisine and literally everything else. And, oh yeah—able to copy anyone’s ability for a short time if he touched them. Not that Izuku had thought much about it before.

“Neat, huh?” Monoma smirked, unbearably smug. “Thank Shinso for lending me his metability… though, naturally, he has no idea.”

As his body kept moving against his will, Izuku had only one thought left: Screw you, Monoma.

The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the fan above the wardrobe and the occasional creak of the mattress when Shitty Hair shifted to keep going over his notes.

Katsuki sat at the edge of his bed, wiping the dust off his training gauntlets with a towel that was already nearly black. They didn’t really need maintenance yet, but it gave his hands something to do. The tension from the day—and the days before it—had knotted at the base of his neck, and there was no way to shake it loose.

Shitty Hair finally shut his notebook with a sigh. He’d been sneaking glances at him for a while now, like he was weighing the safest way to start talking. “Hey,” he said at last, leaning his elbow on his knee. “Shinso’s setting something up for later. A little hangout in Denki’s room.”

Katsuki didn’t bother looking up. Just kept scrubbing at the same damn spot. “And why the hell would I give a shit?”

“Don’t know. Guess you don’t have to,” Kirishima said with that infuriating calm he used whenever things could blow. “Just thought you’d wanna know. Denki’s been… bad. Reporters hanging around messed him up. He’s barely sleeping, and when he does, it’s nightmares.”

Katsuki snorted through his nose. He tossed the gauntlet onto the bed harder than he needed to. “Doesn’t matter what I say. You’ll all drag me there anyway. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than babysit a bunch of damn extras.”

“That’s not true,” Shitty Hair pushed back, though he had that stupid little smile on his face. “Sometimes you show up because you want to. Even when you growl about it. You love us, man.”

Katsuki shot him a look, all teeth. Shitty Hair didn’t flinch. Same steady, unshaken face, like he understood more than he said. Like he knew that no matter how loud Katsuki barked, he never actually walked away.

“Think about it,” Kirishima added, standing and stretching his shoulders. “Half an hour of dumb doodles and burnt cookies. What’s the worst that can happen? Even you laughed when Mina almost choked on that gummy.”

“Tch. Only ‘cause you nailed her in the throat with your elbow, dumbass.”

“Point is, it helps,” Kirishima said with a shrug. “Shinso’s worried. And Denki… well, you know him. He won’t ask. But he needs it.”

Katsuki didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the gauntlet dumped on the bed, the towel black with grime, the window still shut tight. Nobody wanted to look weak. But worse than weakness was watching one of your idiots fall apart pretending he could handle it. Especially Dunce Face, who’d already had enough crap shoved down his throat to last a lifetime. He didn’t need more.

“I’ll go if I damn well feel like it,” Katsuki growled at last, dropping back onto the mattress, hands locked behind his head.

Shitty Hair grinned, all easy. “Sure. Whenever you feel like it, grumpy.”

Neither of them said it out loud, but both knew he’d show. And he’d sit there, arms crossed, scowling like he’d rather be anywhere else. Pretending he was bored out of his skull. But he’d be there. Because he always was.

“See? Fresh air. Not so bad, right?” Monoma asked without looking back, that smug voice of his straddling the line between genuine cheer and thinly veiled condescension.

Izuku narrowed his eyes, scanning his surroundings.

Wow. Walls. Truly life-changing.

He’d been freed from the mind control a while ago, but running from Monoma was pointless.

There was no escaping Monoma. And, honestly, Izuku had learned to accept it. Even… appreciate it, in the way you appreciate someone repeatedly hitting you over the head with a frying pan for your own good. At least Monoma was trying—dragging him around like a stray cat he’d decided to domesticate.

“One: you brainwashed me,” Izuku replied flatly, not even bothering to soften his tone. “And two: we’re still inside a damn building. There is no fresh air.”

Monoma lifted a hand without breaking stride.

“Details, details. You’re awfully technical for someone who spends the entire day rotting indoors. Anyway, forget the formalities—it’s time I showed you the best club in this whole school: Cooking! ”

Izuku blinked. Stopped dead. “…Excuse me?”

“Yes, Midoriya. The kitchen. Pots, ladles, controlled fire, recipes we never follow. It’s an art form. And you’re about to become our brand-new star recruit.” He even added a theatrical bow, still walking.

Izuku raised a brow. “Yeah, no. I’ll just stay in our room,” he shot back, turning on his heel. He only managed a single step before a hand clamped firmly around his arm.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Monoma sang, voice sickeningly sweet. “I already promised the others I’d bring a newbie today. If I show up without you, I’m stuck washing dishes for a month. And that’s not happening.”

“I could help you wash the dishes,” Izuku offered dryly. “Seems like the faster option. You get your freedom, I get mine. Win-win.”

“Nope.” Monoma yanked, dragging him forward with surprising force. “You’re coming. And I’m going to prove to you there are people here who don’t care about all that crap. People who aren’t whispering the same old story about what you did or didn’t do.”

Izuku eyed him warily. Monoma’s expression didn’t look mocking this time. Not entirely. Behind the exhaustion and that irritating shine in his eyes, there was something that almost looked… serious. “I don’t believe you.”

Monoma shrugged. “Then trust me. When do I ever get things wrong?”

Izuku opened his mouth, ready to fire back—but shut it again.
He thought about shaking him off, about bolting back to his room and barricading the door. But really, what was the point? He let out a sigh and resigned himself to his fate.

Great. Dragged to Cooking Club. I clearly need a support group led by Monoma and a saucepan.

The first thing Izuku noticed about the cooking club’s classroom was the smell. It was mouthwatering.

Inside, someone chuckled under their breath while the steady rhythm of a knife hitting a cutting board filled the room. A soft murmur nearby, the metallic scrape of a pot being stirred. Butter. Garlic. Something sweet he couldn’t quite place. It was comforting.

Monoma shoved him forward with an elbow, not giving him a chance to back out. The moment Izuku crossed the threshold, heads turned toward him.

“Hey! This is Midoriya!” Monoma announced, in that theatrical tone he loved to put on. “Though I guess you all know him already. He’s here to be our brand-new guinea pi—uh, member of the club!”

For a second, Izuku’s throat went dry. Everyone was staring. He recognized them, of course—classmates—but he’d barely spoken to most of them before.

Uraraka straightened up from where she’d been kneading dough, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “Oh, hi Midoriya! I didn’t know you liked cooking.” Her voice was genuinely cheerful, the same warm tone that had calmed him down on his first day. Her hands were dusted in flour, and it looked like she’d been working at it for a while.

The truth was… Izuku didn’t know how to cook. He lived off instant noodles and sports drinks.

Asui tilted her head slightly, stirring the pot in front of her with calm, steady motions. “Kero. Nice to see you.” Her voice was neutral but not unfriendly, her eyes lingering on him for a moment before returning to the simmering broth.

At the oven, a tall, broad-shouldered guy was sliding in a tray of pastries—Sato, if Izuku remembered right. Quiet, steady, with an almost methodical air. He didn’t say a word, just gave Izuku a polite nod.

Beside him, Shoji—yeah, that was his name—moved like a machine. One arm was scrubbing dishes, another holding open a recipe book, while a third flipped food in a pan. Efficient to the point of being intimidating.

Further in, Komori, the mushroom girl, was stirring her pot with so much enthusiasm that soup splashed out now and then. Across from her, a peach-skinned guy with a rock-shaped head—Izuku had no idea what his name was—was wiping down a tray like it was some sacred relic.

And then there was the pink-skinned girl with the huge afro and black sclera. He remembered her from the cafeteria, hanging around with Bakugo’s group. She was humming tunelessly while rolling little balls of dough and lining them up on a tray, swaying like she was following her own rhythm.

Izuku instantly felt out of place. Not that it was new—but here, it hit different. Everyone looked so at ease, wrapped up in their own tasks, part of something.

“Welcome! Do you like sweet or savory? We’re making both today!” The pink girl bounded over, hand outstretched. “Mina Ashido!”

“H-Hi, Midoriya,” he muttered, shaking her hand a little awkwardly.

Ashido’s energy hit him like a warm gust of air. Her grip was firm but quick, like she didn’t want to spook him.

“We didn’t know you’d be joining today,” said the peach-skinned boy softly. Koda? Maybe? “Monoma drag you here too?”

“He always does that,” the pale-skinned guy added in a teasing drawl. “Honenuki. If you’re sticking around, I hope you know how to chop onions without crying.”

“He doesn’t,” Ashido cut in immediately.

“I technically can,” Honenuki argued. “It’s a biological response, not weakness.”

“Not weakness,” Ashido agreed solemnly. “Just laziness. Cold metal spoon between the teeth—zero tears.”

“That doesn’t work,” Uraraka chimed in without looking up. “Tried it once, bit my tongue.”

It was chaos. The good kind of chaos.

While the three of them debated onion hacks, Monoma tossed Izuku a garish, floral-patterned apron that matched Komori’s.

“So what can you do?” Ashido asked suddenly, grinning at him. “Any secret recipes?”

Izuku swallowed. “…Not really. I can’t cook. At all.”

Ashido blinked. “Like, at all-at all?”

“I mean… I can boil water,” he said, shrinking a little. “I think.”

Monoma burst out laughing loud enough to turn heads. “Told you I’d bring in a new member, not a chef!”

“It’s not a big deal,” Sato hummed as he loaded utensils into the sink. “Welcome to the club, Midoriya.”

So easy?

“Seriously? Just like that?” Izuku asked, glancing around.

Ashido shrugged, arranging her dough balls on the tray. “Pretty much. Clubs aren’t mandatory, but it helps to have one.”

“And the food’s good,” Sato added.

“Most of the time,” Uraraka corrected. “And nobody bothers you if you don’t feel like talking.”

Izuku hesitated, then bowed slightly. “Then… thanks for having me.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Honenuki called from the stove. “Wait until you try Monoma’s ‘gourmet’ food. If you survive, then you can be grateful.”

“Hey!” Monoma squawked. “That food’s won awards!”

“With bribed judges,” Ashido deadpanned, and Uraraka nodded gravely.

Koda quietly handed Izuku a dull knife and a couple of peeled carrots. He pointed to an empty cutting board, then demonstrated with exaggerated motions how to slice them. Izuku blinked, then shuffled over awkwardly. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. Koda just gave him a thumbs-up.

He still felt out of place… but not in a bad way. Just different.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Ashido appeared at his side again. “That grip’s terrifying. Like you’re about to decapitate the carrot.”

“There’s a correct way to hold it?” Izuku asked.

“Yes, and that ain’t it,” Honenuki shouted. “Elbow down, knife steady, fingers curled! If you cut yourself, cry outside!”

“Comforting,” Izuku muttered, adjusting his grip anyway.

Ashido leaned over, fixing his hand position without lingering, then stepped back. “Like that. And careful—Koda tears up if anyone bleeds.”

“I don’t cry,” Koda mumbled, clearly offended.

“Is it always like this?” Izuku asked, mostly to the air.

“More or less,” Uraraka said, carrying a tray of molds. “Some days are calmer. Not today.”

“You haven’t even seen Tokoyami cook,” Honenuki added. “That guy turns off all the lights. Says he needs to ‘feel the ingredients.’”

“That was one time!” Komori said quickly, pulling something cheesy and buttery out of the oven. “Don’t make him sound crazy.”

“He is crazy. But we love him,” Ashido said cheerfully.

Izuku ducked his head, smiling faintly.

From across the room, Monoma shot him a smug grin. Izuku rolled his eyes and went back to chopping.

Like hell I’m giving him the satisfaction.

I’m so dead.

Mina was sprinting down the hallway, clutching the bag to her chest like it held her entire future.

Her phone buzzed nonstop in her pocket—group chat blowing up with photos, angry texts, passive-aggressive stickers. Shinso had already gone full caps lock. Bakugo had threatened to lock the door. And still, all she could think about was how time had slipped away in the cooking club—laughing, stirring, making a mess. She’d gotten carried away.

“I’m here!” she yelled the second she shoved open Denki’s door, raising the bag like an offering.

A wave of “shhh!” hit her all at once.

The room was packed. Everyone was crammed in—on the floor in sleeping bags and blankets, snacks half-eaten, soda bottles scattered around. On the TV, Treasure Planet played with the volume turned way down. Every head turned toward her, but not a single word came out.

She eased inside, trying not to make more noise, until her eyes landed on Denki.

He was asleep. Out cold on his bed, face soft, mouth slightly open, bundled under the weighted rubber blanket Yaomomo had made for him. Right next to him, Shinso was quietly rubbing his back.

Mina’s lips pressed into an awkward smile. She crept forward, dropped the cookies on the nightstand between a water bottle and a box of meds, then slid down next to Eijiro. He handed her a can of Monster without a word.

“He had to take his muscle meds,” Eijiro whispered. “Bad spasms earlier.”

“Then why didn’t we just cancel?” She asked, popping the tab. “He’s gonna feel awful when he wakes up and realizes he slept through it.”

Kyoka shook her head, reaching for another chip. “We tried. He said it’d be worse if we didn’t do it at all.”

Oh, Denki…

“But that still doesn’t explain why you’re almost two hours late, Pinky,” Bakugo muttered from the floor, eyes glued to his phone.

Mina’s grip tightened on the can. “I was at cooking club. Teaching the new guy—Midoriya. Time got away from me.”

Bakugo made a noise that was half grunt, half snarl.

It wasn’t exactly news at U.A. that Bakugo and Midoriya had issues. To her, it was ridiculous that this childish grudge still lingered after all this time. Come on—they were pushing ten years already! From the little she’d interacted with the guy, he didn’t seem like a threat. Maybe just a threat to fashion.

Besides, who at five years old hadn’t said something dumb or spilled a secret? She got how serious it had been, sure, but still—there was no reason for things to drag on like this! Bakugo and Midoriya had something most kids at U.A. would kill for. Literally—they were each part of the other’s past. That connection still meant something.

From his corner, Shinso lifted his head, face unreadable, though his tone wasn’t. “What exactly were you teaching Midoriya? How to crack an egg? And that took you two hours?”

That jab was totally uncalled for. It hadn’t been her choice to put Midoriya in Denki’s seat—that had been Mr. Aizawa’s call, same as assigning Shinso to show him around.

“It wasn’t like that!” she defended herself, lowering her voice when she noticed Denki shift slightly in his sleep. “I just… lost track of time, okay? I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Bakugo muttered, arms crossed.

“Mina,” Hanta cut in, voice calmer, “it’s not just that you showed up late. It’s that… this was important to us.”

The pink-skinned girl lowered her gaze. The can in her hand suddenly felt heavier than it should. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, weakly. “I got distracted. But I’m here now! We can do another one tomorrow, earlier, and—”

“That’s not the point,” Shinso cut in, voice low and dry.

Mina swallowed hard. She wanted to say something, but nothing came out that didn’t sound like an excuse.

“You said ‘10 minutes’—we thought you’d be here,” Kyoka chimed in from the floor, eyes on the TV like it softened the blow. “That was… an hour and a half ago.”

“I didn’t think it’d get that late, honestly. It’s just… today was so fun… You guys know how much I love cooking club, so much that—”

“—that you forgot you had plans with us tonight,” Shinso interrupted, still flat-toned. “That slipped your mind too?”

The silence was heavier now. Even the muted movie in the background felt out of place.

Mina pressed her lips together. “I…” she started, but her voice cracked a little.

What could she say? Nothing made up for being this late. She understood why they were upset—really, she did. But it was starting to feel like they were attacking her, and that wasn’t fair.

These were supposed to be her friends—people who got her, who didn’t judge her for looking weird. But right now… it felt like every time her skin had broken out with pink spots, or the doc confused them for vitiligo, every time lumps popped on her forehead and ruined her life overnight, she was living that same humiliation all over again.

“Mina,” Yaomomo said softly, but firmly, “we’re not mad…”

“Don’t speak for everyone,” Shinso cut in, cold.

That one landed like a punch. She’d argued with Shinso before, but rarely had he sounded this personal.
Was this really about her being late—or about why she was late? Was the problem her… or Midoriya?

“Chill,” Eijiro said, calm but firm. “Mina said she’s sorry. Don’t make her feel worse. We’re supposed to be friends!”

Bakugo scoffed without looking up. “None of you are my friends, idiots. I got dragged into this, and if we were actually friends, no one just ghosts for two hours.”

“And friends don’t hold grudges over one screw-up,” Eijiro shot back, voice louder this time.

Shinso didn’t answer right away. He just glanced down at Denki, who shifted faintly under the blanket. For a second, Mina thought he was waking up—until he mumbled something incoherent. Shinso laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to soothe him, but his eyes stayed dark.

““Don’t look at me like that,” Mina snapped, unable to stay quiet. “I messed up, okay? But you don’t get to act like I don’t care!”

Shinso looked up slowly. “Do you even care? ‘Cause if you did, you wouldn’t be laughing with Midoriya while Denki’s asking about you every ten minutes.”

The words hit like ice water.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered back, lowering her voice so she wouldn’t wake the blonde. “That’s not what happened.”

“It is what happened,” Shinso replied, still calm but sharper with every word. “And it’s not the first time you’ve put other people over us.”

Something flared in her chest. “Excuse me? And what do you know? I don’t need your permission to have fun outside of here.”

“Doesn’t bother me—or anyone else—if you want to fake being everyone’s friend,” his voice went drier. “But Denki’s supposed to be your friend. Your ‘best friend.’ And you left him hanging, just like that, to help some total stranger crack eggs?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Mina shouted, heat flooding her face. “He knows I care. I care more than anything! ”

“Really, Pinky?” Bakugo finally looked up from his phone, venom in his grin. “You hide that pretty damn well.”

Mina spun on him, fuming. “Shut the hell up, Bakugo. You didn’t even want to come!”

“Exactly,” He shrugged. “And yet I showed up before you.”

Kyoka muttered an almost inaudible “uff.” Mina felt the tension coil around her chest.

“I was late, okay? I know! But that doesn’t make me a bad friend.”

“No,” Shinso said, cutting straight, “but it does make you unreliable.”

That stung—harder than she wanted to admit. “Unreliable? Because I was late one time? And what about the years I’ve been here, every time you’ve needed me? Doesn’t that count?”

“It counts,” Hanta said quickly, trying to calm things, “but… not tonight. Tonight, we needed you here.”

Yaomomo, who’d been quiet, spoke with measured tone: “Mina, it’s not only about Denki. We all cleared our afternoons for this. Kirishima skipped training, Kyoka canceled a rehearsal, and I… well, it doesn’t matter, but I made space to be here. And you weren’t.”

Mina felt their words press down heavy on her shoulders. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not that I don’t care…” her voice cracked. “I just… got distracted.”

Shinso looked at her, equal parts tired and disdainful. “And that’s the problem. You put us second without even realizing it.”

Bakugo laughed dryly. “Actually third. First the new guy, then your fancy cookies, then us.”

“That’s enough!” Mina burst out, forgetting to keep her voice down. “It wasn’t like that! And if you’re just gonna turn this into some scoreboard of favors, then maybe I’m not as good a friend as I thought!”

Bakugo snorted, pushing himself up. “Convenient. Shows up whenever she feels like it, bounces whenever she wants, and throws a tantrum if anyone calls her out.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bakugo!” Mina snapped, voice breaking loud. “Spare me your damn lectures about punctuality when all you ever do is push everyone away and make life miserable for the rest of us!”

“Ashido, lower your voice…” Shinso hissed through clenched teeth, but Mina didn’t care.

“And you!” she jabbed a finger at him, forcing him silent. “Stop using Denki as an excuse to treat everyone like crap! It’s not our fault he’s the only one in this whole damn building who puts up with you! If Denki were awake—”

The tension cracked when a sleepy voice cut through hers.

“…Enough,” Denki’s sleepy, rough voice cut through her like a knife.

Everyone froze. Denki was sitting up, half-lidded eyes, looking wrecked.

“…Can you all just shut the hell up?” His voice was raw, drained. “I’m done.”

The room went silent. Denki took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying not to snap. “I don’t give a damn who started it, who’s right, or who was late. I’m sick of everything turning into a fucking fight.”

Shinso shifted, like he was debating stepping in. Mina bit her lip, looking down. Bakugo stayed still, jaw tight. Denki’s eyes swept the group, each person under a silent, burning glare.

“Denki…” Mina started, stepping forward.

“No.” He shook his head, slow and sharp. “I don’t wanna hear it. I’m done.”

No one moved. Jirō stared at the floor, Yaomomo looked ready to say something but couldn’t, Kirishima crossed his arms, Sero avoided eye contact. Bakugo tensed, Hitoshi just stood there calculating.

But Denki wasn’t waiting.

“If you’re just gonna come here to yell at each other and throw shit around, then leave.” His voice sharpened. “I’m done. I just wanted, for once, to enjoy a night with everyone—like we used to. But no. It’s not the same anymore, and I see that clearer every time.”

Mina swallowed hard, heat burning her face like she’d just been scolded in front of everyone.

“Denki…” she tried again, softer, but he cut her off with a hand.

“No, Mina.” And this time he looked straight at her. “I’m done with all of you. Not just Katsuki and his damn need to win every argument. Not just Hitoshi pushing people away. Not just you showing up late like it’s nothing. All of you. ” His eyes swept the group. “I’m not fragile, and I don’t need you fighting for me or tearing each other apart. We’re supposed to be friends, but this? This makes me feel like I don’t know any of you at all.”

Bakugo scoffed, like he might answer, but Denki cut him off sharp:

“One more word and I’ll tell you to fuck off.”

Silence hit hard. Kirishima blinked, confused. Denki repeated, louder:

“All of you. Get the fuck out.”

Hitoshi leaned slightly forward. “Denki, I can stay—”

“No.” Quick, cutting. “You too.”

That “you too” made it clear—he wasn’t sparing anyone.

Mina’s feet moved toward the door before she realized. Nobody said a word. Bakugo stormed out first, nearly bumping into Eijiro in the doorway. Kyoka got up slowly, Hanta followed without looking back. Even Yaomomo, who seemed ready to protest, lowered her head and left.

Mina was one of the last to step through, carrying the awful weight that it hadn’t just been an argument—Denki had kicked them out. For the first time, it felt like he needed space away from them .

Chapter Text

The auditorium was already buzzing when Izuku walked in with Monoma—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing off the high ceiling. The place even smelled off—burnt popcorn mixed with the sharp tang of cleaning solution. Perfect.

“I still don’t get why we have to waste our time like this,” Monoma said, loud enough for everyone within three rows to hear. Typical. “An entire evening, gone. Do you know how much prep time we’ve lost for the cooking club? Three new recipes, Midoriya. Three. And now we’re stuck watching some random movie.”

Izuku hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He tried to give a small laugh, but it barely left his chest. Before he had the chance to respond, another voice carried across the rows.

“Hey, guy! Over here!”

Honenuki was waving them down. The cooking club had already claimed a cluster of seats in the middle, bags shoved under chairs and snacks spread across laps like they’d been planning this all week. Izuku trailed after Monoma, sidestepping jackets thrown over the backs of chairs. The air felt restless, buzzing in a way that wouldn’t settle.

They slid into their seats just as Mr. Aizawa made his fourth attempt to force the projector into life. The screen blinked on, then fizzled out. Every flicker pulled a round of snickers and half-jokes from the room, like entertainment had already arrived.

The doors creaked open again. Ashido slipped in, scanning the room like she was searching for someone. When her eyes landed on their row, she made her way over, smile bright and just a little too smooth. She dropped into the seat beside Komori with a cheer that sounded practiced.

“Well, what a miracle you’re here!” Komori teased.

Ashido laughed, easy and high-pitched. “What? A girl can’t hang out with her favorite group of nerds once in a while?”

The club chuckled, and Izuku found himself smiling faintly too, though the reaction dissolved quickly into the general noise. Something about her didn’t sit right.

He wasn’t close to Ashido, but he’d noticed often enough who she spent her time with. Almost always with Bakugo and his circle. Seeing her here, away from them, was… different.

The more he looked around, the stranger it seemed. Bakugo and his usual group had staked out seats in the back, their voices sharp but not reaching far. Near the front, Kaminari crouched by the projector with Ojiro and Hagakure, all tangled in wires while Mr. Aizawa loomed above them with his usual brand of patience—that is, none. Shinso was nowhere.

Izuku frowned slightly. He’d heard Kaminari spent most of his time with Shinso. Still, he forced the thought away and turned back to the chatter around him, even as it clung to the edge of his mind.

“So, Midoriya,” Honenuki said, leaning forward with a grin, “be honest—what’s your first impression of the club?”

Izuku froze at the sudden spotlight. “O-oh, um… it was… nice,” he muttered, voice small. Komori shot him a smile, soft and encouraging, and he tried again. “Really nice, actually. Everyone’s been welcoming. The recipes sounded challenging, but in a good way.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Honenuki nudged him with an elbow.

“Challenging?” Monoma scoffed. “Try revolutionary. Our standards are higher than those sad electives. Don’t let him downplay it.”

Komori chuckled. “You’ll scare him off if you keep talking like that.”

Izuku laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “No, it’s fine. If anything, it just makes me want to try harder.”

“That’s the spirit!” Uraraka said, twisting in her seat to face him. Her voice was so bright it almost startled him. “Honestly, I thought the curry you guys made last week was amazing. I don’t know if you tried it yourself, but it disappeared fast.”

“I might’ve been responsible for that,” Sato admitted, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish grin.

Asui blinked slowly. “It was good. Ribbit. I had seconds.”

The row chuckled, and Izuku felt the knot in his chest loosen, just a little.

Ashido leaned forward then, her grin quick and dazzling. “Well, I don’t know about ‘culinary history,’ but I’m here for the free food. If you ever need a taste tester, I’ve got you covered.”

“That’s not volunteering,” Komori teased. “That’s freeloading.”

Ashido gasped, hand to her chest in mock offense. “Ouch. You wound me! For the record, I do cook sometimes. I’m not completely useless. Just… more on the tasting side of things.”

The group laughed, and Izuku joined in, though his eyes stayed on her a second longer. Her voice hit all the right notes, but something still felt off—the way her smile dragged a beat too long, the quick glance she tossed aside once the laughter thinned.

Komori leaned closer, voice soft but clear enough for the row to hear. “You good?”

“Yeah, totally!” Ashido jumped in too fast. “Just stayed up way too late last night. I’m running on zombie mode, you know?” She added a shrug like that explained everything.

Komori giggled, and the moment passed, but the tension still buzzed under the surface.

“Speaking of late nights…” Sato asked, steady as ever, “did Kaminari like the cookies?”

Ashido’s head tilted, her answer snapping out almost too sharp. “Of course! He loved them.”

Asui’s eyes drifted toward the front rows, where Kaminari crouched by the projector, looking cut off without Shinso. “If he liked them so much, why aren’t you sitting with him? Ribbit. He looks pretty lonely.”

The silence that followed pressed heavier than any joke could cover. Ashido laughed, but it had that tight edge, like a string stretched too far. “Oh, that? He’s just catching up with Ojiro. Once those two start talking, good luck pulling them apart.”

Her smile wavered half a beat before she clapped her hands together, voice brighter than ever. “Anyway! More important question—what movie are we even watching?”

Shota had known from the start that cramming this many teenagers into one room was a bad idea. It always was. Hizashi had called it “bonding.” Shota had called it “noise.” And somehow, against his better judgment, he hadn’t stopped it. Now he was stuck babysitting.

The projector hummed in front of him, stubborn and useless, while half a dozen kids hovered like they could will it to life. Pathetic. He was an adult, supposedly competent, and yet here he was—outsmarted by a bundle of wires.

Kaminari crouched beside him, far too eager for someone who should still be on medical rest. “Teach’, I think that’s the wrong port. HDMI’s over here—”

“It’s already in HDMI,” Shota muttered, not even looking up.

Shinsō should’ve been there, shadowing him like usual. Instead, earlier that day, he’d asked—insisted—that Kaminari join the gathering. Said it would keep him from isolating. Shota hadn’t asked why. Still, the words had stuck with him. Something had shifted between those two, and whatever it was, it hadn’t settled.

On his other side, Ojiro leaned in politely. “Maybe it’s the outlet? Some of these don’t work right.”

From behind, Hagakure chirped, bright as ever: “Or maybe just smack it, like in the movies!”

“Don’t hit it,” Kaminari muttered.

Shota closed his eyes briefly. He was being walked through basic troubleshooting by teenagers. Teenagers who thought they were saving him from a meltdown.

The projector flickered once, sputtered, then finally came to life. A harsh white glow spread across the wall, steady this time. The room erupted like they’d just won a fight. Cheering, clapping, way too much noise for a machine doing its job.

Shota pinched the bridge of his nose. Hizashi would call this a “miracle of community.” To Shota, it was kids celebrating a lightbulb.

Hagakure clapped so hard it made his teeth ache. Ojiro gave a quiet nod, like he’d just solved something meaningful. Kaminari grinned wide, though it faltered quickly, his shoulders slumping as if the effort had drained him.

“Sit down before you fry yourself,” Shota muttered.

“Yes, sir,” Kaminari said, still smiling crookedly as he shuffled back to his seat.

The buzz in the room climbed again, excitement sparking like static. Hizashi would be pleased. Shota pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders and dropped into a chair at the back, already counting the minutes until the credits rolled.

“You too.”

Denki’s voice kept running through Hitoshi’s head—flat, tired, final. Like a door slamming shut. He had never fought with him before. Not once. And now Denki had told him to get out. Not just him—everyone.

He lay there staring at the ceiling, his thoughts spinning in circles until the words blurred together. What had he done wrong? Back him up, that was all. Cover for him when Ashido was late, buy him more time with Aizawa, keep the pressure off. That wasn’t wrong, was it? It shouldn’t have been. And yet somehow it had blown up in his face.

Now Denki was watching some dumb movie. The same thing Hitoshi had suggested to cheer him up. The irony stung.

“Stop using Denki as an excuse to treat everyone like crap! It’s not our fault he’s the only one in this whole damn building who puts up with you! 

The words hadn’t been Denki’s, but they stuck anyway. 

Hitoshi had never cared what people thought. Not once. Except—Denki. 

Since Denki, everything else blurred out. Nothing mattered. Denki was proof that good people existed, even if the world called him a monster. Denki was the best thing in his life. Maybe the only good thing.

And now Denki was mad at him. Or done with him. Or—something. Hitoshi didn’t know. Not knowing was worse. He told himself to wait, give him space. Denki would come around. He always did. Then Hitoshi would say he was sorry, admit it wasn’t the right time, and things would settle. It had to. It always did. Didn’t it?

“Not just Hitoshi pushing people away”

Denki’s voice, cracking with anger. His eyes, glassy. He couldn’t have meant it. Not him. Not Denki. Denki knew him—really knew him. No one else did.

But the more Hitoshi thought about it, the worse it felt. He’d trusted Denki with everything. And still, for the first time, he realized silence could suffocate worse than noise. It twisted inside his chest until he could barely breathe.

“Please, don’t die in our room.”

Hitoshi jerked at the sound. Kamakiri had slipped in, tossing the line like it was nothing.

“Shouldn’t you be in the auditorium?” Hitoshi muttered.

“I should. But at home my sister forced me to watch Legally Blonde. Not doing that again.” Kamakiri hummed, crossing the room. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Kaminari? I saw him helping Aizawa with the projector.”

That stupid projector. In a school full of advanced tech, they were stuck with a relic. Typical.

Kamakiri usually kept to himself, which made him an easy roommate. But it wasn’t like before, when Hitoshi had shared with Denki—late nights talking until one of them passed out, always there when the other needed it. That had been the best part of his day. After the accident, everything changed. Denki’s room filled with medical gear, and there was no space left for him.

When Tensei Iida graduated and left for university, his room stayed empty. They moved Hitoshi there, and for a while he had it to himself. A few weeks later, Kamakiri got reassigned—sharing with Tsuburaba and Kuroiro had driven him half insane. By then, Hitoshi’s nerves were already shot, so they put him here instead.

“Earth to Shinsō.” Kamakiri waved a hand in front of his face. “You look pathetic.”

If he trusted you enough, Kamakiri could be a real pain in the ass.

Hitoshi slapped his hand away. “Don’t you have better things to do? Hit the gym or something?”

“Ha. Funny.” Kamakiri dropped onto his bed. “But no. I’m not Bakugo. Don’t need to punch stuff to feel alive. I wanted quiet. Except you’re making the room depressing.”

Hitoshi bit down on the snap rising in his throat. “Then leave before I make it worse.”

Kamakiri didn’t move. Just sprawled on his bed, arms behind his head, tapping his foot against the wall. The sound grated, each tap scraping over Hitoshi’s nerves.

“You know,” Kamakiri said, “for a guy who acts like nothing touches him, you suck at faking it. You stormed in here last night like you wanted to break something, and now you’re sulking like the world ended.”

Hitoshi rolled his eyes, staring at the ceiling like it could pull him under. “Mind your own business.”

“I am. This is my business. You’re tanking the room vibe.” Kamakiri tilted his head. “So? What happened? Who pissed you off? Don’t tell me it was Bakugo again.”

“Drop it,” Hitoshi muttered, voice low, sharp.

But Kamakiri kept going. “Seriously, what’s your deal? You came back looking like hell, now you’re acting like a kicked puppy. I’m not gonna sit here guessing forever.”

The snap ripped out before he could stop it. He bolted upright, fists digging into the blanket.

“You don’t get it, okay? You don’t know anything!” His voice cracked, rough. “You didn’t see him last night, the way he—” He cut himself off, throat locking, pulse hammering in his ears.

Kamakiri blinked, caught off guard by the sudden outburst, but didn’t say anything right away. The silence pressed down hard, heavier than the shouting had been.

Hitoshi dragged both hands over his face, breath rough. “Just… leave it.”

Kamakiri sat up, eyebrow raised. “Or what? You’ll glare me to death? Seriously, what could be so bad you can’t even say it? You came back like someone tore you apart, and now you won’t admit it.”

That did it. The words ripped out before he could shove them down.

“It’s Denki, alright?!” Hitoshi’s voice cracked loud, raw. “He threw me out. He told me to get the hell out like I was nothing! I’ve never—he’s never—” His chest heaved, words tumbling too fast. “I was just trying to help him, I was trying to make things easier, and now he won’t even look at me!”

The room froze. Kamakiri opened his mouth like he’d shoot off a joke, but nothing came.

Hitoshi shoved his hands into his hair, pulling hard, breath uneven. “I can’t lose him. He’s all I’ve got. If he hates me now, then—” His voice broke, strangled.

For once, Kamakiri didn’t fire back. He just sat, the weight of Hitoshi’s words hanging thick between them.

Finally, Kamakiri scratched his neck, eyes shifting away. “…Damn. Didn’t think it was that bad.” His voice had dulled, still awkward but softer. “Look, I don’t get half of what you two have, but if he told you to leave, maybe he just needed space. Doesn’t mean he hates you.”

Hitoshi laughed under his breath, bitter and quiet. “You didn’t see his face.”

“Yeah, and maybe you didn’t either,” Kamakiri shot back, more gently than before. “You’re too close. You only ever see the worst version of yourself in other people. Maybe he just… snapped. Everyone does.” He shrugged, shoulders stiff. “Especially him. He’s been through enough.”

Hitoshi dropped his hands, staring down at the floor, jaw tight. The words stung, but not in the same way as before. Kamakiri wasn’t mocking him—he was clumsy, but honest.

After a long pause, Kamakiri flopped back down, arms behind his head again. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re nothing. Stiff as hell, yeah. But not nothing.”

Hitoshi blinked, thrown by the bluntness.

“Don’t stare,” Kamakiri muttered, facing the wall. “I’m not your therapist. Just saying. Give him time.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t crushing anymore. Just there. Hitoshi leaned back against the wall, pulling in a shaky breath, the pressure loosening just enough to let him breathe.

“Did we seriously just watch Legally Blonde?” Honenuki laughed as they made their way down U.A.’s halls toward the dorms.

Izuku hadn’t paid much attention to the movie. It was just… a movie. Not something he loved or hated. If it had been Marvel or DC, though, he knew he would’ve been glued to the screen. He’d always loved superhero films.

Uraraka shrugged. “I hope you mean that in awe, because no one mocks one of the most iconic feminist films ever made.”

“Half awe, half sarcasm,” Honenuki admitted. “Although… you know what actually sounds good right now?”

The way he said it meant trouble.

Kuroiro groaned. “If you’re about to suggest another whipped cream contest, I’ll end you. Shoji barely survived last time.”

Izuku blinked. Whipped cream… dangerous? He was about to ask when he caught Shoji’s flat, deadpan stare. Better not.

“Tempting as it would be to relive the glory of almost passing out from sugar overload,” Honenuki went on, dropping his voice conspiratorially, “I was thinking of something else. Something better. Something like… Eden.”

The word landed heavy. Their footsteps slowed almost in unison.

“Are you insane?” Kuroiro snapped, Komori nodding quickly. “Metahumans are public enemy number one right now.”

“That club is a target waiting to be hit,” Shoji said, his calm voice carrying weight. “Hunters, police—it won’t last long.”

Izuku frowned. Club? He glanced at the others. For as long as he’d known them, they had seemed… ordinary, in their own chaotic ways. The kind of people who played pranks, studied late, maybe broke curfew for snacks. Not the kind who slipped past U.A.’s top-grade security to sneak into some underground hotspot.

Then again, he thought of his own childhood—of slipping away from his adoptive home at twelve, wandering the city under starlight because he couldn’t sleep. Rule-breaking wasn’t always rebellion; sometimes it was just the need to breathe. And they were still teenagers, restless and reckless by nature.

“Come on,” Honenuki coaxed, arms spread wide. “Don’t be such killjoys! Remember our little escapades? Like when we got Sero drunk and made him chug milk to sober up?”

“We almost got caught,” Asui reminded flatly.

“And only worked because Kaminari tampered with the security grid,” Uraraka added, shrugging. “Without him, we won’t be so lucky.”

Honenuki arched a pale eyebrow at her. “I detect a flicker of interest in your voice, Uraraka.”

“It’s called pointing out flaws, genius,” she shot back, rolling her eyes.

Ashido bounced lightly on her heels, pink curls bobbing. “Okay, but admit it—this does sound fun. When was the last time we did something actually exciting?”

“Fun until we’re arrested,” Komori muttered, hugging herself.

Monoma, who had been unusually quiet, finally smirked. “Honestly, the more forbidden it is, the more appealing. Imagine the story we’d have to tell later. ‘The night we outsmarted U.A.’s fortress to hit Eden.’ Iconic.”

“Or humiliating,” Kuroiro countered. “When you trip an alarm and Aizawa drags us back by the ear.”

“That’s assuming we get caught,” Monoma said smoothly. “And really, has Aizawa ever proven better at catching us than we are at slipping away?”

Koda shifted nervously beside Shoji, shaking his head in silence. The quiet refusal spoke louder than words. Sato echoed the sentiment with a weary sigh. “I’m not risking detention for a club. Count me out.”

One by one, the group split—some firm, some hesitant. Shoji and Kuroiro’s resistance didn’t waver. Komori’s nervous shaking said enough. Koda retreated behind them. Sato shook his head again.

But Honenuki stood at the center with that maddening grin, Izuku at his side wrestling with his curiosity, Monoma fanning the flames with casual bravado, Uraraka torn between logic and the thrill of rebellion, Asui quietly resigned to going along, and Ashido buzzing with excitement.

Honenuki clasped his hands together, eyes gleaming. “So… what do you say?” His grin widened into something dangerous and irresistible. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Chapter Text

“Did you really think you could slip past campus security?” Mr. Aizawa’s voice cut through the silence. Even with anger threaded through, it carried that unnerving calm that made it sting worse.

Yes. Their attempt to sneak into a clandestine metahuman club had failed—before it even began.

“Do you ever stop to think what could’ve happened to you?” Mr. Yamada’s voice was far less restrained. He practically shook with alarm. “You’re kids, and you were about to sneak off to some rundown bar in the city. That’s dangerous enough already! Now add the fact that you’re metahumans—do you have any idea how much people would pay for your abilities? Do you?!” His voice cracked under the weight. “You could have been hunted, captured, sold, or worse—turned into someone’s experiment! Is that what you want?”

The lecture went on, sharp and unrelenting, but Izuku’s mind drifted back to the moment everything had gone wrong.

They hadn’t even made it past the perimeter fence. Honenuki had been whispering instructions, Monoma insisting he could copy Kaminari’s quirk to mess with the alarms, Ashido giggling under her breath to keep the nerves away. Izuku had tried to help, scanning the security layout like it was an exam problem he could solve. But before any of it came together, the red glow of sensors lit up the night.

The sound was deafening—the shrill beep-beep-beep of detection—and then the entire courtyard flooded with light. Their hearts had barely leapt before Mr. Aizawa was already there. Beside him, Mr. Yamada’s voice boomed through the loudspeakers, shaking the ground under their feet as if the school itself had caught them.

The six of them shook their heads almost in unison, guilt heavy in the room.

Izuku couldn’t bring himself to speak. He didn’t even know why he had gone along with it in the first place. Maybe it had been peer pressure. Maybe the fear of saying no and being left out. For once, he had felt like he belonged—like the others wanted him there. And he hadn’t wanted to ruin that by backing down.

Mr. Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. His tired gaze landed squarely on Izuku. “Midoriya, I expected better from you.”

Izuku flinched at the words. They hurt worse than any scolding.

Then Mr. Aizawa’s eyes swept to the others, his tone sharpening again. “And the rest of you—I trusted you to welcome him. To show him how to live here. Instead, you dragged him into this mess.”

No one spoke. Ashido’s foot shifted against the floor. Monoma’s smirk had vanished. Uraraka kept her eyes down.

Mr. Yamada stepped forward then, arms folded tight, his voice still trembling with the adrenaline of it. “Do you have any idea how much you scared us? We didn’t know where you were going, or what you were walking into.” His words tumbled, heavy with feeling. “You think this is about rules? It’s about not wanting to lose you.”

Mr. Aizawa let the silence drag, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Detention. Every one of you. From now until I say otherwise. Cleaning, nightly lessons. No excuses. You’ll live with it until I’m satisfied.”

That snapped heads up.

“What?” Ashido whispered, too loud. “Every night?”

“We won’t have any free time,” Monoma muttered, scandalized.

The complaints rippled quick, voices climbing.

Mr. Yamada sighed, reached out, and set a hand lightly on Aizawa’s shoulder. “Shota.” His tone cut through the noise, softer but steady. “A month. That’s enough.” He glanced back at the students, his expression sharper now. “I’d rather have you tired and mad at us than see your names on some missing-person report.”

The protests dwindled into uneasy quiet. Shoulders slumped. Eyes slid to the floor.

Mr. Aizawa didn’t argue. He only gave a curt nod, accepting Mr. Yamada’s line. “One month. Then we reevaluate.”

This is what I get for listening to Honenuki.

Neito drummed his fingers against the desk, eyes flicking toward the windows. At least they weren’t swarmed anymore—no reporters pressed up against the glass, no camera flashes cutting through the classroom. Things had calmed, at least on the surface. Still no classes, though. Before the movie night fiasco, they’d been told next week lessons would finally resume. Neito wasn’t sure whether to dread it or look forward to it. Either way, he knew reassigned tasks were coming, and the thought made his stomach twist.

Everything had felt different since Hawks showed up on that damned broadcast, flashing his smile and soaking up the title of “first superhero.” People out there acted like it was a miracle, like one man flying around in feathers was going to change a system rotting from the inside. But Neito had seen what it did here, in U.A. It didn’t unite anyone. It cracked them. It made enemies out of people who were supposed to be on the same side. Trust had always been fragile; Hawks just smashed what little was left.

Neito ground his teeth. They were the ones locked up behind these walls, under endless surveillance, while the world celebrated a poster boy. If anything, Hawks had made things worse. Their so-called safe space had turned into a fishbowl.

The door slid open. Mr. Aizawa walked in, scarf hanging loose, his expression unreadable as ever. The room straightened by instinct.

“I’ve reconsidered your punishment,” he said flatly. “The additional classes will not be new material. They’ll be review sessions. Mandatory. One month.” His gaze swept the rows, daring anyone to groan. “On top of that, you’ll be divided into pairs. Each pair will take a week cleaning and maintaining the campus. Three weeks total. No excuses.”

A ripple went through the room—small groans, nervous shifting, the usual when reality hit harder than rumors. Neito sat straighter, half-expecting the worst.

“I expect you’ve learned something from this,” Mr. Aizawa continued. “Your first cleaning rotation starts today. Monoma and Midoriya.”

Neito felt the words drop on him like a stone. His jaw clenched tight, his eyes snapping sideways to where Midoriya sat. Of course.

Mr. Aizawa’s tone didn’t change. “The rest of you—class begins at eighteen hundred. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, the decision was made, iron-clad, impossible to shake. Neito slumped back in his chair, grinding out the thought again, bitter as ever. 

Fuck you, Honenuki.

Eijirou had been running himself ragged with worry. Every hallway seemed to echo with the weight of unspoken things—Denki holed up behind Ojiro and Hagakure, Shinso locked in his room, Mina slipping away before anyone could stop her. Bakugo tearing through punching bags like they were his enemies. The whole place felt fractured.

Sero told him to give Denki space. Jirou and Yaoyorozu said the same. He wanted to trust that advice. But it didn’t make it easier to watch his friend put up walls, to feel everyone around him drift further apart. Especially not when his own head replayed that night again and again—Denki breaking down, Mina late, everyone fumbling to make sense of it. 

Mina had looked like she wanted to vanish, and Eijirou had let her slip away without a word. That stung more than he liked to admit.

He prided himself on being “manly,” on stepping up when people needed him, but in that moment? He hadn’t been enough. He’d stood there, wishing someone else knew what to say. That memory sat like a stone in his chest.

He was chewing on the thought when his foot slid out from under him. He stumbled hard, catching the wall with both hands as the floor glistened beneath him.

“Ah—sorry! That’s on me!”

The new kid—Midoriya, the one Bakugo had a grudge against so sharp it could cut through steel—came jogging down the hall, mop in one hand, bucket rolling beside him. His green curls were damp at the edges, and his uniform shirt stuck slightly to his shoulder like he’d already been working a while.

“I should’ve put the sign up,” Midoriya blurted, voice rushing. “The floor’s slippery—I didn’t think anyone would come through yet—”

Eijirou laughed, cutting through the panic. “Hey, relax. I didn’t crack my skull, right? You’re fine.” He thumped a hand against his chest with a grin. “Hardening ability. Pretty hard to break me with a little water.”

Midoriya blinked, relief flickering in his eyes.

“Name’s Kirishima Eijirou,” he added, sticking out a hand. “Guess I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

Midoriya hesitated only a second before taking it. His grip was careful but solid. “Midoriya Izuku.”

“Right, the new guy.” Eijirou tilted his head, still smiling. “Didn’t think they’d throw you into cleaning duty so fast.”

Midoriya glanced at the mop, embarrassed. “Detention. With Monoma.”

That earned a bark of laughter. “Oof. Tough draw. Watch out—he’ll try to make it sound like he invented mopping if you give him the chance.”

A small, real smile tugged at Midoriya’s mouth.

Eijirou leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely. “So… cleaning duty? Didn’t think Mr. Aizawa was that strict.”

Midoriya hesitated, eyes flicking to the bucket before answering. “It’s… detention. A group of us tried to sneak out last night. We didn’t even make it past the gates before we got caught.”

Eijirou blinked. “Seriously?” His brows rose, half in disbelief. “And here I thought they just handed you a mop for fun.”

Midoriya rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears pink. “It wasn’t my idea. But… I went along with it. I didn’t want to drag everyone down.”

“Man,” Eijirou muttered, shaking his head with a low laugh. “Guess they really are cracking down if you’re stuck scrubbing floors for it.”

Midoriya dipped the mop again, wringing it out carefully. “It’s not just the cleaning. They added night lessons too. For a month.” His voice was quiet, like admitting it made the punishment heavier.

Eijirou whistled under his breath. “That’s brutal. But… you don’t sound mad about it.”

Midoriya gave a small shrug. “I messed up. It’s fair.”

That answer sat with Eijirou longer than he expected. He’d heard Bakugo rant plenty of times about how dangerous Midoriya was supposed to be, how he couldn’t be trusted. But watching him here—apologizing for wet floors, owning up to detention like it was his responsibility alone—none of it lined up with the picture he’d been given.

And it made him think again about himself. About how “being manly” wasn’t always throwing punches or acting tough—it was showing up, facing things, even when they weren’t fair. 

Something he hadn’t done the night Denki lost control, or when Mina needed someone to reach out. Maybe that was why Midoriya struck him the way he did now: quiet, awkward, but standing there with a mop like he wasn’t too good for it.

He didn’t push, though. Instead, he grinned and said, “Well, if you ever need backup with the mop, just give me a shout. I’m good with heavy lifting.”

Midoriya’s eyes widened slightly, like the offer carried more weight than Eijirou intended. Then he nodded. “Thanks.”

Eijirou clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Catch you around, Midoriya.”

Midoriya glanced up, a faint but steady smile breaking through. “Good meeting you too.”

Eijirou pushed off the wall and started down the hall, the sound of the mop swishing fading behind him. He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d expected from meeting Midoriya—but it wasn’t this. And the more he thought about it, the harder it was to take Bakugo’s version of things at face value.

Mina stared down at her tray, the pale heap of natto sitting there like it was waiting for a fight. She hadn’t even stirred it. The smell clung to her nose—heavy, sour—but her chopsticks stayed still in her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to try.

Her thoughts kept drifting back to Denki’s room. The way everything had snapped. Years of easy friendship, late-night talks, stupid contests to see who could choke down the worst cafeteria food. Gone, just like that. Now, Denki barely left his room. Shinso didn’t come out of his at all. Bakugo’s punches echoed through the hall at all hours. Yaoyorozu and Jirou kept to themselves, wrapped up in their own little bubble. She hadn’t seen Hanta since that night. And Kirishima—he looked busy trying to keep the peace with everyone, avoiding fights instead of checking on her.

She wanted to fix it. She didn’t want things to end this way. Who else could she count on? The cooking club was fun, sure, but they weren’t the same. They weren’t her closest friends. Who was she supposed to pull pranks on Bakugo with? Who would argue with her over nail polish colors or push her harder during training?

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, stabbing the air with her chopsticks before setting them down again.

The TV above the lunch line was still running, a local anchor talking about some incident in a mall in Peru. Mina wasn’t really listening until the voice sharpened:

“We interrupt this report to bring you live coverage from the Capitol. The press conference is beginning now, with Senator Enji Todoroki taking the floor.”

The screen cut away. A podium filled the frame, flanked by flags. Then the camera zoomed in on a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp red hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a black suit that seemed to swallow the light around him, his expression carved in stone.

Mina felt her stomach twist even before he opened his mouth.

Enji Todoroki adjusted the microphone, his voice calm, steady, and chilling in its precision. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come to address the risks posed by metahumans. For too long, we have allowed unchecked abilities to disrupt the safety and order of our society. That ends now.”

Murmurs rippled through the room instantly. Mina heard a fork clatter against a tray, someone sucking in a sharp breath. Her own hands tightened against her knees.

Enji Todoroki’s voice carried on, measured and unwavering: “We are working toward a comprehensive registry of all metahumans. This registry will ensure accountability and protection—for the public, and for the metahumans themselves. Transparency is the only path forward.”

Registry. The word landed like a punch. 

Was that what Principal Nedzu’s press conference had been about?

She remembered them talking about how their top priority was keeping their data and identities safe, about how they would wait for an official statement… Was this supposed to count as one? What could they even do against the government?

Around her, voices rose in agitation. Someone cursed under their breath. Someone else whispered, “They can’t actually do this, right?” A few students pushed their trays away altogether, eyes glued to the screen.

What did this mean?

What would they do with her and the others? Some of her friends were wanted for crimes they never meant to commit, others had run away from their homes, some from laboratories. Many didn’t have a home to go back to at all, thinking of U.A. as their only refuge.

Todoroki’s tone didn’t waver, cutting through the noise as if he were standing there with them: “We will not stand idle while unregulated power threatens our citizens. Order must prevail. Registration is not a choice. It is a necessity.”

The cafeteria erupted.

“Are they serious? A registry?” someone near the door snapped. Chairs scraped back hard; a tray clattered to the floor. Voices overlapped, sharp and frantic.

“They’ll sell us. Hunters already pay for info. You think a piece of paper changes that?” Two boys started arguing, one yelling that the law would protect them, the other swearing it wouldn’t matter once people decided metahumans had a price.

Mina’s breath turned shallow, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Now Gobernment would turn them into exhibits. Names, powers, weaknesses—filed away, stamped, and owned by the government. What would her acid be to them? A glorified cleaner? Her horns, just some freak decoration?

And what about her friends? 

What would happen once their names were broadcast like targets?

The panic pressed tighter, crawling up her ribs until she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Was just existing really a crime?

“It’s not fair!” a girl shouted, her voice breaking.

“That’s how it starts,” someone snapped back, shoving their tray aside. “First a registry, then control. You think they’ll stop there?”

“They have to stop there,” another voice argued, loud, desperate. “The registry could mean protection! If we’re recognized, maybe we’ll finally have rights!”

“Rights?” A boy laughed bitterly. “That’s not rights. That’s a list. That’s a weapon against us the second someone decides we’re dangerous. And newsflash—we’re always dangerous to them.”

Tables rattled as people stood, voices climbing over each other until the cafeteria felt like it was closing in. Mina clutched the edge of her tray, knuckles white, stomach churning. She wanted to scream at all of them to shut up, to make the noise stop—but the words wouldn’t come.

Her eyes locked back on the screen, on Senator Todoroki’s cold, unshaken face. 

He didn’t care.

“Every citizen has a right to safety. Every metahuman has a duty to prove they are not a threat. Registration is how we protect both. Those who refuse will face consequences.”

The word echoed, heavy and merciless. 

“This is bullshit!” a boy near the window barked. “We’re not weapons—”

“They’ll treat us like weapons!” another shot back. “You think they care about protecting us? We’ll be cataloged and sold the second it’s convenient!”

“Better a registry than being hunted in the streets!” a girl yelled, her voice breaking halfway through.

“Open your eyes! Hunters won’t stop just because your name’s in some database!”

The arguments tangled until Mina couldn’t tell who was yelling anymore. Her pulse thudded so hard it drowned everything else out. She pressed her palms against her thighs, trying to ground herself, but her hands were trembling.

Her chest squeezed. She wanted to get up, to run, to do something. Instead she sat frozen, stomach twisting tighter by the second. For years she’d laughed things off, spun jokes out of tension, but now? There was nothing to laugh at. Nothing to soften.

A tray clattered nearby—someone shoving it off the table in rage. Mina jolted at the sound, breath catching. The panic climbed higher, blinding and suffocating.

If this registry became law, what would be left of them?

Would she even recognize her friends when the government was done deciding what they were worth?

The cafeteria noise spiked again—shouts, chairs dragging, a chorus of fear and anger that rattled her skull. Mina pressed her hands over her ears, but it barely dulled the storm. Her chest tightened until she thought she might choke.

Then a sharp voice cut through the chaos.

“Enough.”

Mr. Aizawa’s tone wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. The word dropped like a weight, pulling the room into silence by sheer gravity. His scarf hung loose at his shoulders, his eyes tired but sharp, scanning the mess of students as if he could pin each one to their seat with a glance.

Mr. Yamada followed close behind, and where Mr. Aizawa was cold steel, Mr. Yamada was fire barely contained. His voice rose, not yelling but full of heat. “Do you hear yourselves? Screaming at each other isn’t going to fix anything. I know you’re scared—we’re scared too. But tearing each other apart won’t make you safer.”

The silence that followed wasn’t calm—it was brittle, humming with everything unsaid. Mina’s heart still hammered, but now it was tangled with shame.

Mr. Aizawa’s gaze swept the room. “You don’t need to speculate about the registry. When there’s something concrete to tell you, you’ll hear it from us. Not from the news. Not from each other’s panic.” His voice sharpened just enough to sting. “Until then, focus. On keeping each other steady, instead of turning this place into a mob.”

Mina dropped her eyes to her tray. The natto sat there untouched, the smell making her throat close. Her hands still trembled in her lap. She wanted to believe him—to believe any of it—but the fear didn’t let go.

Mr. Yamada clapped his hands once, a sharp sound. “Alright. Deep breaths. Eat your food, finish your break, and keep moving. We’ll get through this. Together.” His voice was steadier now, warmer, like he was trying to patch the cracks Mr. Aizawa left raw.

Mina forced herself to breathe in, then out. The noise around her dulled into murmurs, forks scraping, trays shifting back into place. But the knot in her stomach didn’t ease. No matter how much she wanted to believe the teachers, Enji Todoroki’s words still echoed in her head.

Consequences.

Izuku didn’t want to get out of bed. It didn’t care how many times Monoma tried to drag him up.

“Get up already, slacker!” Monoma shouted, yanking at the blanket with unnecessary drama. “A few minutes of cleaning and you’re already wiped out?”

“Yes,” Izuku answered flatly, not even opening his eyes.

His arms ached from mopping the entire first hall. And he’d have to do it again tomorrow. And the next day. The whole week. Just thinking about what it would be like to clean the cafeteria made his head hurt.

Monoma let out a sharp sigh before grabbing Izuku by the arm and hauling him with one hard pull. Izuku toppled right off the bed, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“Up,” Monoma said smugly, looming over him. “Or I’ll do it again.”

Izuku lay there for a moment, cheek pressed to the floor, before letting out a long, defeated breath. He wasn’t going to win this one. Slowly, he pushed himself up and got to his feet.

The calm that U.A. had been clinging to didn’t survive Senator Todoroki’s speech. Whatever fragile sense of safety they’d built cracked wide open the moment his words hit the airwaves.

And yet, the nightly lessons didn’t vanish. Detention still loomed, steady as ever, a reminder that rules mattered whether the outside world was burning or not.

It was almost funny—ironic—that everything had gone to hell the very next day after they’d tried sneaking out.

What would’ve happened if they’d actually made it past the gates?

Better not to think about it.

The hallways at night felt too quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling in for voices. Izuku walked beside Monoma, trying not to focus on how heavy his steps felt. Monoma, of course, didn’t stop talking.

“At least this is something productive,” Monoma huffed, arms crossed. “Detention with lessons, fine. That I can stomach. But cleaning? Honestly, it’s a criminal misuse of my talents.”

Izuku let the words wash over him, too tired to answer. He gripped his notebook tighter, focusing on the floor tiles passing under his feet.

They reached the classroom door. Monoma shoved it open with a dramatic sigh, as though the act itself were beneath him. Izuku stepped in right behind him—then froze.

Kaminari was already there. Perched on a chair, tilted back on two legs, hands folded behind his head like he hadn’t a care in the world. He looked up at them, grin breaking across his face with easy warmth.

“Hey, guys!” He called, voice bright. “Didn’t know I was getting company!”

Chapter Text

The best thing about being the “sick student” was that people always went easy on you.

Denki hated that most days, but sometimes… yeah, it worked in his favor. Like when he wanted something bad enough.

He’d pestered Mr. Aizawa—well, followed him all the way to the staff wing, actually—begging to take nightly review lessons. To start easing back into things, little by little. Naturally, his teacher had shut him down at first. But Denki knew the man’s limits; he could almost hear the irritation building each time the squeaky wheels echoed down the corridor behind him. Eventually, Mr. Aizawa gave in.

Denki was grateful to Hitoshi for keeping him caught up, but what he wanted wasn’t notes. He wanted to feel normal again. He was done being treated like some fragile patient living inside a school, done with people looking at him like he’d snap if they breathed too hard. Wheelchair or not, doctor’s orders or not, he couldn’t stand living in that bubble anymore.

Maybe if he could claw back a little piece of normal, he’d finally have the nerve to talk to his friends. He felt guilty about what had happened in his room—they hadn’t deserved to be thrown out like that. But hearing them yell and use him as the excuse for it had been unbearable. 

He was still mad at them, though. That part he didn’t regret. They deserved some of it, and he wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. But the way he’d blown up on them—that wasn’t fair. They didn’t deserve to get screamed at like that. So for now, he needed space. Time to breathe, time to feel like himself again. Maybe then he could talk to them. Maybe they needed that time too.

But Hitoshi—that was harder to ignore. Denki kept looping back to him. Had he been too harsh? Hitoshi only wanted to help, even if sometimes that help felt like a cage made out of good intentions. Denki loved him, more than anything, and hated himself for even doubting how much weight Hitoshi could carry. He didn’t want him to think their love had changed just because Denki snapped.

But ever since the accident, it felt like everyone—especially Hitoshi—had been treating him like glass. Like he would crumble if anyone leaned too hard. He couldn’t live like that.

And maybe, just maybe, the fastest way to get it was to do the one thing Hitoshi never would’ve wanted him to.

Still, pushing himself a little—especially since Mr. Aizawa had finally agreed—didn’t feel entirely wrong. So yeah, he was excited. Too excited, maybe. He had shown up way earlier than necessary, notebook already open, pen tapping against the desk in restless rhythm. He missed Mr. Aizawa’s voice. Hearing Hitoshi’s secondhand notes wasn’t the same, even if he appreciated them more than he could say.

When the door opened, Denki looked up so fast his neck nearly popped.

The new kid—Midoriya, if he remembered right—walked in with Monoma at his side. Denki had seen him once in the hall, but never spoken.

Now they were here, for the same lesson, at the same time.

He’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. But Denki liked meeting people before judging them. They were all metahumans stuck in the same messed-up system. Childhood mistakes and old grudges had already ruined too much. And Midoriya hadn’t picked the timing—he just showed up while Denki was out. He wasn’t trying to replace anybody.

That was why this felt huge. Classmates. Actual classmates. Not a special favor, not a private session—just a real class. He never thought he’d be this excited about school, especially after all the times he’d skipped with Hitoshi to grab a few extra hours of sleep. But here he was, practically buzzing with anticipation.

A grin spread across his face before he could stop it. “Hey, guys! Didn’t know I was getting company.”

Izuku blinked, thrown off by the cheer in Kaminari’s voice. For a second he just stood there with Monoma, not sure how to react. It felt weird—comforting, even—that someone actually sounded glad to see him. He wasn’t used to that here. Most people only bothered to glare or whisper when he walked in.

What didn’t make sense was Kaminari being there at all. Wasn’t he still supposed to be on medical rest? Night lessons seemed like too much for him. Or maybe he’d broken some rule and ended up in detention with the rest of them. But if that was the case, nobody would be smiling. Right?

He mumbled a quick, awkward “Evening,” and followed Monoma further inside.

Kaminari didn’t notice the hesitation. He leaned back in his chair, half-spinning to face them, grinning like this was the best part of his day. “Man, it’s about time. I’ve been stuck here way too long by myself. You just saved me from the world’s most boring solo study session.”

Monoma sighed as he dropped his bag, muttering, “Lucky us.”

Izuku sat down next to him, gripping his notebook tight like it might keep him steady. For a second, he almost felt like he could breathe.

Then the door opened again. Ashido came in with Uraraka close behind. Their chatter died instantly when they saw Kaminari. Uraraka gave him an easy smile as she passed, but Ashido froze. Just for a moment. The notebooks in her arms shifted, and she looked away fast, eyes fixed anywhere but him.

Kaminari’s grin faltered—barely—but Izuku caught it. The kind of smile that looked solid on the surface but was already cracking underneath.

He remembered how off things had felt in the auditorium. How Ashido had chosen to sit with them instead of her usual group, and how her smile slipped when Sato asked about the cookies. Seeing her stiffen now in front of Kaminari made it obvious: something between them had snapped.

“Kaminari! It’s good to see you out here. What brings you over?” Uraraka asked, cutting through the silence before it could sink too deep.

Kaminari lit up at her words, rocking his chair back. “Extra credit! Or, well, that’s how I’m choosing to see it. Mr. Aizawa let me sit in on these lessons.” He pounded a fist to his chest, all exaggerated pride. “First night back and already hitting the books. That’s dedication, right?”

Izuku thought back to Mr. Aizawa’s words and saw right through it—the desperation hiding under that smile. Still, Kaminari’s excitement was so real that Izuku couldn’t imagine how bad things had gotten if just being in a study session was enough to make him happy.

Monoma snorted. “Dedication or insanity. Can’t tell with you.”

“Insanity would be sitting here alone any longer,” Kaminari shot back, still grinning. “Seriously, I was about to start talking to the walls. You saved me.”

Uraraka smiled politely as she settled in, but Ashido kept fussing with her notebooks, lining them up too perfectly, her back too stiff. Izuku tried not to stare, focusing instead on Kaminari, whose energy filled the room like static.

Then Kaminari’s eyes landed on him. Bright, curious. “Wait—you’re the new guy, right? Midoriya?”

Izuku nodded fast, caught off guard. “Uh—yeah.”

“Awesome. Guess we’re classmates now.” Kaminari laughed, warm and easy, and Izuku’s shoulders loosened before he even realized it. “Denki Kaminari, at your service!”

The door opened again and Asui stepped in, blinking at Kaminari like she wasn’t sure it was really him. “Ribbit. Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.”

“Surprise!” Kaminari spread his arms wide like he’d just pulled a magic trick. “Bet you didn’t miss me hogging all the answers, huh?”

Asui blinked. Deadpan as ever. “You don’t usually have the answers.”

That got a laugh out of Uraraka, already pulling out a chair. Even Ashido’s shoulders twitched, though she kept her eyes down. Kaminari clutched his chest in mock offense, the grin never slipping.

The door swung open again, and Honenuki walked in, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking bored with the whole world. Monoma perked up immediately. “Ah, finally. The mastermind arrives. All of this? Entirely your fault.”

Honenuki raised an eyebrow, completely calm. “Obviously. I’ll take full credit for our glorious month of hard labor.”

The jab rolled right off him, and for once Monoma didn’t bite back. He even cracked a small grin. Izuku almost had to double-check he wasn’t imagining it.

Kaminari’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—hold on. You guys are actually in detention? Like… real detention?”

Uraraka pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. “Yeah. Real enough.”

“As in… punishment detention?” Kaminari leaned forward like they’d just admitted to some big secret. “No way. That’s—okay, maybe not cool, but kinda is. I thought you were just stuck in extra lessons.”

Monoma rolled his eyes. “Leave it to Kaminari to be impressed by detention.”

“I’m not impressed, I’m just—” Kaminari paused, still grinning. “Okay, maybe a little impressed. Who even manages to land detention here?”

Ashido’s pencil scraped against her notebook, sharp and deliberate. Honenuki raised a hand lazily, half volunteering, half mocking. “Guess you’re looking at the pros.”

Kaminari laughed, bright and genuine, and for the first time since Izuku walked in, it didn’t feel like the whole room was walking on glass.

Izuku had to remind himself that U.A. wasn’t a normal school, no matter how hard it tried to look like one.

Extra lessons as detention? Yeah, not what he’d pictured.

Mr. Aizawa showed up, tore into them for sneaking off toward some shady bar, gave Kaminari props for “initiative,” then immediately threatened to stick him with another month of medical leave if he pushed himself too hard. After that, he split them into pairs, said the real lessons would start tomorrow, and bounced.

Then came the pairings. Izuku figured he’d end up with Monoma—it made sense, since they were roommates. But when Mr. Aizawa asked if anyone wanted to go solo, Monoma raised his hand without even blinking. Izuku just stood there, feeling like an idiot, until Mr. Aizawa stuck him with Kaminari.

He honestly didn’t know how to react. Out of everyone here, why Kaminari? He was still stuck in that thought when Kaminari leaned over like it was no big deal.

“Great!” Kaminari said, jotting his number on a scrap of paper and sliding it across “Great!” Kaminari said, scribbling his number on a scrap of paper and sliding it across the desk. His grin was big, easy, like none of this was awkward. “I’m pumped to work with someone new. And hey—word is you’ve already stirred up a lot around here.”

Izuku stared at the paper, not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or a warning. He muttered a quick “thanks” and shoved it in his pocket before anyone else noticed. He couldn’t tell if Kaminari’s energy was going to be a good thing… or a bad one.

Kaminari just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. People talk either way. Means you’re interesting. And I like interesting.”

Izuku frowned. “Why?”

“’Cause surprises are fun. And maybe you’re one of ’em.” For a second, Kaminari’s grin slipped, replaced by a small sigh. “But seriously… I’ve heard stuff. About you, Katsuki, Toshi. I just wanna say—they’re not bad guys.”

Izuku almost told him to stop. Every problem he’d had here circled back to Katsuki, or that rumor he was trying to replace Kaminari. He hated the idea of being paired with him, but… none of that was Kaminari’s fault.

“It’s not my place to cover for them,” Kaminari went on, giving him this small, careful smile. “But if me being gone made things harder for you… I’m sorry. I really do wanna be friends.”

Izuku didn’t know how to answer. The words hit harder than he expected, mostly because they weren’t hostile. Kaminari’s smile wasn’t sharp like Monoma’s sarcasm or Bakugo’s constant scowl—it was soft, careful. Real.

He looked down at the slip of paper again, Kaminari’s number scrawled out in messy handwriting. Was he supposed to just… accept it? Weeks of cold shoulders and whispers hadn’t gone away, not even close. But Kaminari wasn’t making excuses. He was just trying.

Izuku gave a stiff little nod. “Thanks. I… appreciate it.”

That was all it took. Kaminari lit up instantly. “Cool. We’re friends now. No take-backs.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck like he knew how corny he sounded.

Izuku blinked at him, stuck between confusion and… relief. It was strange, hearing someone say out loud what everyone else avoided.

Chairs scraped as people packed up. Mr. Aizawa was long gone. Monoma tossed a lazy salute before heading out. Ashido hesitated at the door, eyes flicking toward Kaminari before she followed Uraraka. Asui and Honenuki trailed after, their voices low.

Izuku stayed put, notebook still clutched in his hands, replaying the whole thing.

Kaminari leaned forward on his elbows. “Don’t overthink it. Tomorrow’s when it really starts. Tonight doesn’t count.”

Izuku glanced at him. That smile was easy. Genuine.

And somehow, before he could stop himself, he smiled back. “Sounds good to me.”

The car hummed steadily along the highway, headlights cutting through the dusk.

Tenya sat stiff in the passenger seat, though the weight dragging down his legs made every second unbearable. The engines throbbed with an unnatural presence.

Days ago, they had erupted through his skin, metal tearing muscle like a grotesque nightmare. Now they sat heavy, embedded in his calves, silent but undeniable.

They did not feel as though they were a part of him.

The metahuman gene could be shared between siblings. A fifty-fifty chance. But he had lived fifteen years without a single sign. No power, no mutation, nothing that suggested he was anything but ordinary. He had nearly convinced himself he had escaped it. And then, in a matter of hours, his entire life had collapsed.

Tensei’s voice broke the silence, casual and bright. “Man, you’re gonna love it. U.A. isn’t anything like those private academies you’re used to. It’s alive—clubs everywhere, people always running around, something happening every second. And the food? A hundred times better than that cafeteria sludge.”

Tenya turned his head sharply, a frown cutting across his face. “This is not a school excursion. You speak as if I am being granted an opportunity. I am being relocated. There is a considerable difference.”

“Yeah, yeah. Relocated, enrolled—same thing,” Tensei replied easily, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Point is, you’re headed somewhere that actually gets it. They’ll understand you. That matters way more than whatever rigid timetable you had back there.”

Tenya’s grip on his knees tightened. “My timetable was structure. Discipline. Purpose. Now I possess none of these things. I…” His voice faltered, and that only angered him more. “I feel as though my future has been erased.”

He turned toward the window, refusing to let his brother see the heat pricking at his eyes. He despised weakness—especially his own. What kind of man, what kind of Iida, allowed himself to break simply because of circumstance?

His nails dug into his trousers, one word reverberating in his mind like a curse: metahuman: metahuman.

He didn’t want it. Didn’t want to be shoved into that category. Didn’t want to be a phenomenon people stared at.

But the instant that thought formed, guilt shot through him. Because to despise himself for what he had become was to despise Tensei as well—and that, he could never do. His brother was everything he admired: capable, kind, unshakable. 

Even now, Tensei had dropped everything to remain at his side. He had endured the blood, the fever, the endless hours of agony as metal forced itself through flesh. He had cleaned the wounds, steadied Tenya when his legs gave out, promised the pain would stabilize. And he had done all of it without complaint.

“You’re gonna burn a hole through that window if you keep staring like that,” Tensei said lightly, glancing at him with a half-smile. “Bet you’re thinking I’m overselling it. But I swear, U.A. is incredible. It’s not just training—it’s about people. Friends, mentors. I met some of the best folks in my life there. You will too.”

Tenya straightened his back further, his tone clipped. “I am not seeking companionship. I only wish to preserve what remains of my dignity.”

Tensei barked out a laugh. “You sound like a seventy-year-old politician, Tenya. Lighten up. You’re fifteen. You’re allowed to start over.”

Tenya did not answer. Starting over meant accepting that the old life was gone forever. His classmates, his routine, the dream of walking a normal path—all of it shattered in the moment steel erupted from his legs. He would never be ordinary again.

He pressed his palms against his thighs, forcing his tone into steadiness. “It feels as though everything has ended for me.”

His thoughts returned to the images of protests he had seen: people stared at, judged, diminished. He had been a coward then, failing to defend them. How could he now look at himself in the mirror?

Tensei exhaled, the playfulness in his tone giving way to quiet honesty. “I can see you’re wrestling with a lot. So, penny for your thoughts? Say it straight, even if it stings. Whatever you feel—it’s valid.”

“I do not wish to be regarded as a phenomenon. I do not wish to be… stared at,” Tenya admitted, shame heating his face.

Tensei’s tone softened, still casual but steady. “Then don’t give them that power. You’re not a phenomenon. You’re just you. Same Tenya who overthinks everything, same Tenya who makes lists for his lists.” His grin was audible in his words. “Only difference is now you’ve got a little extra horsepower, that’s all.”

Tenya’s lips pressed into a line. He wanted to argue, to reject the statement outright. But beneath the weight of despair, a spark of gratitude flickered. Because no matter how much he detested this fate, no matter how much he raged against it, Tensei still looked at him without fear or judgment. He was not a stranger made of engines and scars—he was still his little brother.

Tenya sat rigid in his seat, trapped between dread and the quiet, unshakable comfort of knowing Tensei would not let go of the wheel.

“No registry! No chains! No registry! No chains!”

The steps of the Capitol looked less like stone and more like a stage. Floodlights carved the plaza open, cameras lined the perimeter, and hundreds of voices shook the air in a single rhythm.

“FREEDOM IS NOT A CRIME, WE ARE NOT PROPERTY, POWER IS NOT A PRISON.”

When Chikara Yotsubashi appeared, the sound redoubled. 

His frame was straight, his jaw set, his expression as steady as stone. And when his voice rose, it carried like a verdict.

“My friends,” he began, low and even, forcing the crowd to lean into his words, “look around you. Look at this building behind me. They call it a temple of democracy. A place of law. But what is law, if not a weapon pointed at those they fear?”

A rumble answered him. Chikara raised a hand, and silence spread, tight and expectant.

“Times have changed since I was born, but to worst. My mother believed that hate could change. She believed the world could see us as people, not as monsters. She believed it enough to give her life for it.” His tone sharpened, cutting across the plaza. “And for her hope, she was murdered.”

The plaza erupted—roars of rage, fists in the air, banners shaking. Behind him, his younger brother Rikiya stood steady, hands folded, silent but unmistakable in his presence.

“They tell us registration is for safety,” Chikara pressed, voice climbing now. “For protection. That if we hand them our names, our powers, our very lives, then we will be secure. But who will protect us from them? Who guards us when they decide that some of us are too dangerous to exist at all?”

“They’ll cage us!”

“They’ll erase us!”

Chikara raised a hand, cutting clean through the noise. “Do not be fooled. They are not asking for safety. They are demanding obedience. First they take our names. Then our freedom. And in the end—our dignity. Registration is not a compromise. It is control. It is the first link in a chain they will not stop forging.”

The plaza quaked with sound. Flags tore upward, fists beat the air. Some chanted his name. Others chanted only “Freedom! Freedom!”

Chikara’s voice softened—not in weakness, but in weight. “My mother begged for a world where her children could live freely. That plea is not dead. It beats in every heart here today. And I promise you, I will not let her words be trampled. I will not let your lives be chained. We will fight for the simple truth that we are human beings, and our lives belong to us!”

The roar that followed was deafening, echoing through the Capitol steps like thunder rolling across mountains. 

Chikara let the shout die down until the plaza hung on the edge of his next sentence. He didn’t hurry; he never did. Every word was measured, heavy.

“Our metabilities are not ‘quirks’ to be catalogued,” he went on, voice rising. “They are part of us—woven into our bodies, our ways of thinking, our lives. Any attempt to rename them, to reduce them to a label used to control or demean—those who do that are committing an offense against our dignity. They are the ones guilty of a hate crime, not us. And we will call them out for it.”

He paced the small length of the stage, eyes sweeping faces in the crowd like a compass checking direction.

“We will not accept a future where some bureaucrat decides which of us may exist without fear. The free use of our metabilities is a human right. We must be able to move, to work, to express ourselves without being policed or parceled out by lawmakers who do not live with our realities. If you think our powers are a problem, then fix the problem in the system—don’t punish the people born into it.”

“No registry! No chains! No registry! No chains!”

He lowered his voice and leaned forward, urgency threaded through steel. “I promised my mother I would not let her voice be twisted into chains. I promised I would be the man who destroys the status quo she died opposing. I stand by that promise today. We will not stop. We will not negotiate away our humanity. And anyone—anyone—who stands in our way should prepare for the consequences of opposing a people who refuse to be erased.”

The crowd took those words and drove them forward, louder than before. Fists beat chests, banners whipped, and faces were alight with a dangerous, stubborn hope.

“Look at us,” he said, quieter now but no less fierce. “We are not a mistake to be corrected. We are a force that will shape what comes after. You can try to fence us in with laws, but fences do not change the earth beneath them. The world will bend around what cannot be denied.”

Chikara’s brother, Rikiya, stepped forward, brief and visible, and the two of them raised their joined hands high. It was a symbol—less theatrical than the flags, but more lasting. 

“We are not the past,” Chikara called, voice shattering. “We are the future. Do not make the mistake of thinking you can legislate us away. History will not be kind to those who try.”

A final, thunderous cry filled the plaza—“We are the future!”—and the sound rolled outward.

And from the edge of the crowd, Zen Shigaraki watched with a thin, malicious smile curling his lips. He let the fury echo a moment longer before pulling out his phone.

“Hello, Garaki,” he said smoothly, almost amused. “I need information on someone.”