Chapter Text
Hana couldn’t stop crying.
Her chest ached with every breath, tight and painful, like her lungs were wrapped in something that refused to loosen. No matter how hard she tried to calm herself, her thoughts kept looping back to the same sounds echoing in her head.
Her father’s voice—cold, sharp, final.
And before that—
The slap.
She had seen it happen.
Seen their father’s hand swing out, seen Tenko stumble back, his small body barely catching itself. Seen the way his eyes went wide, unfocused, like he couldn’t quite understand what had just happened to him.
And it was her fault.
Earlier that day, it hadn’t felt dangerous. It hadn’t felt like it could end like this.
She had been the one to suggest it.
She remembered tugging lightly on Tenko’s sleeve, lowering her voice even though their father had already left and the house had fallen into its usual uneasy quiet.
“Please,” she whispered. “Just come with me. I won’t take long.”
Tenko frowned immediately, anxiety written all over his face. “Hana, we’re not supposed to go in there. Dad said—”
“I know,” she cut in quickly. “But I saw something yesterday. Just for a second. And I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Tenko hesitated, rocking slightly on his heels. He hated breaking rules—especially their father’s rules. “What if he comes back early?”
“He won’t,” Hana said, grabbing his hands. “I promise. I just need you there, okay?”
Eventually, like he always did, Tenko gave in.
They crept into their father’s study like criminals, the door opening with a quiet creak that made Hana’s heart jump. The room smelled like dust and old paper. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the daylight, making the space feel smaller than it was.
Hana went straight to the desk, pulse pounding. Tenko lingered near the door, tense, listening for footsteps that never came.
She opened the middle drawer and reached inside, fingers brushing past folders and loose papers until—
There.
She pulled it out and froze.
It was a photograph.
She smiled before she even realized she was smiling.
The picture showed a younger version of their father, his features softer, his arm wrapped around a woman in a hero costume. The woman’s smile was bright and fearless, her hair caught mid-motion. In her arms was a small child with pure white hair, no older than a year.
A family.
Her stomach twisted.
Father never said anything about a sister, Hana thought.
“Tenko,” she whispered, too urgently. “Come look.”
Tenko flinched. “H-Hana, I need to stay here—”
“Just for a second,” she insisted.
Reluctantly, he stepped closer. His eyes widened when he saw the photo.
“She’s… a hero,” Hana breathed. “Our grandma was a hero.”
Tenko stared at the toddler, brow furrowing. “Who’s that? Dad never said anything about another sibling.”
“I know,” Hana said quietly.
Something about the picture made her chest feel warm and wrong at the same time. She shoved it back into the drawer quickly—but not where it had been before.
They weren’t caught then.
They could have stopped there.
But later that evening, when their father confronted her, the air around him felt heavy and suffocating. His presence filled the room, his questions sharp and relentless.
“Did you enter my study?”
Her throat closed.
Fear swallowed every sensible thought she had. And when panic won, she lied.
She said Tenko did it.
She said he pressured her into going.
She watched her father’s expression harden as he turned and left the room. And then—
The slap.
Loud. Final.
Now Hana was curled up in her room, sobbing into her hands.
“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered to no one. “I didn’t mean it…”
She told herself she’d apologize. That she’d fix it. That she just needed a moment to breathe.
When she finally went outside, the air felt wrong.
Too quiet.
She spotted Tenko a short distance away and felt a wave of relief—until she got closer.
“Tenko?” she called.
He twitched violently.
That’s when she saw the blood. Dark, smeared, far too much of it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, taking a step toward him.
Then she screamed.
She turned and ran.
Her feet barely felt like they were touching the ground. Panic drowned out every other thought as she bolted back toward the house—
And then she felt it.
Tenko’s hand grabbed her back.
The sensation was wrong. Burning. Crumbling. Like everything was falling apart all at once.
Her vision went white, then black.
She thought she had died.
But when she woke up, she was lying at the edge of the street.
Her house was gone.
Where it once stood was nothing but rubble, dust hanging in the air, blood staining the ground like a shadow that wouldn’t fade. Her chest seized as she scrambled to her feet, spinning wildly.
“Mom?” she called.
Nothing.
“Dad? Grandpa? Grandma? Tenko?”
No one answered.
The silence pressed in, crushing her lungs. Panic took over, and she ran—down unfamiliar streets, past strangers who didn’t stop, tears blurring her vision.
She ran because standing still hurt too much.
She ran because if she stopped, she might never move again.
And beneath the terror, the guilt, the grief, one thought repeated over and over, breaking her heart each time:
I should have told the truth.
Hana ran until her lungs burned and her legs finally betrayed her. She stumbled into a narrow alley and collapsed against the cold concrete, curling in on herself like she could make the world smaller if she tried hard enough. Her chest hitched with quiet sobs as she pressed her face into her knees, wishing—desperately, foolishly—that someone would come and save her.
Ring. Ring.
Momo Yaoyorozu jolted awake, her heart racing as she fumbled for the alarm clock beside her bed. She blinked at the ceiling, disoriented, and quickly shut the sound off. Was I dreaming? she wondered. For a brief moment, she tried to recall what had startled her so badly—but the harder she thought, the sharper the headache that followed.
“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured to herself, pushing the feeling aside. Today was too important to dwell on half-remembered dreams. Swinging her legs out of bed, Momo straightened her posture and moved with practiced urgency. She couldn’t afford to be late—especially not on her very first day at U.A. High.
Izuku Midoriya couldn’t stop smiling as he stepped through the towering gates of U.A. High.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring up at the campus like it might disappear if he blinked too hard. Only a few months ago, this place had been an impossible dream—something meant for other people. People with powerful Quirks. People who weren’t… him.
And yet here he was.
The white-haired boy exhaled shakily, his mind racing as it always did. Meeting All Might. Inheriting One For All. Nearly destroying his own body just to pass the entrance exam—and only barely scraping by at that. It all felt unreal, like he was still going to wake up any second on his bedroom floor, clutching an old hero notebook.
No, he told himself. This is real. This is the start.
Lost in thought, Izuku didn’t notice where he was walking.
He collided solidly with someone.
“O—oh! I’m so sorry!” Izuku yelped, stumbling back and rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment.
He looked up.
The boy standing in front of him was about his age, with light blue hair that hung messily around his face. His red eyes were sharp and irritated, and his skin looked dry, almost cracked, like he hadn’t slept—or moisturized—in weeks. He stared down at Izuku like he’d just stepped in something unpleasant.
“Watch where you’re going, noob,” the boy snapped.
“I—I wasn’t paying attention,” Izuku said quickly. “That’s my fault.”
As he spoke, Izuku really looked at him—and realization hit.
Wait.
Wasn’t he…?
“Oh! I know you!” Izuku said, eyes lighting up. “You were in the practical exams, right? Shigaraki! You had that really weird— I mean, interesting—Quirk!”
Shigaraki’s eye twitched.
Izuku barreled on, words spilling out faster the more excited he got. “You destroyed those robots with just a touch! Is it touch-based or intention-based? Does it activate instantly or is there a delay—”
“So what,” Shigaraki cut in flatly.
The tone alone was enough to make the air feel heavier.
Izuku froze mid-ramble. “O—oh. Sorry. I just… got carried away.”
“Quit disturbing me,” Shigaraki said, irritation creeping into his voice. “Now move.”
Any normal person probably would’ve stepped aside immediately.
Izuku Midoriya was not a normal person.
Instead, his curiosity kicked into overdrive, lighting up every neuron in his brain like someone had handed him a brand-new mystery. “That’s still really amazing though! I mean—not amazing in a bad way! I just meant— I was curious about your Quirk’s limitations! Like, does it have a range? Or is it limited by how many times you can use it? Or maybe equipment helps stabilize it? Oh! And how did you—”
“Are you always this loud,” Shigaraki snapped, “or is this a special occasion.”
Izuku immediately clamped his mouth shut, his face burning red. “S—sorry!”
An awkward silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable.
Then—
“Excuse me.”
The voice was calm, polite, and soft enough to cut through the tension.
They both turned.
A black haired girl stood beside them, tall and poised, her posture impeccable. She clasped her hands together neatly, eyes flicking between the two boys with gentle concern.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” she said. “Could you tell me where Class 1-A is?”
Izuku straightened instantly, like a switch had flipped. Relief washed over him, saving him from whatever else he might’ve said. “Y—yes! I was just heading there!”
He turned to Shigaraki with an earnest smile. “You’re going there too, right?”
Shigaraki stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight, as if weighing whether this was worth the effort. Finally, he let out a long, tired sigh—like the world itself had personally inconvenienced him.
“…Yeah.”
Izuku beamed, already turning down the hall. “Great! I’ll show you both!”
Momo followed with a warm smile. “Thank you.”
Shigaraki trailed behind them, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes half-lidded as he muttered under his breath.
“What did I do to deserve this?”
They fell into an awkward formation as they walked down the halls—Izuku in front, a little too eager, the girl beside him moving with calm composure, and Shigaraki trailing half a step behind like he was only there because turning back would’ve taken more effort.
The hallways of U.A. buzzed with life. Students laughed loudly, compared schedules, argued about homeroom placements. Somewhere down the corridor, someone was already shouting about being late on the first day.
Izuku glanced back at the two of them.
No one was talking.
Okay, he thought. Small talk. Normal people do small talk.
“So, um—!” Izuku blurted out, nearly tripping over his own words. “Since we’re all in the same class, I thought it might be good to know everyone’s full names!”
The girl looked at him first, surprise flickering briefly across her face before she smiled warmly. “Momo Yaoyorozu,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“O—oh! Same here!” Izuku replied quickly. “I’m Izuku Midoriya.”
She let out a soft, polite laugh, then turned her gaze forward again, hands folded neatly as she walked. A comfortable silence followed—at least for her.
Izuku shifted and peeked back at the boy behind them.
“And you?” Izuku asked, hopeful. “I know your last name, but—”
Tomura didn’t look at him.
“Tomura Shigaraki,” he said flatly.
The name landed with no warmth attached to it.
Izuku nodded enthusiastically anyway. “Nice to meet you properly, Shigaraki!”
No response.
They continued down the hall. Momo’s footsteps were light and measured. Shigaraki’s were uneven, almost dragging, his red eyes drifting from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, like he was memorizing the building rather than admiring it.
Izuku opened his mouth to say something else—then thought better of it.
Maybe he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, he reasoned.
“…We’re almost there,” Izuku said instead, pointing ahead as the sign for Class 1-A came into view. “Just around this corner.”
Momo inclined her head politely in thanks.
Tomura said nothing, his hands flexing once before curling back into his pockets.
Izuku smiled anyway—and then promptly stopped in front of the door, frozen.
“Can you quit standing like an NPC and open the damn door.”
Before Izuku could react, Tomura gave him a light shove aside and kicked the door open.
Chaos greeted them instantly.
“TAKE YOUR FEET OFF THE DESK NOW,” a sharp voice snapped.
“MAKE ME,” a blond boy snarled back, his boots still propped up.
The two immediately launched into an argument, voices rising over each other as if competing for dominance of the room.
Izuku froze. “O—oh wow.”
Tomura, meanwhile, felt his patience evaporating.
Whatever I did sensei, he thought irritably, it didn’t warrant this kind of punishment.
He stomped forward and shouted, “ENOUGH.”
The argument died instantly.
So did the room.
Every head turned toward them.
Great, Tomura thought flatly.
Momo gently tapped his arm. “Excuse me,” she murmured, gesturing for him to move so she could pass. He stepped aside, letting her enter first.
Whispers rippled through the class. Tomura couldn’t tell whether they were about him or Midoriya—and he didn’t care. He headed straight for an empty seat by the window and dropped into it.
He noticed Momo take the seat behind him. A brown-haired girl settled nearby, along with the blue-haired boy who’d been arguing with the blond earlier.
The door slid shut.
“If you’re here to make friends, get out.”
The voice was tired. Flat.
Izuku and the brown-haired girl both turned around. Even Tomura stood slightly, eyes narrowing.
Several other students looked toward the front.
A man wrapped in a sleeping bag stood there.
He straightened, shedding the bag and revealing tired eyes and unkempt hair.
“Good morning, Class 1-A,” he said, utterly uninterested. “My name is Shota Aizawa. I’m your homeroom teacher.”
The room went silent.
“You’ll go to the changing rooms and put on your gym uniforms,” Aizawa continued. “After that, meet me outside.”
He paused, eyes scanning the class.
“We’re starting immediately.”
Tomura sank back into his seat.
Figures, he thought.
The students of Class 1-A slowly began to trickle out of the classroom, the earlier buzz of excitement dulled by a creeping sense of unease. Chairs scraped softly against the floor, bags were slung over shoulders, and conversations dropped into hushed murmurs as they filed toward the changing rooms.
Izuku Midoriya changed in a daze.
His hands fumbled with the buttons of his uniform, fingers stiff and uncooperative. The blue of the UA gym clothes felt heavier than it should have, like they carried expectations stitched into the fabric. Around him, classmates chatted—nervous jokes, excited bragging, exaggerated confidence—but Izuku barely heard any of it.
First day.
First real assessment.
Quirk Apprehension Test.
That phrase echoed in his head as they regrouped and followed their homeroom teacher outside. The walk to the training fields felt longer than it probably was. The massive open space stretched out ahead of them, marked with equipment, lanes, and measuring devices that looked far too professional for something happening on day one.
Shota Aizawa stopped at the center of the field and turned to face them.
Eraser Head stood there with his capture weapon draped loosely around his shoulders like a lazy threat, yellow eyes half-lidded and sharp all the same. His hair was slightly messy, his posture slouched, and his expression permanently unimpressed. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept since the invention of caffeine—and resented the world for continuing to move without his permission.
“Line up,” he said.
No greeting. No buildup.
The class scrambled into position. Shoes scraped against concrete. Someone laughed a little too loudly. Kaminari cracked his knuckles, grinning as if this were a casual sports festival instead of a professional evaluation that could determine their future.
“Um—sensei?” Uraraka raised a hand. “Aren’t we going to be late for the orientation ceremony?”
Aizawa didn’t even blink. “It’s a waste of time. Professional heroes don’t attend ceremonies. They work.”
That shut everyone up.
Izuku stood beside Tomura Shigaraki.
Shigaraki, well… slouched.
His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders loose, posture careless in a way that felt deliberate. His head tilted slightly forward, messy hair casting shadows over his eyes. He looked bored. Or detached. Or like his mind was already wandering somewhere far removed from UA’s pristine training grounds.
Then he yawned—long and unapologetic.
Izuku swallowed.
Don’t overdo it, he told himself for what had to be the hundredth time. Control. Precision. You can’t break anything. You can’t—
“Midoriya.”
Izuku flinched.
Tomura hadn’t turned his head. His voice was quiet, almost lazy, but there was something beneath it—attention sharpened just enough to cut.
“Yeah?” Izuku whispered back.
“You’re shaking,” Shigaraki said. “Like you’re losing a game you really don’t want to lose.”
Izuku froze.
He hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t felt it consciously. But now that it was pointed out, he could feel everything—the tremor in his hands, the way his knees locked and unlocked, the constant shifting of his weight from heel to toe.
“I—uh—I’m fine,” he said quickly, because that was what he always said. “Just, you know. Normal nerves.”
Tomura finally glanced at him.
Red eyes swept over Izuku with unsettling precision, lingering on his clenched fists, the tight set of his jaw, the shallow rhythm of his breathing.
“Hm,” he murmured, noncommittal.
Aizawa cleared his throat. “This isn’t a fun little PE class. It’s an assessment of your potential as heroes. Fail, and you’re out.”
The air went tight.
Students immediately began murmuring. A few protested under their breath.
“This ain’t fair,” complained Kaminari, sparks flickering faintly through his blond hair.
A collective inhale rippled through the group. Some students stiffened. Someone cursed quietly.
Izuku’s stomach dropped.
Out.
Expelled.
Gone.
That would be the end of his hero career before it even really started.
He glanced sideways at Shigaraki—and for the first time, noticed something off. The slouch was still there, the bored expression intact, but his fingers were tense inside his pockets.
Nervous, Izuku realized.
And then another thought hit him like a punch.
Shigaraki’s quirk only destroys.
That meant careful restraint. Limited use. In some tests, almost no use at all.
He’s basically quirkless here, Izuku thought. And I still haven’t gotten the hang of One For All…
His mind spiraled instantly—statistics, scenarios, probability trees branching too fast to track. What if he misjudged his output? What if he broke another finger? What if—
Aizawa gestured toward the equipment laid out across the field. “Eight tests. We’re ranking you based on performance. Quirk usage permitted. Use your heads.”
The first test was announced.
The 50-meter dash.
Students lined up at the starting marks. Iida revved his engines, posture stiff and disciplined. Bakugo cracked his neck, grin sharp and confident. Uraraka bounced lightly on her toes, trying to shake off her nerves.
Izuku’s foot tapped against the ground.
Speed test, his brain supplied automatically. Acceleration, stride length… I should be able to pass this without using One For All.
“Midoriya.”
He jumped again. Definitely too jumpy. Fantastic.
Tomura crouched into position beside him, movements smooth and unhurried. “You’re thinking too loud.”
Izuku blinked. “I—what?”
“Your face,” Tomura said flatly. “You look like you’re about to explode.”
“That’s—” Izuku stopped himself and took a breath. “Sorry.”
Tomura shrugged. “Don’t apologize. Just focus on the damn track.”
The starting signal sounded.
Izuku ran.
His shoes struck the track hard but not destructively. He pushed his legs just enough, lengthening his stride, feeling the familiar hum of power without letting it spike. Tomura shot past him almost immediately—lean, fast, far more athletic than he looked.
Whoa, Izuku thought.
The wind roared in his ears. He crossed the line breathing hard—fast, but not first. Not last either.
His heart hammered as he slowed, eyes snapping to the screen.
Respectable.
Not amazing. But solid.
An invisible girl crossed seconds later, breathing barely elevated. Her time was oddly good—efficient, controlled.
Aizawa scribbled notes.
Next came grip strength.
Izuku flexed his fingers, anxiety flaring anew. His hands were his weak point. Always had been.
He wrapped his fingers around the device and squeezed.
Too much.
He felt it instantly—the surge, the spike of power threatening to slip. He released at the last second, heart in his throat.
The number flashed.
High.
But not broken.
Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.
Tomura went next, careful not to let his quirk activate. His grip was steady,] pressure increasing in smooth increments until the device creaked.
“Interesting,” Aizawa muttered. “Most of you passed this one.”
Ball throw.
Bakugo went first, blasting the ball forward with an explosion that sent it flying nearly seven hundred meters.
Izuku’s palms were sweaty again.
This one scared him.
He remembered the warnings. The injuries. The pain.
He focused One For All into a single finger, controlled and precise, and threw.
The ball flew.
Not into the stratosphere.
Not into orbit.
Just… far.
Very far.
Around seven hundred metres to be precise
Aizawa’s eyebrows rose slightly.
Tomura watched the arc with narrowed eyes.
When it was his turn, Shigaraki didn’t use brute force. He twisted his wrist at the last second, adding spin. The ball curved unnaturally through the air—not record-breaking, but well beyond average.
By the endurance run, Izuku’s nerves had dulled into a heavy ache. Sweat soaked his uniform. His muscles burned, and his finger throbbed faintly.
He was holding together.
Barely.
They lined up once more.
“You’re still scared,” Tomura said quietly.
Izuku huffed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only if you’re looking.”
“Why are you looking?” Izuku asked.
Shigaraki paused. Just for a second, his mask slipped.
“Because,” he said slowly, then shrugged. “Just whatever.”
The signal sounded.
When it was over, Aizawa spoke. “That’s enough.”
The class gathered as the results were displayed.
Izuku scanned the rankings, heart pounding.
Last place.
His chest tightened—but then he laughed, small and breathless.
Tomura glanced at him. There goes my source of information, he thought.
“And before you panic,” Aizawa added, deadpan, “I was kidding. Nobody’s getting expelled.”
“WHAT?!” the class shouted in unison.
Lunch at U.A. was louder than Momo had expected.
The dining hall stretched wide, sunlight pouring in through tall windows and bouncing off polished floors. Voices overlapped everywhere—laughter, shouted complaints about training, exaggerated retellings of Aizawa’s dead-eyed threats. Trays clattered. Chairs scraped. It felt… alive in a way Momo wasn’t used to.
She walked slowly, gripping her tray a little too tightly.
She told herself she didn’t need to be nervous. She’d attended elite schools before. She knew how to carry herself. Smile politely, sit straight, speak when spoken to. But this was different. Everyone here seemed to already be forming clusters, gravitating toward one another like magnets. Friendships sparked fast and loud.
Momo had never been good at that part.
She scanned the room, eyes flicking over familiar faces—Midoriya animatedly waving his arms as he talked, Uraraka laughing beside him, Iida standing stiffly upright even while demonstrating something. They looked… comfortable together. Like something had already clicked.
Her steps slowed near the edge of the hall.
That’s when she saw him.
Shigaraki sat alone at a small table near the wall, hunched slightly over his food. He wasn’t eating much—just poking at his tray, shoulders tense, posture closed off from the rest of the room. His messy hair fell into his face, shadowing his eyes. He looked like he existed half a step away from everyone else, present but untouched.
Momo hesitated.
Her first instinct was to keep walking. Sitting alone was safer. But something about the way he sat there—isolated without looking like he wanted pity—made her pause.
You can do this, she told herself.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Before she could overthink it, she stepped closer to the table and stopped across from him.
He noticed immediately.
One pale eyebrow lifted as he looked up at her, red eyes sharp but not hostile. Curious, maybe. Wary.
“Um,” Momo said, her voice softer than she intended. “May I… sit here?”
For a brief second, she thought he might say no and send her away, and did she think that, she didn’t know.
Instead, he gave a small shrug and waved one hand vaguely toward the empty seat. “Do whatever.”
It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t warm either. Just… neutral.
Momo let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and sat down across from him. She adjusted her skirt, set her tray neatly in front of her, and began eating.
The silence stretched.
It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it was noticeable—especially with the surrounding noise. Tomura ate slowly, eyes flicking up now and then like he was measuring her presence. Momo focused on her food, chewing carefully, reminding herself to breathe normally.
After a moment, he spoke.
“So,” he said, voice rough but casual, “what’s your quirk?”
She blinked, surprised, then straightened a little. “Ah—my quirk is called Creation. It’s an emitter-type quirk that allows me to attract atoms from the surrounding to form into any non-living objects, as long as I understand its molecular structure.”
She realized she’d slipped into explanation mode halfway through. Old habit.
Tomura snorted quietly. “That’s… complicated.”
She smiled faintly. “It can be.”
He tilted his head. “Sounds useful though.”
“I hope so,” she replied honestly.
There was a brief pause before she gathered the courage to ask, “What about yours?”
His fingers tightened slightly around his fork.
“Decay,” he said. “Anything I touch with all five fingers gets reduced to dust.”
He glanced at her, watching for a reaction.
Momo didn’t flinch, but her eyes widened just a fraction. “That’s… very powerful.”
“Yeah,” he said flatly. Then, after a beat, he added, “Guess our quirks are kind of opposites, huh?”
Creation and destruction.
Momo’s smile faded as she looked down at her tray.
No. It can’t be.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and unwelcome. She pushed it away, fingers curling lightly in her lap. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—to change the subject—
“Midoriya!” A voice called out
The voice cut in like a door slamming open.
Midoriya appeared beside the table, tray in hand, eyes bright. “Oh—Yaoyorozu! Shigaraki! Mind if we sit here?”
Uraraka popped up beside him, smiling warmly, and Iida followed, already adjusting his glasses. They didn’t wait long for an answer before pulling chairs over.
“Of course!” Momo said cheerfully.
Tomura leaned back slightly, giving them space, his earlier energy draining away like a switch had been flipped. “Sure. Whatever.”
The table filled quickly with noise.
Izuku launched into an excited breakdown of the Quirk Apprehension Test, rambling about Eraser Head’s methods and how intense everything had been. Iida responded with stiff agreement, lecturing about discipline and expectations. Uraraka chimed in with laughter and the occasional comment about how exhausted she still felt.
Momo listened quietly.
She nodded when appropriate, smiled when someone looked her way, but she didn’t add much. Her thoughts felt tangled, her earlier conversation with Shigaraki replaying in her head.
Opposites.
Across the table, Tomura barely spoke. He picked at his food again, gaze unfocused, eyes drifting to the wall or the floor. When Midoriya asked him a question directly, he gave short answers. When Uraraka tried to include him, he shrugged.
Momo noticed.
She noticed the way his shoulders tensed when the conversation grew louder, how his fingers twitched against the table, how he leaned away rather than in. It reminded her uncomfortably of herself—of every time she’d been in a room full of people and felt like she was watching through glass.
Lunch ended too quickly and too slowly all at once.
When the bell rang, chairs scraped back and students stood in a rush. Midoriya and the others gathered their trays, still chatting animatedly.
“See you in class!” Uraraka said brightly, waving.
Momo stood as well, offering a polite nod. “Yeah. See you.”
Tomura lingered a moment longer, then rose without a word. As he passed her, their shoulders nearly brushed.
“…Thanks for sitting,” he muttered, barely audible.
Momo froze for half a second—then smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
The final bell rang, and the energy of U.A. shifted instantly.
Classroom doors slid open. Conversations reignited mid-sentence. Shoes squeaked against polished floors as students poured into the hallways, already talking about homework, training, dinner plans. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across campus, warm and golden, like nothing complicated could possibly exist within its reach.
Tomura yawned as he stepped outside.
It wasn’t a polite yawn. It was wide and unbothered, the kind that showed he hadn’t slept nearly enough and didn’t particularly care. He shoved his hands into his pockets and blended into the stream of students heading toward the gates.
A group of second-years rushed past him, arguing loudly about Workstudies. Somewhere behind him, someone complained about muscle strain. The air smelled faintly of dust and cut grass.
He walked past Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida near the front steps. They were deep in conversation—Midoriya gesturing animatedly again, probably analyzing something to death. Iida responded with structured seriousness while Uraraka laughed at something neither of them had meant to be funny.
Midoriya spotted him first.
“Shigaraki!” he called, lifting a hand in an enthusiastic wave. “See you tomorrow!”
Tomura lifted his own hand in response without slowing down or turning fully around. A lazy flick of fingers. “Yeah.”
He didn’t look back.
The gate loomed ahead. Students trickled out in clusters, dissolving into the city beyond. Once he crossed the threshold, the noise shifted from campus chatter to normal street traffic.
He exhaled slowly.
Hero school.
The words still felt strange in his head.
He veered slightly to the side once he cleared the main flow of people, slipping into a quieter corner near a row of trees and vending machines. The late afternoon light didn’t quite reach there, leaving the pavement in a cooler shadow.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a handheld game controller. Old model. Scratched casing. Innocuous.
His thumb found a hidden indentation on the underside.
Click.
A barely audible sound.
He waited.
Behind him, distant footsteps echoed against the pavement.
“Shigaraki!” a voice called out.
But he didn’t hear it.
The air in front of him shimmered.
Purple mist curled into existence, thick and swirling, expanding outward until it formed a circular portal that distorted the light around it. The familiar scent of smoke and something metallic brushed against his senses.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and disappeared into it.
The portal snapped shut.
A second later, Momo rounded the corner, slightly out of breath.
“Shigaraki, you—”
She stopped.
The corner was empty.
No students. No lingering figure. Just the vending machines humming softly and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Her brows knit together.
She glanced left, then right. He hadn’t passed her—she would’ve seen. And there wasn’t another turn close enough for him to vanish that quickly.
She looked down at the notebook clutched in her hands.
Plain cover. Slightly worn edges. His.
“…Strange,” she murmured quietly.
After a moment, she straightened. Perhaps he’d taken a different route home. She would return it tomorrow.
Still, as she walked back toward the main road, an uneasy feeling tugged faintly at the back of her mind.
Tomura stepped out of the mist and into dim lighting.
The transition from afternoon sunlight to the low glow of hanging lamps made him squint. The air here was cooler. Stiller. Thick with the scent of alcohol, wood polish, and something older—something that clung to the walls.
The bar was quiet.
Stools lined the counter. Bottles reflected amber light behind polished glass. Shadows pooled in the corners like they belonged there.
Tomura yawned again as the portal dissolved behind him.
“Man,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I’m wiped.”
He dragged himself forward, dropping his bag carelessly near one of the stools. “Hero school’s annoying. Everyone’s loud. That nerd talks too much.” Another yawn. “I’m gonna play games all night.”
He barely glanced toward the counter.
“Kurogiri,” he added lazily, “make something fizzy.”
No response.
He blinked slowly.
“Kurogiri?” he repeated, slightly louder.
Still nothing.
He opened one eye more fully and turned his head.
“What?”
The word left him sharp and impatient—
—and then died in his throat.
The temperature in the room felt different.
Heavy.
Intentional.
Behind the bar, where Kurogiri usually stood in composed silence, was a taller figure.
Broad-shouldered.
Immaculately dressed.
A black suit tailored perfectly to a frame that carried quiet authority. Tubes extended from a life-support mask embedded in his face, running down into the suit like dark veins. The mask obscured most of his features, leaving only hints of something beneath—something that seemed to smile even when it shouldn’t.
All For One stood there as if he had always been there.
Waiting.
Shigaraki straightened automatically.
The laziness evaporated from his posture, replaced by something sharper. More alert.
All For One tilted his head slightly.
“How was your first day of hero school, Tomura?”