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Izuku felt wrong the moment he stepped through the school doors—like the air had shifted a fraction out of place. Not quite right.
Where the halls were usually loud and bustling before classes in the early morning hours, they were mostly empty. Izuku checked his phone—no, definitely not late, and not too early, either. At the very least, there should have been some activity.
The device pinged suddenly in his hand. A message from Uraraka.
“Where are you?”
Izuku frowned. It had been quiet when he got up this morning, as if everyone had already left, which didn’t make sense, because only a few of his classmates were early early risers.
“Just walked through the front door. Why? Is something going on?”
The girl didn’t reply, though his message was marked as read. Uraraka didn’t leave him on read when she could help it, and the silence only made him more concerned. Empty school, empty dorm, Uraraka acting out of character—
“Midoriya!”
Footsteps pounded down the hallway ahead of him, heavy and frantic with breathless urgency. Uraraka almost bowled him over when she reached him, grabbing Izuku by the shoulders. Izuku startled, eyes wide at the sight of her—cheeks red and irritated, eyes too.
“Have you been crying?” He balked, heart jumping.
“No—Yes—That’s not important right now. Come with me.” She grabbed his hand and began to yank him back the way she’d come.
“Uraraka—!”
He stumbled to keep up, backpack thumping against him as she hauled him through a turn and up a stairwell. They took the stairs two at a time, panting for air, until finally bursting out onto the second floor.
Is she taking me to homeroom?
“Uraraka—slow down for just a second!”
She didn’t answer. She only skidded to a stop outside 2-A’s homeroom, breath coming hard, her grip still locked around his hand. Izuku blinked, staring at their joined fingers, realising now that hers were trembling.
He swallowed and tightened his hold, grounding. “What’s going on?” His voice came out softer than he meant it to.
“I…” Uraraka turned toward him. Her eyes were wet. Her face had gone pale enough that the usual pink of her cheeks looked wrong, like colour painted on paper. “It’s Aizawa-sensei.”
Before Izuku could ask what that meant, the door slid open.
Present Mic filled the doorway.
He looked—wrong. Not just tired. Hollowed out. His expression was blank, but his eyes were red-rimmed, pupils dulled by something sharp and aching. Grief.
Grief?
“Great. Come in.”
The two of them stepped inside, and Izuku went still, his breath catching.
“What…?”
Because there, on the floor, lay Aizawa-sensei.
Dead.
A pool of dried blood surrounded his head like a gruesome halo, but that wasn’t the first thing Izuku noticed. It was how peaceful his face looked. Like the man had finally gotten some rest. They’d all said it since first year: if anyone deserved to rest, it was their homeroom teacher—but not like this. Never like this.
Oh God.
“What—” His voice cracked. “What happened?”
Principal Nedzu cleared his throat, the sound small but booming in the hush, and it startled Izuku back into his body. He’d been so focused on—on Aizawa—that he hadn’t even registered the principal was there.
Nedzu’s expression was carefully neutral as always, but a faint crease pinched between his eyes. The only crack Izuku could see in the mask.
“Someone murdered Aizawa-sensei,” Nedzu began, voice soft but solemn—no, not solemn. Angry. Something layered that Izuku couldn’t quite name. “And a student was responsible.”
Izuku’s mouth fell open.
“What?” Iida’s voice cracked through the stillness. “Are you suggesting that one of us could be the perpetrator, Principal?”
“Like hell any of us would do this!” Bakugou snarled, palms spitting sparks that hissed in the classroom air. “I’ll hunt whichever bastard did this down and—”
“We wouldn’t hurt Aizawa-sensei!” Yaomomo protested, horrified. “He’s our teacher. He’s been there for us through so much. Why would any of us—”
“Unless someone did,” Jirou cut in, voice flat and steady, and the room faltered around her. “And this is the exact reaction they were banking on.”
Izuku slowly shut his mouth. Shock and indignation curdled into something more dangerous, something that scraped at the back of his throat. No. No way. Not after everything we’ve been through.
Before he could talk himself out of it, his feet carried him forward. He lifted both hands, palms out.
“Wait—everyone. We can’t jump to conclusions.”
“Midoriya’s right,” Tsu croaked, voice rough. “We know none of us would do this. So maybe that’s what whoever didwants—us at each other’s throats.”
Izuku nodded, offering Tsu a small, grateful smile.
“I agree,” Iida added, voice tight with indignation. “Principal, Present Mic—respectfully—we would never lay a hand on Aizawa-sensei. He’s been there for us since our first day. He’s risked his life for us more times than I can count. None of us have any motive, so for you to even suggest otherwise is… frankly, appalling.”
Silence crashed down over the classroom. Izuku dragged in a shallow breath.
After what felt like far too long, Nedzu dipped his head with a measured little sigh. “You’re quite right. I apologise for doubting your students, Aizawa-kun.”
“I did tell you,” a voice rasped.
Izuku went still.
Aizawa-sensei—still sprawled on the floor—peeled one eye open like he’d been woken from a nap, not a crime scene.
“See—wait, what—” Iida’s tongue tripped over itself. His mouth hung open, useless.
“It was someone else,” Aizawa said, sounding mildly annoyed, as if the real problem here was inconvenience. “I’d recognise these idiots anywhere. If whoever attacked me is still in this school, they’re in another class.” His gaze flicked over 2-A, unimpressed. “Stealth quirk, probably. Because usually I don’t let anyone get the drop on me.”
He exhaled, rubbed a hand over his face, and accepted Present Mic’s offered hand. Mic hauled him up with the kind of care that didn’t quite hide how his fingers trembled.
“Y’know,” Mic said with strained brightness, snapping back into performative cheer a beat too late, “I gotta say, this was quite dramatic for you, Aizawa!”
“I only agreed to it to prove Nedzu wrong.”
“Well, I knew logically it couldn’t have been them anyway!” Nedzu hummed, far too pleased with himself. “I simply wanted to see if you would go through with it.”
Aizawa stared at him.
“I—” he began, then seemed to reconsider. “You little sadist.”
Izuku’s mouth finally remembered how to work. “What’s… going on?” he managed, voice thin, still numb with shock.
“Oh.” Aizawa adjusted his scarf with the sluggishness of someone running on fumes. “Someone jumped me late last night. I woke up to Mic sobbing over me because he thought I was dead.”
Mic made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a protest.
“And Principal Nedzu,” Aizawa continued, gesturing with an accusatory kind of calm, “decided to let you all think I was dead to draw out the culprit.” His eyes narrowed. “Apparently it was also for his entertainment.”
Izuku blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“… So you traumatised us for fun?” Yaomomo squeaked.
“Don’t be so—” Nedzu started, as if there was any reasonable way to finish that sentence.
The room detonated into shouting.
Nedzu did look—very faintly—apologetic, Izuku thought. But only in the way a cat might look apologetic after pushing a glass off the counter.
How did this mammal end up as the Principal of a High School?