Chapter 1: Chapter 0 - Primer - Prometheus Rising
Summary:
What this contains is a spoiler-free primer for Prometheus Rising: the world one year after the Final War, why U.A. shifts to a collegiate track, how quirks are used and governed beyond heroics, and why “slice-of-life before fireworks” matters for Class 3-A at eighteen. This is a stage-setter, tone, rules, stakes, without revealing plot twists or OC backstories. Covers manga events through the Epilogue. Optional reading: You can jump straight to the Prologue if you want to go in blind.
Notes:
Author’s Note: First time posting on AO3. This Primer gives a peek behind my DM screen; systems and vibes, not spoilers.
What’s inside
Post-war hero society: audits over rankings; quirks as tools with rules
New education model: collegiate U.A., ethics before escalation, rescue first
Shadows without capes: policy friction, black markets, reconstruction politics
Class at 18: slow-burn rebuild, teamwork, consent, worldbuilding; romance background
Spoiler policy
No AU plot reveals or OC dossiers
Discusses canon through the manga Epilogue (for anime-only readers: heads-up)
Read or skip—either way, thanks for being here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Author’s Note: First time posting on AO3. This Primer is a no‑fic‑spoilers stage‑setter; world rules, tone, and stakes (covers manga events through the Epilogue). It’s optional; feel free to jump straight to the Prologue.
Prometheus Rising
Spoiler note: Discusses manga events through the Epilogue.
After MHA’s credits roll, it isn’t sunshine. When children end a war, the systems failed, and the world must change. If high schoolers saved us from a monster governments ignored, what else waits in the fog? Ambition doesn’t die with one man; All For One was proof, not the end.
A year later, U.A. reopens on a collegiate track. Heroics are treated like medicine: years of study; ethics before escalation, rescue before applause. Rankings give way to audits. Quirks become tools with rules, used in classrooms and construction as much as patrol. Cameras still point at heroes, but questions shift: how does it work, who keeps it safe, who answers when it fails?
We follow Class 3‑A at eighteen; brave, scarred, trying to be students again. Dorm breakfasts, co‑ops, labs, festivals; teamwork and worldbuilding up front, romance in the background. Quiet players move in: relief conglomerates, black markets, splinters of yesterday’s armies. Peace doesn’t explode; it leaks. In the leaks, small choices matter.
Prometheus Rising is slice‑of‑life before fireworks: a slow rebuild of trust, craft, and community. When seams in this new normal tear, these almost‑adults will decide what “hero” means now, and how to keep the lights on without losing themselves.
Rebuilding Hero Society After the War
The World After the War
The aftermath of the climactic war in My Hero Academia left hero society in a state of crisis. The conflict’s immense destruction and loss of life shattered public confidence in heroes and institutions. Many professional heroes, reeling from the carnage and harsh public criticism of their failures, chose to retire or shut down their agencies altogether. The Hero Public Safety Commission (HPSC) itself was decapitated, its headquarters were attacked during the war (a Twice‑cloned double of Re‑Destro killed the Commission president and crippled the leadership). In the war’s wake the Commission effectively shut down, with so many top officials dead or injured that it could no longer function. (Canon even hints that Hawks briefly stepped in as acting president post‑war, signing paperwork and pardoning figures like Lady Nagant.) With the primary oversight agency in ruins and trust in heroes at an all‑time low, society was left scrambling for how to maintain order.
This chaotic fallout was not confined to Japan. Other countries felt aftershocks of the conflict, facing similar villainous uprisings and public unrest. Essentially, the war destroyed the status quo of heroics worldwide, civilians began arming themselves with support items for self‑defense, vigilante activity spiked, and people openly questioned the future of Quirk‑based society. The public mood became one of mistrust and fatigue. As in the real world, when ongoing crises fade from headlines, attention turns elsewhere once immediate threats pass. This crisis fatigue sets in because people feel overwhelmed and helpless, eventually “changing the channel” to more immediate concerns. In our context, roughly one year after the war, everyday life pressed on, new controversies and media sensations gradually eclipsed yesterday’s horrors.
Yet moving on does not mean the scars vanished. The world of MHA, circa one year post‑war, is a wary one, struggling to rebuild. Authorities recognized that simply returning to business‑as‑usual (letting a handful of popular Pro Heroes police society) would not address the systemic failings the war exposed. With the HPSC’s collapse, new governance emerged: an international council sets global standards for hero licensing and monitors high‑risk Quirk activity. Politics now heavily influence hero society; debates rage over how much freedom heroes should have, whether vigilantism should be tolerated in desperate times, and how to balance individual rights with collective security. In short, the post‑war world is cautious and adaptive: humanity is determined not to repeat the mistakes that led to such devastation.
It’s worth noting that the nature of Quirks in MHA’s universe contributes to both society’s richness and its challenges. Quirks are diverse and often limiting by design, each person typically has a single ability with specific applications and very real drawbacks (fatigue, physical tolls, etc.), unlike many Western comic heroes who juggle multiple powers with ease. This grounded approach means that while 80% of people have some Quirk, not everyone can or will use theirs in heroic ways. Many Quirks are ill‑suited to combat or grand feats, and if an ability seems mundane or inconvenient, its user might never train it much at all. For those with useful powers, training and regulation become crucial: quirks can be dangerous, so governments long ago forbade unlicensed use in public. Only licensed Pro Heroes (or students with provisional licenses) are legally allowed to use their quirks to fight crime or rescue others, a rule enforced with fines or worse for violators. This is why, prior to the war, a “hero license” was akin to a police badge, a special permit to exercise one’s quirk in ways ordinary citizens could not. However, quirks do have everyday applications beyond heroism if properly licensed. For example, Ochako Uraraka could get certification to use her zero‑gravity powers in her family’s construction business, saving labor and money by levitating heavy materials. Likewise, electrical‑generation quirks are highly valued in the job market; many with those quirks choose industry roles over pro‑hero work. In our post‑war setting, we imagine these practical uses of quirks becoming even more important. With hero work under scrutiny, there would be pressure to allow and encourage “quirk commerce”, letting people legitimately use their abilities in infrastructure, disaster relief, energy, etc., to aid reconstruction. Why should a person who can generate electricity or purify water be forbidden from helping society, after all? Rethinking the role of quirks in daily life is part of the world’s healing process.
A New Hero Education Paradigm
One of the most dramatic reforms in the post-war era is the overhaul of hero education. In the original canon, it always seemed arbitrary (if convenient) that hero training began at the high school level, essentially recruiting 14- or 15-year-old kids and grooming them into “pro” crime-fighters within three years. This youth-oriented approach, while classic shounen manga fare, was never deeply justified in-universe beyond tradition. The war’s events made the flaws of that model painfully clear: society had been turning children into front-line soldiers. U.A. High School’s Class 1-A, mere teenagers, ended up fighting and nearly dying to protect their country. In reality, such a scenario would be seen as a grotesque failure of the system charged with public safety. Thus, after the war, it’s no longer tenable to treat heroics as a high school extracurricular. In response, hero education shifts into a more mature, collegiate-level program.
Leading academies adopt longer, more intensive tracks akin to college programs. Instead of accepting students straight out of middle school, programs raise the entry age and add additional years of training. Future heroes will graduate as young adults, around age 21 or 22, with a far deeper grasp of their responsibilities and capabilities than the previous model provided. This change addresses the uncomfortable truth that set in post-war: children shouldn’t bear the burden of professional heroics. By extending the length of education, the new system ensures prospective heroes get not only combat training, but also coursework in ethics, law, and disaster management, effectively a well-rounded Heroic Sciences higher education.
To facilitate this shift, many smaller or less reputable “hero schools” either shut down or merge. Prior to the war, there was a proliferation of hero courses (some at mediocre institutions) capitalizing on the hero boom. Now, with public opinion mixed and fewer parents willing to send their kids off to hero school at 15, consolidation is inevitable. Only top programs with government support (like U.A.) survive in their new form, while dubious for-profit hero schools fade out. This mirrors how a major crisis can prompt educational reform in our world, unifying and tightening standards across the board.
Internationally, new standards bodies work with nations to standardize hero licensing and training requirements. Think of it as the world agreeing on something like an ISO certification for heroes. They might establish, for instance, that a hero needs X years of schooling and must pass a global exam to be certified. By raising the bar worldwide, the hope is to prevent incompetent or unprepared heroes from being put on pedestals and to instill a stronger sense of duty over celebrity. The “Instagram complex” that had afflicted some pre-war heroes (young stars more obsessed with fame and rankings than service) is now widely criticized. Media regulations and public pressure have pushed hero agencies to emphasize real community work over showmanship.
Key aspects of the new hero education model include:
- Later Start, Longer Training: No more first-years barely past puberty fighting villains. Students enter hero programs as legal adults (around 18) and undergo 4+ years of training. This gives them time to master their quirks’ nuances and mature psychologically before facing deadly threats.
- Integrated Curriculum: Beyond combat and quirk control classes, the academies now include courses on hero ethics, the legal use of quirks, crisis counseling, and leadership. The final year might resemble a residency or apprenticeship under veteran heroes rather than a simple classroom setup.
- Licensing Reforms: Provisional licenses (formerly given to high-schoolers in their second year) are being reconsidered or granted later in the program. A student must demonstrate not just raw power, but judgment and teamwork under pressure to earn any early usage rights. The provisional hero exam itself might be overseen by international observers to ensure fairness and rigor.
- Public Accountability: Hero schools now answer to civilian oversight boards (possibly independent civilian boards or local government councils). Regular reports on student training safety, use-of-Quirk incidents, and so on are mandated. This is a direct reaction to how the HPSC operated opaquely; now, transparency is the goal to rebuild public trust.
Japan’s implementation of these reforms sets the trend. Other nations follow suit, adjusting for their own cultures. (For example, the United States might integrate hero training with college ROTC programs, Europe might have international hero exchanges, etc.) The bottom line is that the world realizes heroes cannot just be pop idols plucked from homeroom, they need to be treated (and trained) as the serious professionals they are, akin to doctors or pilots who require extensive study and certification. Our story’s narrative will explore the challenges and opportunities this new paradigm creates: older students may chafe at additional rules, governments might argue over standards, and not everyone will be happy to see the “good old days” of flamboyant teenage heroes go, but most agree it’s a necessary evolution.
Advent & Shadows
Even as official institutions reform, new threats and players emerge in the shadows of the post‑war world. The power vacuum left by All For One, Shigaraki, and the collapse of organized villain armies doesn’t guarantee peace; if anything, it creates opportunities for different kinds of malfeasance. Rather than another supervillain warlord immediately stepping up, the danger now is more insidious: unscrupulous corporations, rogue military projects, and underground networks exploiting the chaos. For example, a private relief conglomerate moves quietly amid reconstruction.
On the surface, this conglomerate presents as a reputable multinational contractor providing aid and technology to help rebuild after the war. They sponsor reconstruction projects and even fund new infrastructure, presenting themselves as friends in these difficult times. However, that benign public face conceals a darker agenda. Unknown to the general public (and most heroes), they have been running secretive black projects related to Quirks, including internal programs that push high‑risk quirk research far beyond ethical lines. In the vacuum of post‑war reconstruction, they see a chance to quietly expand influence: securing government contracts, siphoning quirk research data, and positioning themselves as a gatekeeper of advanced support technology. Essentially, they are a shadow actor operating under the cover of legitimacy, a new breed of antagonist distinct from the flamboyant supervillains of the past.
This duality refers both to the organization and to the broader theme of lingering darkness after the war. On one hand, there is the advent of a new era of corporate/military interference in hero affairs. On the other hand, the shadows, remnants of villainy and discontent that didn’t vanish with Shigaraki’s defeat. This includes splinter cells of the Paranormal Liberation Front, escaped Tartarus prisoners who are still at large, black‑market dealers of support items, and even disenfranchised former heroes. Unlike the clearly drawn battle lines of the war, these threats lurk in gray areas. They don’t announce themselves with giant Noumu or city‑leveling attacks (at least, not initially). Instead, they seed corruption, gather resources, and test the waters with small incidents, all of which can be plausibly denied or kept out of headlines.
The conglomerate plays a long game. Its regional division is overseen by a polished, professional lead who presents as a benefactor while navigating private conflicts higher up the chain. Several family‑linked operatives are involved, each with unique quirks and agendas:
- Regional Director , Outwardly cooperative with schools and heroes; privately runs a parallel playbook and keeps options open.
- Field Enforcer , Entropy/erosion‑type quirk; volatile, effective, and increasingly hungry for autonomy from corporate control.
- Systems Engineer , Teenage prodigy behind advanced safeguards and support tech; designs tools that double as data funnels; morally gray.
- Empath/Forensics Specialist , Reads emotional or historical “fingerprints” of events; often serves as the group’s uneasy conscience.
- Youth Recruit , The youngest; idolizes leadership while resenting a rising student peer; a seedbed for rivalry within the next generation.
These characters and their dynamics illustrate that the antagonists in this era aren’t monolithic. Even within such organizations, there are differing viewpoints; some members may secretly oppose their group’s ultimate schemes, others are true believers, or simply desperate for autonomy. This internal tension means “the bad guys” are not all on the same page, creating opportunities for betrayals or uneasy alliances. The theme that morality is perspective‑based is strong here: certain actors think they’re saving society through control and order (they might genuinely fear what unchecked Quirks could do post‑war, seeing themselves as necessary overseers). The villains of yesterday (like All For One) were overtly evil, but the new “shadows” believe themselves to be right in their own way, which is a subtler and perhaps more dangerous challenge.
Our story will gradually reveal these machinations. Early on, such players keep a low profile, sponsoring public events, donating equipment to hero schools, all to appear as benevolent contributors. Behind the scenes, they gather data on heroes’ quirks. Small incidents hint that someone is testing responses. Clues about a bigger conspiracy will emerge bit by bit. We want the reader to feel an ominous undercurrent without immediately outing any single group as a mustache‑twirling villain. In essence, the shadows are lengthening gradually.
Moreover, the term “Shadows” also encompasses the ethical shadows: the debate over vigilantes and ex‑heroes operating outside the law. Post‑war, some citizens aren’t waiting for hero approval anymore; civilians have armed themselves, and in some cases, Good Samaritans with quirks intervene in crises without a license. This vigilante resurgence echoes the very foundation of hero society: before quirks were regulated, many early “heroes” were vigilantes. Now, with faith in pros shaken, that cycle is repeating. The government (and new oversight bodies) must decide how to handle these unsanctioned do‑gooders. Do they crack down, or quietly permit it as long as it helps? And what of heroes who quit out of disillusionment? Might some of them take justice into their own hands now? These shadowy figures in alleyways can either become allies in times of need or wild cards that make the heroes’ jobs harder. Our story will explore that gray zone, too, ensuring that this undercurrent isn’t just a single evil plot, but a whole atmosphere of uncertainty in which the protagonists must find their footing.
The Class at 18
Finally, we turn to the characters at the heart of the story: Class 1‑A, now age 18 (give or take) and stepping into this new world. In the year following the war, this class has effectively become U.A.’s Class 3‑A, the first cohort to continue into the revamped hero academy program. They’ve been through more in two years of high school than most heroes experience in a decade, and that wartime experience has advanced their skills considerably. However, because of the new educational structure, they have not simply graduated and left. Instead, they are the trailblazers for U.A.’s extended curriculum, in a sense, the guinea pigs of the new system.
Let’s consider their situation. A year ago, these students (Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Ochako Uraraka, Shoto Todoroki, and so on) were celebrated as war heroes who helped save Japan. You would expect them to be household names, right? And indeed, immediately after the war, their faces were all over the news. But as we discussed, public attention is fickle. By one year later, the average citizen isn’t fawning over U.A.’s hero‑course students; they’re caught up in whatever fresh drama or recovery effort is happening. In fact, canon’s epilogue implies that Izuku “Deku” Midoriya and his friends slipped into relative obscurity for a while. In the official ending (set about eight years after the war), Izuku loses the remaining embers of One For All and becomes a history teacher at U.A., content but no longer in the spotlight. He mentions missing being a hero, but he’s making a difference in the classroom. This ending was controversial to some fans; it felt like the world just moved on, giving Deku almost no recognition for his sacrifice. At this point, Class 3‑A still carries the legacy (and trauma) of what they went through. The authorities haven’t forgotten their contributions, even if the tabloids have.
Within hero circles, certain students carry extra weight because of what they’ve survived and learned. Administrators may seek their input on training reforms; who better to weigh in than those who witnessed the system’s failures first‑hand? People like Katsuki Bakugo and Shoto Todoroki, coming from famous lineages or having marquee accomplishments, also command respect beyond their years. So while to the public these teenagers are back to being students, within hero circles they have a bit of clout.
That said, they are still teenagers, and a major theme for “The Class at 18” is how they navigate a return to normalcy (or a new normal) after essentially living through a war. The story takes a slice‑of‑life approach initially, focusing on how the class rebuilds their camaraderie, processes their trauma, and adjusts to the new school format. They finally get to experience some ordinary youth activities in peacetime: dorm parties, festivals, silly adventures in town, the kind of everyday moments that were often interrupted by villain attacks in the original series. This “Season 1” of our tale is deliberately slower, almost a breather arc, giving both characters and readers a chance to breathe. We want to recapture the charm of MHA’s early school‑life chapters, but with the added depth that these kids aren’t naive first‑years anymore. They have scars and inside jokes, grief for fallen mentors, and newfound maturity.
Crucially, the class is not static at 18, they are at an age of transition, and our narrative will evolve with them. The dynamics among Class 3‑A have shifted in subtle ways:
- They’ve tasted real battle, so training exercises at school might seem trivial or even trigger flashbacks for some. A character like Tokoyami might struggle with Dark Shadow’s aggressiveness after seeing so much darkness in war, for instance. We’ll address those psychological facets.
- Their relationships have developed. Romantic elements were left mostly ambiguous in canon; here, we’ll take a slow‑burn approach, showing how bonds grow closer in the peaceful days after conflict.
- New additions to the class or school could appear. Since hero courses might merge or have transfer students due to the school shake‑ups, Class 3‑A might get a few unfamiliar faces. These new characters allow us to inject fresh energy and also serve as lenses to see how much Class 3‑A has grown. For example, how does the class welcome a new student after all they’ve been through? Likely with more caution and unity than they had as first‑years.
Despite the looming “shadows” we described, daily life goes on. The 18‑year‑old Class A will face typical coming‑of‑age decisions too: what specializations to pursue (rescue, combat, research?), how to balance hero training with personal life, and what it means to inherit the mantle of hero in a changed world. They’re the first generation of heroes in a post‑war era; the pressure on them is intense. Some of that pressure is external (society watching to see if the next Symbol of Peace will rise from their ranks) and some internal (each student grappling with their own expectations). But if the war taught them anything, it’s that they’re stronger together.
By grounding our story in these characters’ 18‑year‑old perspectives, we ensure that even as big political and conspiratorial plots unfold in the background, the heart of the narrative remains personal. We’ll see the legacy of All Might and the old heroes living on in how these young heroes conduct themselves. We’ll see how Deku, in particular, strives to embody the best of heroism without falling into the traps of the past. In canon, by the epilogue, he becomes a mentor figure. It’s a fulfilling trajectory for him: from quirkless dreamer to war hero, and toward a guiding role in hero society’s rebuild.
In summary, The Class at 18 is about hope and rebuilding from the ground up. These teenagers‑turned‑young‑adults are effectively the bridge between the old world and the new. They carry the memory of how things were and the responsibility to shape how things will be. Our story will cherish the “slice of life” moments that let them be normal kids again, even as it sets the stage for them to gradually step up when duty calls. Because make no mistake, the peace they’re enjoying is fragile, and when the shadows cast by powerful private interests lengthen enough to threaten the light, Class 3‑A will be called upon once more. The difference now is that the world is trying to do right by them: giving them better training, more support, and a chance to grow up before thrusting them onto the front lines. Whether that will be enough remains to be seen, but it’s a start.
By addressing all of these aspects – the global aftermath, the overhaul of hero education, the subtle new threats, and the state of our beloved class – we set a comprehensive stage for our alternate universe MHA story. It’s a world that respects the rich logic of MHA’s quirk system (with its unique, scientific quirks and their drawbacks) while also challenging the parts of the canon that felt glossed over (like government structure, post-war recovery, and the role of minors in battle). This foundation will allow us to tell a slow-burning, character-driven tale without plot holes undermining the experience. We’re essentially picking up the pieces Horikoshi left and saying: What happens next? The answer, we hope, will be a journey like no other – one that honors the spirit of the original but isn’t afraid to grow up along with its characters.
Notes:
Thanks for reading the Primer! If anything’s unclear or you spot canon gaps, drop a comment, questions help me tune future chapters. If you prefer story-first, the Prologue starts the narrative proper.
Chapter 2: Prologue 0 - Pressurized Quiet
Summary:
In UA’s briefing theater, faculty watch a redacted security feed: hands drag a body, an execution happens off-panel, and a boy at the edge of the light looks back at the lens. Aizawa logs the details. Nezu places PROJECT: EMBRUS under the SABLE Protocol (IQSC) - custody is educational, not carceral. Day One begins in pressurized quiet.
Chapter Text
Aizawa didn’t blink until the first scream cut to static.
The room, UA’s sealed briefing theater, glowed a cold blue off the holowall. A U-shaped table wrapped the holo-projector at the center; Nezu sat at the head, paws folded, the hologram pooling light in his whiskers. Arrayed along the arms were the people UA would trust with bad nights: Aizawa; Toshinori in his slimmer frame, hands around a dented thermos; Nemuri with her arms folded just so; Hizashi uncharacteristically quiet; Cementoss steady and chalk-knuckled; Ectoplasm very still; Snipe with his brim tipped low; Power Loader faintly oil-scented; Thirteen’s visor ghosting the footage; Hound Dog with claws resting flat on wood; Recovery Girl’s cane tip parked by her heel; Vlad King a block of patience; Deku at the end of the run with a capped pen. Present Mic had stopped fidgeting.
Grainy footage rolled: a corridor somewhere foreign, the color science slightly wrong, whites a little green, the way cheap security rigs lie about the truth. The top-left corner carried a soft stamp, [CAM 02 / SUB-BASEMENT], that fuzzed every few seconds as if embarrassed to be precise.
[00:00.13] Auto-exposure hunted, the frame brightening, dimming, brightening again. The mic throttled itself from a sea of static to a tunnel where every footfall was a coin dropped down a well. Captions flickered: [AUTO-TRANSLATE: ???]… then steadied on English with the apologetic brackets that said it was still guessing.
No one in the room moved. Present Mic’s hand found a cough drop, the foil whispering. He didn’t open it.
[00:07.42] The corridor air looked wet. Condensation tracked along a ribbed conduit like a pulse under skin. The camera tried to white balance on a dented steel door and gave up, settling for something colder than real. A figure in the far distance crossed the spill of a light, a shadow clipping off the edge as if the building had bitten a piece out of them.
Aizawa catalogued nothing and everything: the rust map around the hinge; a dark smear near ankle height where boots had turned; the faint echo of a second mic somewhere down the hall catching the same sounds a half-beat late. His scarf shifted on his shoulders. He still didn’t reach for his goggles.
[00:12.09] Two voices, overlapping. The captions hesitated, then chose: [JUST DO IT.] The vowels carried different weather, one thin with nerves, one bored like a cashier. A third voice didn’t speak but moved, fabric on fabric, a sleeve brushing a wall.
The camera, bolted chest-high, watched down the corridor at an angle. A human pulse passed in front of the lens, a security guard, probably, just an elbow, and the top of a holster. The elbow retracted. The view steadied again.
[00:18.66] Light strobed at the far bend. Not gunfire yet; just a dying fluorescent chasing itself to the grave. The captions tried to call it [ELECTRICAL FAULT]. The mic wrote it as a faint insect hiss.
[00:23.01] A person was dragged into view by the armpits. The draggers stayed phantom, hands only. The person’s shoes scraped, single squeals that found the mic and pealed. The captions decided [PLEADING], then changed their mind and said nothing at all.
Deku’s knuckles eased from white to tight. He didn’t speak.
[00:28.45] Muzzle flashes finally strobed, but not aimed, aimed away, a warning, a punctuation. The camera’s shutter rolled; the whole image jittered sideways like a bad memory trying to escape itself. Something heavy clanged off-screen. The captions leapt: [LANGUAGE DETECTED:…], then blanked again.
A long shadow lifted something that read like a machete because the brain had to call it something. The edge never caught the light. The hands holding it didn’t shake.
Aizawa’s eyes watered. He still didn’t blink.
The cut happened off-panel. The sound wasn’t a slice, too neat a word. It was a wet toggle, a wrong switch thrown, then a hollow clack as the head that the camera would not show struck the casing and slid politely out of frame. The audio ran a half-second longer than the image, like the world had to be told what had already happened.
No screaming. Just the air admitting it knew.
Nemuri broke the quiet first, a whisper that still felt lacquered. “Charming.”
Snipe tipped his brim a millimeter. “Seen friendlier hall monitors.”
Aizawa didn’t raise his voice. “Later.” The word landed soft and absolute; the room went still again.
[00:31.90] The draggers were still hands. One of them wore a ring with a flat face; the camera’s compression made it a square of noise that pulsed as it moved. The hands receded. The body receded. The corridor stayed.
The captions, helpless, offered [SILENCE]. Then, bravely: [LAUGHTER], but it was only a fan bearing dying somewhere off to the left. The system replaced it with [MECHANICAL].
[00:36.14] The frame shook because the person wearing the camera inhaled for the first time in ten seconds. The HUD in the corner spiked and fell: AUDIO -6dB → -12dB. The algorithm added [DEEP BREATH].
Aizawa’s thought arrived without ornament: So that’s you.
[00:38.77] Something moved at the edge of the light. Not the draggers. Smaller. Faster. It skated the brightness without entering it, testing the borders like an animal checking a fence for weak metal.
The camera shifted, only a hair, from fear or duty, Aizawa couldn’t say. That tiny pan was enough for the new figure to claim the edge of the spill: a boy, younger than the voice he would grow, eyes ringed by neon that wasn’t neon, just the clinical hallway doing a bad impression of a holy moment.
[00:40.02] He didn’t perform. He didn’t posture. He just looked, first to the body the tape wouldn’t honor, then forward to the lens like a swimmer touching the wall. Quick. Exact. The check of a creature that knows when it is being watched and measures itself against the watcher.
He held that look for the length of a heartbeat and a half.
Freeze frame: the boy at the edge of the light, eyes wrong-quiet, meeting the lens.
For a breathless moment, the blue of the holowall dyed everyone the same temperature. Nezu’s paws rested together like folded punctuation, the little hinge of his wrist never quite still. Aizawa heard the HVAC return from its low hum to a steadier draw, the room remembering to breathe on schedule. A tiny red LED over the exit read LOCKED, one stern dot of color in all the blue.
All Might’s thermos ticked as it shed heat; a coil inside sighed. He held it like a peace he could pour if needed. The smell wasn’t strong enough to name, just warm and clean, steam without a story. He didn’t offer it yet. Not the time to make this gentle, his jaw said.
Present Mic kept the cough drop in his palm, foil printing ghosted into his skin. His mouth had the set of a pro saving his instrument. He swallowed once on purpose, the way a singer does when the room is cold. Don’t waste the throat on gasps.
Deku’s capped pen lay under his fingers like a trapped arrow. He had the posture of a student not writing as an act of discipline. A back-of-the-brain map still drew itself: angles, distances, timing. He let it. He did not chase it. If I speak first, I change the room.
Aizawa finally blinked, single, slow, a reset more than a concession. The world reassembled on the other side of that private shutter: Nezu’s porcelain voice loading in, All Might’s center-of-gravity kindness, Deku’s pressure contained and productive. He pinched a thread from his scarf and rolled it between forefinger and thumb. Chalk dust. Laundry soap. UA.
Chair casters complained a fraction as someone adjusted weight; then stillness again. The holowall’s freeze-frame held a patience that felt like a dare. We teach him, or we drown him in paperwork and call it safety, Aizawa thought, already hearing his own voice say it later.
The lights rose a notch. Nezu’s voice was careful porcelain. “PROJECT: EMBRUS is now under the SABLE Protocol, Containment-by-Curriculum, per the International Quirk Safety Commission. Advent testing is banned in Japan. UA will host the subject under educational custody.”
All Might’s thermos lid clicked; steam curled like a peace offering. Deku steadied his breathing, hands flat, then looser. He said nothing.
Nezu inclined his head, porcelain calm. “Implementation specifics will be briefed to staff on a need-to-know basis. For today: custody is educational, not carceral.”
Aizawa’s voice stayed dry. “We’ll cover procedures with the class during supervised drills.”
The holowall held the freeze-frame; no one chased details. Not yet.
A discreet policy packet flickered onto the holowall, then minimized with a polite chime, acknowledged and deferred. Implementation would happen in closed-door briefings and, later, supervised classroom drills.
All Might met the room with quiet steel. “We teach a human, not a hazard label.”
Deku nodded once, a small agreement without performance. We can do that.
Aizawa let the room be quiet long enough to find its balance again. Teaching is a contact sport, he reminded himself, not a bloodless policy. His eyes had the grit of a week of too-late grading; he refused to rub them. Costs mattered most when you couldn’t see them. Consent wasn’t a signature; it was the habit of stopping before the cliff. His own tools were blunt on purpose: a stare; a scarf; a quirk that could take the shine off the world and make everyone honest. I can switch him off, he thought, but that doesn’t teach him to switch himself off. Lesson plans assembled like scaffolds in the back of his mind: drills that ended in breath, not applause; language that turned risk into math; the part where he would stand between a boy and the worst version of that boy until the boy could do it for himself. No drama. Chalk and repetition. And consequences you could name without hating the person they landed on.
On the holowall, the freeze-frame hiccuped, one frame only, less than a blink. A diagonal watermark bled in: [ARCHIVAL COPY , SECURITY CHAIN INCOMPLETE]. The boy’s gaze held, unmoving. Then the image yielded to a gray card with a polite banner: [FOOTAGE ENDS , REDACTION PER IQSC]. The screen went black.
“PROJECT: EMBRUS is now under the SABLE Protocol, Containment-by-Curriculum, per the International Quirk Safety Commission. Advent testing is banned in Japan. UA will host the subject under educational custody.”
“Implementation specifics will be briefed to staff on a need-to-know basis. For today: custody is educational, not carceral.”
“We teach a human, not a hazard label.”
Steam unfurled as Toshinori twisted the thermos lid. He poured into two cups and set one in the empty space at the far end of the table.
Nemuri’s mouth tilted. “Setting a place?”
“Practice,” he said.
Aizawa thumbed the projector dark. The room lost its blue; the ghost of the freeze-frame hung behind their eyelids.
Nezu stacked his paws. “First bell in six hours.”
Aizawa gathered his scarf. “Sleep while you can.”
Steam unfurled as Toshinori twisted the thermos lid. He poured into two cups and set one in the empty space at the far end of the table.
Nemuri’s mouth tilted. “Setting a place?”
“Practice,” he said.
Aizawa thumbed the projector dark. The room lost its blue; the ghost of the freeze‑frame hung behind their eyelids.
Nezu stacked his paws. “First bell in six hours.”
Aizawa gathered his scarf. “Sleep while you can.”
Chapter 3: Chapter 1 - New Year, New Work
Summary:
U.A. reopens to a packed assembly as Present Mic and Nezu set post-war ground rules and the new collegiate track. A press impostor hijacks a floor scrubber; 3-A executes a clean, non-lethal neutralization while the black box is preserved and a quiet new student lends a precise hand. Evac wraps, friends reconnect, and Midoriya notes a false ping from Danger Sense on the way to homeroom.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The gates opened. Cool air moved through the courtyard. The floors were clean and a little damp; the glass felt cold if you touched it. Students came in with first-day energy and the kind of voices that come back after a long break.
Mina spotted Jiro at the gate and closed the distance in three quick steps. They bumped shoulders like they’d been doing it every day instead of after a year apart. “I swore off glitter,” Mina said.
Jiro pinched a sequin off Mina’s sleeve and held it up. “How’s that going?”
Mina sneezed, and a faint cloud betrayed her. She made a face. “Work in progress. It’s in the vents.”
“It’s in your soul,” Jiro said, and the corner of her mouth gave her away. Mina sneezed; a few specks of glitter hung in the air.
Jiro nudged her, laughing. “You can’t escape me,” Mina said, throwing both arms up like a monster about to pounce before looping her arm through Jiro’s.
“Obviously.” They fell back into step, easy. Jiro put on an exaggerated look of discomfort and pressed against her without any real force. Mina’s cheek brushed her shoulder like she was really trying to make Jiro sparkle with her residual glitter.
Across the drop-off lane, Kirishima and Bakugo bumped fists, more than a greeting, less than a challenge. “New goals?” Kirishima asked without breaking stride.
“Same goals,” Bakugo said. “Bigger weights.”
At the curb, pro-hero teachers worked the small meet-and-greets with parents, Vlad King with a clipboard, Recovery Girl’s cane tapping a patient rhythm, Present Mic shaking two hands at once, Power Loader pointing a family toward check-in. Aizawa said little and nodded once; that was enough. Someone called that the gym would be ready in five.
Iida straightened a poster by a few degrees. Momo had already fixed the other corner and left a small checkmark on the backing as if to say seen. Sero caught a falling flyer with a flick of tape and put it back without a word. Kaminari made a show of wiping his hands like he’d helped. No one corrected him.
Deku was mid-laugh at something Iida said about the poster, hands easy for once. Then the prickle came, there and gone, like a radio click you only half heard. He glanced over his shoulder without meaning to.
Mineta drifted by behind them, telling someone, “Saw somebody I didn’t recognize, office rushed me out.” The idea moved through the crowd without a name.
The calm resettled. The trace stayed.
Present Mic’s voice cut over the chatter, echoing off the small stage and through the speakers into the courtyard outside, full of gathered families, press, and new students: “Alright, UA, auditorium!”
The auditorium took everyone in and made them rows. Rafter banners hung clean and bright, the floor smelled faintly of wax, and the stage lights threw a warm spill that made the room feel closer than it was. Present Mic slid under the lights like a DJ to his booth, mic he didn’t need and loved anyway. “UA!” he called, palm up. The room answered, clap, whoop, echo. “New year, new shot, let me hear it!” The cheer swelled, rolled once under the rafters, and came back off the back wall like a soft wave.
“I can’t hear you!”
The second cheer hit properly, bigger and cleaner. A few camera phones popped up; a couple of little siblings on the balcony screamed like they were at a concert. Mic grinned, hand to his ear like a ham and a pro. “That’s the sound.” He paced a step, enjoying it, then pointed toward the Support rows for a separate whoop and gave them a finger-guns salute.
“Welcome to all new students across UA, Hero Course and Support alike. Because we had a one-year gap, two years’ worth of new faces are joining us today. If you were a first-year during the Liberation Front crisis and stood up when it counted, you’ll see Provisional Credits on your record. That work mattered then, and it still matters now.”
He let the applause carry, then eased a hand down. “And for everyone we lost in that time, let’s give them a moment of silence.” The room settled into a simple, honest quiet; even the drones at the ceiling dimmed their status lights until the hall felt like it was holding its breath.
“Thank you,” he said. A breath. Then the wattage came back. “Alright. New year, new work.”
A screen lit behind him with plain text. “You’ve got the full updates in your handbook and in the app,” Mic said. “We’ll hit the headlines. You all can read the rest later!” The first slide flicked by: perimeter upgrades, campus drills, reporting flows.
The screen ticked through bullet points as a low murmur of page flips and phone taps rippled down the rows; pens came out, chairs creaked, and the lights cooled to a working glow. A second slide flashed Non-lethal first, teamwork weighting, curfews by training tier; a third flagged post-incident checks and Support Tech Governance.
Jiro rolled a spare pick between her fingers. Non-lethal first sat right with her. She tapped a knee to keep the rhythm of the room and made a tiny notation to tune her amp sim for a softer entry. Kaminari drew a small lightning bolt on his paper, crossed it out, and wrote “no zapping hallway bots,” then smirked because it helped him remember; under it, he added a doodle of a vacuum with a sad face.
Iida nodded when he heard Provisional Credits and teamwork weighting. He didn’t write. He trusted that he would. When curfews by training tier came up, his shoulders set a little higher, and he mentally blocked out study slots between patrol windows. A margin note formed in his head about hallway speed limits and evacuation etiquette.
Momo heard Support Tech Governance and made a mental note to publish her change-log template to the class drive. She had it ready; she didn’t need to open it to check. She also queued a reminder to tag Hatsume on the compliance checklist and to request serial logs from Facilities for lab gear.
Uraraka glanced at Deku as post-incident checks passed on the screen. He kept his face calm and his hands still. The off-station feeling stayed, neither worse nor gone. He let her closeness sit there as a small anchor; she squeezed his hand once and let go so he could keep counting heads in his peripheral.
At the back, Kirishima typed teamwork up in his notes and looked, without looking, at Bakugo. Bakugo didn’t react, which was his way of reacting; his knee stopped bouncing for exactly one beat and then started again. Todoroki, two rows over, rubbed frost crumbs from his cuff until the fabric went dark.
Nezu stepped forward. Present Mic eased back, palm out, the handoff clean, like a baton exchange. Nezu didn’t need the mic. His eyes were bright; his smile was precise.
“Effective and intact”, results without collateral, records preserved for audit. “At once.”
He tapped the clicker once. “You’ll also see the academic model shift in your materials, UA’s Hero Course phasing from a compressed high-school track to a long-form collegiate progression with co-ops and capstones. Homeroom will brief on the essentials.” He nodded to the faculty along the side wall. The screen went dark, and the house lights nudged up by a shade.
Meanwhile, in the east-wing corridor outside the auditorium, the exit halls had thinned. Present Mic and Nezu’s announcements rolled like distant surf. An “Authorized Media” badge flashed once as someone bent over a large autonomous floor scrubber parked by the janitor’s closet. A maintenance panel hung open. Fingers moved where only maintenance should.
“Hey!” The janitor’s voice came from around the bend.
The badge holder looked up, startled, something spilled from their palm, a shimmer of grain-small machine-spiders marching into the open panel, and ran. The panel snapped shut on nothing fixed.
Footsteps thundered closer, Kamui Woods rounded the corner, branches unfurling to shield the janitor as the scrubber twitched. Mt. Lady slid between them and the machine on instinct, hands out, not growing because of ceilings and collateral.
“Runner went that way,” the janitor jabbed, breathless.
“Go,” Kamui said without looking back. “I’ve got him.”
Mt. Lady took off down the hall, thumb to her earpiece, static; something was jamming it. She clicked her tongue and kept running.
The machine woke wrong. Brushes slammed to full. The wash nozzle pinched into a hard jet that sliced a discarded aluminum sign. Rubber wheels skidded, black arcs streaking the floor as the scrubber fishtailed. Kamui braced; the reinforced brush housing hammered his guard and drove him back three steps. He absorbed, redirected, wood creaked, heel slid, then the machine juked past, too fast for an indoor unit.
Out at the main doors, Mt. Lady hit the threshold as the suspect bowled through two pros and spilled into a knot of cameras and yelling press. Light jackets, badges, too many. She swore as the figure disappeared into the pack.
“Dammit, gone,” she muttered.
Her comm cleared for a heartbeat. “Nezu, we have an unauthorized visitor posing as press, suspect at the main gate, blended into the media, Kamui is, ” A powdery whoomp rolled the plaza; a cloud like fine drywall went up, and the channel fuzzed out again as the crowd broke in every direction.
At the same time, the scrubber found speed it wasn’t built to hold. Safety shrouds along the chassis had sheared; the brush housing had locked like a blunt guard; the wash nozzle had knifed down to a cutter jet. It hit the east-wing double doors hard enough to pop the panic bars and burst into the gym on the media-deck side, water blasting, brushes howling.
Chairs scraped; a lens case skittered under the bleachers. People screamed and scattered.
Class 3-A was closest when the machine forced itself inside. They moved. Back in the corridor, Kamui’s branches sagged where the impact had clipped him; medics swarmed, more rattled than hurt.
Aizawa dropped in front of his class. He’d heard the same message on the radio. “We neutralize, not destroy. Keep the black box intact.” He knew he couldn’t stop them from helping; he was grateful for that.
“Don’t shock it,” Momo said. “Lithium pack.”
Kaminari lifted both hands. “No shock. Got it.”
The robot’s mechanical arm grabbed a kiosk and shoved it toward a cluster of students.
“Move,” Aizawa said. He didn’t need to raise his voice. “Rescues first.”
3-A moved like they practiced. Iida kept a lane open. Sero set a second tape line, and the kiosk stopped where it should. Mina laid a narrow ribbon of low-corrosive acid, slick, not burning, so the kiosk slid into a padded bench and stayed. Jiro’s earjacks flared; she heard the gear grind before the chassis lunged. “Left side, incoming, pressure building.”
The arm snapped toward the media deck, and the cutter jet screamed. Todoroki planted a wall of ice; it held, thin and cracking. The jet arced off the face, tore the hose, and the spray ripped across the ceiling, shearing three stage-light arms.
“Above!” Jiro called.
Uraraka vaulted the ice, reached, and tapped each falling light. “Soft.” They drifted, harmless. Midoriya was already clearing the space below, hands guiding, voice steady, opening a lane to the exits. He and Ochako ran the evacuation together, pushing the crowd out of the cone of danger.
Kirishima hit the floor in a slide, skin hardening to stone. He caught the thrashing arm at the elbow and locked it to his chest. “Got you,” he said through his teeth.
“Wheels,” Todoroki said, and threw cold across the base. Frost climbed the treads and seized their spin. The chassis skidded, angry and pinned.
The second arm swung for Kirishima’s head. Bakugo stepped through the steam and put a tight pop into the joint, loud, controlled. The arm dropped with a clatter and kept twitching on the floor.
Aizawa’s capture scarf snapped out, wrapped the housing twice, then bit around a floor anchor. He leaned back, and the machine jerked to a stop, held, not harmless.
Momo slipped through the gap Aizawa and the students had cleared, kept low, and went to one knee beside the machine.
“Careful, no brute force,” Power Loader said.
“The controller has a tamper purge,” Aizawa warned, eyes locked on the thrashing unit. “Trip it and we lose the black-box records.”
“Whatever you’re gonna do, do it fast,” Bakugo snapped, as the overdrive whine climbed.
Momo eased the service panel free without prying. Steam vented hot and suddenly, chewing at Todoroki’s ice.
A tall young man slid in beside her and knelt. His jacket hung open; a thin line of dark metal at his collar caught the gym light. He kept his voice low for her. “There, control-bus ribbon. Sever it, and the motor drive cuts clean; the black box stays live. Then isolate the pack.”
She passed him the gloves. A faint tremor touched his right hand and eased when he braced his wrist on the frame.
Aizawa widened the circle. “Do it.” He didn’t erase; quirks don’t quite a motor.
The tool was a plastic spudger. It was enough. He pressed once, and the arms ceased; the grinding stopped; the robot rolled to stillness. Inside the panel, whatever glitter had been there was gone.
“Can you help with the battery?” Momo asked.
“Easy now.” They lifted it out together.
Power Loader crouched. “Black box intact?”
“Intact,” the boy said. He peeled a pale sticker, CYNARA FACILITIES LTD., and tucked it inside the shell where it would be seen at inspection, not by the crowd.
A UA drone trilled LOGGED. The gym’s noise found its level, bleachers unsettled, then steady.
Bakugo blew out a breath. Kirishima patted his shoulder once. Mina kept her thoughts to herself for once, which said enough.
The boy stood the way he’d knelt, calm, balanced. He didn’t invite attention, and the scene didn’t build any. Aizawa gave him a small nod. He nodded back and faded into the moving hallway.
Outside, the plaza air ran cooler. Spillways from the gym emptied into neat lanes of cones and tape; UA drones hovered low, repeating calm directions while pros set a soft cordon at the curb.
Uraraka brushed Deku’s sleeve, and they moved as one. “Left row to the lot, please, stay together.” She smiled and counted under her breath, hand up for stragglers. Deku echoed the call, voice steady, pointing families toward the check table. A security aide read names off a clipboard; Deku relayed, “Media deck row three accounted for, row four missing one,” and the aide scribbled, nodding.
Inside, the noise shifted, from panic to orders, then to that ordinary clatter that means handled. Uraraka exhaled. “Almost there.”
Deku let the quiet settle. The off-station feeling stayed as a thin thread under his skin and didn’t pull. He filed it as weather, not warning, and kept moving, shoulder to shoulder with her.
Nezu’s voice carried over the channel. “If you’re accounted for, proceed with staff to the marked exits. Pros will guide you to the lots. We’ll issue a public report in the coming days; for now, the safety of our students and guests is our first priority. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Todoroki stepped out with a few underclassmen; frost clung to his fingers and flaked away when he flexed. At the check table, pens clicked and names went tick by tick. A breeze shook the ginkgo; two leaves spiraled down, one clung to Deku’s sleeve, then slipped free.
Kaminari and Sero arrived mid-argument about whether melon bread counted as a vegetable if it was green. “It’s matcha,” Kaminari said. “Science.”
“It’s cake,” Sero said. “Also science.” He offered half to Uraraka like it proved something.
Mina and Jiro drifted over, spotting Uraraka and Deku holding hands. Mina grinned and pitched her voice just enough for Uraraka to hear. “Well, well, the love birds. I’m gonna need all the tea from you later.”
Jiro smirked, cut in, and fist-bumped Deku. “Hey, hero. Long time no see.” Her smile had a punk-rock edge.
Kaminari plopped down with a laugh. “I can’t believe it’s already been a whole year.”
“That’s because you short-circuited your brain. Like that robot,” Sero deadpanned.
“Hey, now,” Kaminari protested.
Mina finger-gunned between them. “They could be related.”
Deku, Mina, Jiro, Sero, and even Kaminari laughed at his expense.
Uraraka smiled. “I’m glad some things never change.”
Iida paused beside his gathered classmates, satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with the incident itself. “The evacuation paths cleared at acceptable speeds. Good work, everyone.”
“It’s good to see you too, prez,” Mina said.
He smiled toward them, then glanced down at Uraraka and Deku, their fingers laced. He gave Midoriya a soft look that said more than words, then clicked back into Class President. “This is highly inappropriate in public. We UA students, ” His hands chopped the air. The others shrugged, rolled their eyes, and laughed while he kept going.
Momo approached, new school mandates and policies stacked in her arms like slim novels. “Everyone, grab your booklets. We’ll finish the policy briefing in homeroom.” She wore a scholarly smile.
A roar carried across the courtyard as the last non-students filed out. Kirishima and Bakugo were stretching like they were warming up for a race only they could see. Kirishima caught Deku’s eye and gave a thumbs-up that meant later, training? Bakugo didn’t look over, which meant yes.
All Might angled toward the group while Aizawa diverted toward the two troublemakers. The Symbol of Peace lifted a hand. “Time to start heading to class.” Across the path, Aizawa rapped Bakugo lightly on the back of the head for tuning him out; Bakugo went off like a firecracker, words tumbling half-intelligible, half-feral.
The bell rolled over the courtyard. Trays clacked into stacks, shoes squeaked over tile, posters fluttered in the hallway breeze. For the first time in a year, it felt like school again.
Deku made his way through the halls and lingered by the trophy case outside 3-A, the one with photos of students who once filled these corridors. He paused at the picture of the Big Three, Mirio Togata, Nejire Hado, and Tamaki Amajiki, and smiled as something warm shifted inside him. The heartwarming beat passed; between classes, the halls went quiet for a breath.
He drew his attention from the glass like he’d forgotten something. He hadn’t. He just listened. A measured footfall came once, the way a coin drops, and you don’t see where it lands. The door beside him slid open; Iida poked his head out, curious at Midoriya’s absence. Danger Sense rose, then fell without warning. A false alert.
“Midoriya?” Iida asked.
“Sorry. I’m coming,” Deku said and stepped in as the next bell rang.
Notes:
Content: brief machinery hazard; non-graphic. Style: hybrid light-novel (cinematic 3rd + brief italics for interior/UI). Romance stays background (Izuku/Ochako); pairings evolve slowly and tags will update before any decisive shift. Optional world details live in Appendix 0 - U.A. Rebuild. Feedback welcome on clarity of policy beats and whether the coin-drop motif lands.
Chapter 4: Chapter 2 - Homeroom: A New Seat by the Window
Summary:
First day back at U.A. after the war. Class 3-A settles into a not-quite-school homeroom: Sato test-bakes morale cookies, Jiro/Mina/Shinso/Momo plan a safety acoustics sweep, and the room remembers how to be a class. Aizawa keeps it routine, and introduces a quiet transfer: Animus Athame (Hero Name: Embrus). Midoriya clocks a few tells; Toru, Aoyama, and Ojiro provide warm, low-key comedy. Slice-of-life tone; slow burn; no drills today. Next stop: lunch.
Notes:
Rating/Content: PG-13; no graphic content.
Credits: My Hero Academia belongs to Horikoshi. This is a fan work made with love for the ensemble.
This is my first work so I am still honing/refining how I want my style and formatting to come out. Sorry for any inconstantly as I adapt.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, June 1, 2323 , U.A., Class 3‑A Homeroom
The blinds threw pale ladders of light across desks that still smelled faintly of sanitizer. A clock ticked three polite clicks too loud. Someone had stacked fresh policy booklets on the back counter, and a large Support‑gear crate sat open beneath it, packing foam like snow where half the class had already torn into the new kit; a covered seating chart sat magnet‑pinned on the board with a yellow sticky that only said: wait.
Kaminari spun a pen by the clip and angled toward Sero like they were sharing a secret. “Be honest, are tiered curfews going to fry my social life worse than my quirk? Also, since we’re 3‑A… that means three years left, right? Like, math?” He drew a tiny calendar in the corner of his page and put three stars on it like he could wish the years tighter.
From the next row, Iida’s hands began to chop the air, precise and rhythmic. “Please don’t boil policy down to a punchline. Tiered curfews correspond to practicum blocks and recovery windows; your standing depends on verified practicum hours and capstone progress, not numerals in your homeroom. The six‑year model introduces capstones and co‑ops that, ” Sero was already looking over to Kaminari, tuning Iida out as he kept going, “carry distinct method sections, supervisor sign‑offs, and safety audits. Curfews are set to protect recovery time and circadian regularity,” his arms still chopping in the background.
Sero didn’t look up; he fed a strip from his desk dispenser and tore it with a sound that was too crisp for tape. “Only if your social life plugs into a wall. And ‘3‑A’ is a room label, not a calendar. Speaking of labels, Support’s getting me three adhesive grades to test: high‑humidity, anti‑dust, and one that survives Denki‑grade static.” He snapped the tape again, clean, satisfying, and stuck a square to the edge of his desk to see if it curled. “Might add a fourth for sweaty‑gym conditions. Real science.”
“Let’s gooo,” Kaminari muttered, grinning at Sero as the lecture warmed up, pressing his finger to one of the adhesive testers laid out on the desk. He looked down at don’t zap hallway bots under a doodle he’d turned into a caricature of a crying scrubber, then crossed out no zapping kiosks with a lightning bolt. He tried to lift his hand and realized it was stuck. Sero didn’t say anything, just watched as Kaminari tugged. He pulled at the desk, his face turning to panic as Mineta made his way through the sea of desks to the pair.
Mineta popped into the aisle between them like a prairie dog. “I logged two hundred volunteer hours. Do those convert to credits, or do I donate my precious time for free? Because some of that was in the sun, and I wore a hairnet.” He took a small bottle of solvent he carried for his own quirk and poured some on Kaminari’s hand, relieving him from the human flytrap‑like tape. His question was directed toward Iida, genuine and laced with something else.
“Not credits,” Iida said, only slightly pained. “They’re recognized as service hours toward your practicum profile. Valuable, but not a substitute for coursework. They appear on your transcript as commendations.”
“Free it is,” Sero said. He pinched up the spent test strip before the solvent could creep into the other samples, crumpling it in his palm. It made a small, wet sound. He rolled the wad once; the glue and solvent flashed to a glossy thread as he flicked it toward the bin. It kissed the rim, wobbled, and dropped in. “Nice.” He gave himself a quiet, private cheer and looked back over. “You manage anything like that over the year off? Elective: Not Getting Electrocuted 101. Audit only. Lab fee waived.”
Kaminari laughed. “Not really. I did grid repair, finished some safety certs. If those count toward our credits, I’ll pass or fail, or just pass out.” He lifted his pen like a tiny mic. “Six‑year track… fine. As long as curfews don’t cancel festival season. I am a cultural asset.”
“They will if you short out any more kiosks,” Sero said, friendly as a warning. “Tier‑Two curfew’s twenty‑two hundred this month. Don’t make it nineteen‑thirty because you tried to DJ a breaker panel.” Kaminari mimed zipping his mouth, then drew a zipper across the scrubber doodle.
The tape dispenser answered with one soft snap; a loose tail curled into a question mark on Sero’s desk.
Mina drifted past Iida’s policy chop and slid into the seat beside Jiro, letting the tail of his lecture fade into the room hum. The sanitizer on her sleeves still smelled faintly like citrus.
“You still smell like sanitizer,” Jiro said, not unkind. “Leftover from the evac?”
“Yeah, got caught up helping after all the heroics,” Mina said. “Sticker economy is booming. One kid tried to pay me in stars for three extra bandages.” Still laminated in kindness. She bumped Jiro’s shoulder, then noticed the sleek bud tucked against her ear. “New gear?”
“Hatsume’s in‑ear monitor, v2,” Jiro said. She thumbed the shell once, a quick systems check. “During the gym incident earlier, the P.A. near the side stairwell echoed, people missed instructions. The stairs ate every third word.” Fix the acoustics, fix the message. “If the acoustics lab stays open, I want decay times and a quick reverb map before we run drills.”
“I’ve got those ‘watch your step’ stickers from the evac,” Mina said. “We’ll mark stops and stripe lanes with Sero’s tape so nobody trips while you measure. We can file it as safety practice and call it a co‑op block.”
“Perfect,” Jiro said. The spare pick walked across her knuckles and settled between two fingers. “I’ll grab the decibel meter from Support. Side stairs first; landing to landing, then the turn with bodies in place. If we can get two volunteers to walk the loop while I sweep, ”
“Make it four,” Mina said. “Two tall, two small. Kids get lost in the long shadows.”
Two rows back, Shinso turned his chair a hair, enough to show he was listening without asking to join. Mina clocked him, thumbing settings on a new mask, and leaned over. “Looking spooky as always, Mr. Brainwash.” She said it like a joke she’d already retired; it landed easily.
Shinso looked up as the mask screen settled. “Hatsume pushed a firmware update last night,” he said, answering Mina, but angling it to Jiro, voice low. “New consent protocols log the prompt and reply in the same file, stamped with a cryptographic fingerprint. It also holds pitch and tone when I shift voices, so echoes don’t smear the read. Might be useful for your stairwell test.”
Jiro nodded, the pick stilled. “Send me the firmware spec. If prompt and reply live together, I’ll add echo‑cancel to the sweep, two positions: at the mouth and three meters out.”
Mina tapped her temple. “I got, like, three words of that. Does it do anything else cool?”
“It logs a negative, too,” Shinso added. “If someone refuses, the mask writes that and time‑stamps it. Aizawa wanted that standardized.” Less arguing later; more teaching now.
Mina blinked. “So, like, ‘No’ gets proofed the same way as ‘Yes’?”
“Exactly,” Shinso said. “It’s not just for street work. For de‑escalation demos, it’s protection for both sides.” He rotated the capture scarf once around his wrist, not tight, just thinking. “We’re trying it later today in the side stairwell by the gym if Support has a free mic shield. If you want to tag along, Hatsume can fold it into my demo, one shutdown, shared equipment, no extra permissions.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Jiro said immediately. “I’ve got the older shield in my case. I can bring it so we can use it and compare the noise floor.”
Momo, who had been aligning a stack of policy booklets into neat right angles, looked up at the mention of tests. She crossed over with her tablet already open. “That’s a good plan. I’ll be there to handle whatever equipment we need. If you two run that, log device serials and time stamps, and attach them to the Governance checklist. Standard filename: capstone-YYYY-MM-DD-team. I’ll review for Support Governance and archive the audio.”
Jiro glanced at her notes and drew a neat box around method. “Sweet. Decay times, two mic positions, headcount, noise floor. I’ll photo the stair labels; the reflections off those plaques were part of the problem.”
“Good,” Momo said. “And a short justification for location choice, ‘side stairwell by the gym’ rather than ‘some stairs.’ Facilities hate ambiguity.” She smiled, small and earnest. “We are a collegiate program now. Repeatability matters.”
Mina made a little circle over Momo’s head with two fingers. “Bless our standards.”
“Thank you,” Momo said, and tapped her screen to generate the checklist. “Shinso, copy me on the firmware spec thread.”
“Sending now,” Shinso said, already thumbing his phone. “Subject line ‘mask‑consent v2.1, stairwell demo.’”
Jiro slid her case open a finger’s breadth and touched the soft edge of the older mic shield to make sure it was there. “I’ll swing by the stairwell five minutes early and tape off your standing marks. Two by the landing, one at the turn.”
“I’ll bring cones,” Mina said. “Also, clinic trick: if you put a sticker on the ground where you want people to stop, they actually stop. Something with a face. No idea why; it just works.”
“Behavior cues,” Momo said. “Add that to your method under ‘controls.’” She angled her tablet toward Jiro. “Also, record the ambient before anyone speaks. Ten seconds. Facilities like a clean baseline.”
“Got it,” Jiro said. Fix the room, fix the message. She wrote ambient 10s in the margin next to decay and underlined both.
Across the aisle, a drone hummed by the window and cast its reflections in a brief fish‑eye. The light swam over Jiro’s hand, and the pick flashed once, then went still.
Mina leaned back. “Six‑year track doesn’t feel so bad when the labs open, huh?”
“It feels like work we should have been doing anyway,” Jiro said, not defensive, just true. “If the message lands, rescues run smoother.”
Shinso nodded once. “And fewer arguments after. That’s also a blessing.”
Momo’s thumbs paused over her screen, then resumed. “Checklist created. Shared to the class drive under Collab Acoustics, Gym Side Stairwell, v1. I’ll add a slot for Facilities feedback.” She tapped Share. The tablet answered with a quiet, decisive tok, a small sound that made three heads lift and then return to their work.
Across the class, as the tablet’s tok faded, Uraraka flipped to the rescue‑tech spread and nudged Tsuyu’s desk close enough to share, though they were looking at different booklets.
“I’m eyeing the new rescue‑tech electives,” Uraraka said, tapping triage tags with the end of her pen. “Evac psychology, too. We used so much of that when we worked the shelter together over the break.” She angled her booklet so Tsuyu could see the course list; color coding had turned panic into motion, green for walking, yellow for wait, red for right now, black for the hard moments you don’t forget. She drew four tiny squares in the margin and shaded them in, then underlined accountability like it was something you could hold.
“Those make sense,” Tsuyu said, glancing at Uraraka’s list. “Evac psychology helped at the shelter, kero, and clear triage tags kept people moving.” She turned her own support catalog to a flood‑set page and slid it across for Uraraka to see. “Waterproof kit,” Tsuyu said. “These sets are lighter, kero. They don’t chafe. Straps lie flatter, quick‑release pulls are bigger, and hoods don’t tunnel sound. Gloves have grip ridges. The throw bag floats better.” She tapped the part number. “If the co‑op lets me test a sample, or if Requisition will route one, I’ll write the report: photos, weights, dry times. If we demo near the natatorium deck later, I’ll log how they move when they’re soaked.”
“Let’s write a requisition request for the board,” Uraraka said. “I bet Momo could help.” Tsuyu glanced toward the front, where Momo was buried in policy with Mina, Jiro, and Shinso, then nodded. “We can bring it to her after homeroom.” Uraraka sketched a small layout: entry/exit, drying station, slip‑hazard cones, PFD checks. “We’ll propose procedures for the natatorium: hot path, staff positions, timing the loop.”
Someone coughed, then caught it halfway like they’d stepped on a squeaky board. A chair settled an inch. The noise hopped two desks and thinned. Uraraka looked up from the outline; her eyes landed on Shoji and Koda at the window row. Shoji had become a familiar face to heteromorph districts after the incident, and he was speaking with the calm of someone who’d found a lane.
“Some heteromorph districts asked for a U.A. liaison after hours,” Shoji said, voice traveling without rising. “People felt safer when they saw the same face twice.” He folded a spare hand beneath the desk. “We swapped loudspeakers for paper notes and small‑voice announcements. Fewer startles. We added tail‑safe seating signs.”
Koda noticed Uraraka peeking and lifted a hand; she waved back without breaking the quiet. Tsuyu touched Uraraka’s sleeve and pointed to the next step in the sketch she’d been making before the cough made her look up.
A sticker from Uraraka’s notebook peeled, failed to commit, and fluttered down. Tsuyu flattened it with one fingertip, then pressed it higher on the page beside triage tags. The room held an easy, warm‑day quiet that let voices stay soft.
Something sweet lifted into the quiet, warm sugar and butter blooming low and steady. A travel oven on Sato’s desk blinked a tiny green light if it was shy about existing. The smell drifted, then settled, and the room remembered there were softer kinds of work than drills.
Kirishima squeezed a foam gripper once, twice, and then grinned as if the gripper had challenged him to a rematch. “Peer check,” he said, not loud, but it carried. He laid a cheap spring dynamometer flat on the desk. Support must’ve tossed it in the crate and written his number on a scratch pad. “Who’s got grip today? Window row? Tail row?” He glanced down the line. “I’m chasing Ojiro by four kilos and Shoji by… a lot.” He winced cheerfully. “Heavy‑lift rubble ops, volunteer squads, spoiled me. The year off was nothing but concrete and rebar. Good for the soul, bad for the calluses.” He turned his pad so the totals faced out. “Compare me. Don’t let me round up.”
Bakugo snorted without looking. “You finally stopped baby‑holding the bar?” He still didn’t glance over; he didn’t need to. “Grip doesn’t count if your thumbs float.” His finger slid down a table of testing blocks like he was skating it. “Cardio test next period. I’ll spot you from the finish line.” A beat, and then the real boast: “Eight‑lap split, one‑thirty‑eight. That’s with a mask monitor and a clipboard watching me breathe.”
Kirishima’s smile sharpened. “You back to posting splits?”
“Was never off them,” Bakugo said, and the line had more edges than brag. He flipped the page like it had made him wait. “Aggressive rehab means supervised track, not no track. Managed sightings, blah blah. If the public wants a comeback headline, they can time my warm‑up.” He tapped the booklet's corner flat and finally looked over, just once. “Thumbs around the bar, Red.”
Kirishima wrapped his thumb with exaggerated ceremony and squeezed the gripper again. “Copy.” He wrote a new number, half a kilo better, and underlined it like a kid with a gold star. “You want in on the grip board?”
“Pass,” Bakugo said, too fast to be polite and too relaxed to sting. “I’m posting lungs today. Ask me about VO2 when you’ve stopped seeing stars on farmer’s carries.” He checked the clock and rolled his shoulders.
Across the aisle, Todoroki looked up from a quiet calendar, the screen pale on his face. “I’ll stand between you two during drills,” he said, like he had decided it minutes ago. “Heat, then cold. Or the reverse. I’m balancing both this term.” He didn’t offer a reason, so he didn’t have to say it out loud, family counseling is working; training together helps.
Kirishima leaned back enough to catch Todoroki’s eye. “Great. I’ll be your shock absorber. If my hair goes frizz‑to‑icicle, we’ll call it science.”
A soft ding from Sato’s desk cut the grin in half. He cracked the oven door an inch; a ribbon of heat carried the smell across the middle rows. “First batch,” Sato said, keeping his voice down, like the cookies were classified. “Chocolate chip, small, soft. They bake faster in the travel tin.” He slid a silicone mat forward with a wooden spatula barely bigger than a tongue depressor and set the sheet to breathe. “Shelter kitchens taught me to bake in shifts. Nutrition drives, too. You don’t feed a line; you pace a line.”
“I can’t believe the Support crew sent you an Easy-Bake oven,” Kirishima said, impressed and already reaching. “Wow, those look really good, actually. Don’t mind if I, ”
“Hands off till they set,” Sato said mildly. “Two minutes.” He flipped the tiny timer and pulled a second bowl from the carrier. “Oatmeal next. I saw Uraraka and Tsuyu at West Dome last winter; oatmeal beats sugar crash when kids have to stand around in wet socks.” He portioned dough with a calm, practiced motion. “There’s a place for macros, but today’s morale.”
Bakugo sniffed once, reflexively, like a guard dog pretending he wasn’t. “You practicing for the cafeteria relaunch or bribing homeroom?”
“Both,” Sato said, smiling without looking up. “Relaunch needs quick batches and steady output. Homeroom needs cookies.”
Kirishima lifted the dynamometer again and slid it down the row. “C’mon, Bakugo. You measure lungs; let me measure hands.”
Bakugo finally turned at that, not to grab the tool, but to point it at Kirishima’s grip. “Elbow in. Wrist straight. You want forearm, not biceps.” The corrections landed like slaps, automatic and weirdly caring. “And quit looking at the number while you’re squeezing. It’s not going to change because you stare at it.”
Kirishima obeyed, eyes on a scuff on the desk instead. The needle crept. He laughed, surprised. “Hah. Half again.” He wrote it down with a big, blocky seven and put a box around it so his own future self wouldn’t cheat. “Okay, cardio boy. What’s your time split again?”
“One‑thirty‑eight,” Bakugo repeated, and it sounded less like a boast and more like a line item he planned on beating before lunch. “Heart rate monitor will catch you if you lie.” He stretched his neck once, listening to something inside it settle.
Todoroki tipped his phone toward Sato without quite making a show of it. “If you have a ginger dough, bake that one last. I’ll need heat after drills; the spice helps.” He didn’t explain that his counselor had suggested small rituals that tied both halves of him to the same action. He didn’t have to. “And keep one of the chocolate chips aside for Fuyumi if we pass the office later.”
“Sure thing, I’ve got you,” Sato said. “One gingerbread batch coming up. Chocolate chip set aside.” He turned the mat and lifted two test cookies with the tiny spatula, sliding the now‑set chocolate ones into a small container, then handing one to Kirishima and setting one near Bakugo without fanfare. “Small bites first. Heat’s still moving.”
Kirishima bit and made the noise of a person remembering that joy counted as training fuel. “Dude. This is, yeah.”
Bakugo didn’t move for two seconds like he was refusing a dare. Then he picked up the cookie between two fingers and tasted it like he was testing a fuse. No explosion; a second bite. He didn’t say good. He didn’t have to.
“Grip board after homeroom,” Kirishima said around an apologetic mouthful. “Window row versus tail row. Loser cleans the foam peanuts from the Support crate.”
“Not it,” Sato said, sliding the next tray in with the same, even motion. The oven light blinked; the smell brightened. “But I’ll feed the winners and the losers.”
“Cardio splits next period,” Bakugo added, as if posting a sign. “If you want to compare, bring numbers, not feelings.” He checked the clock, then the door, like time was a thing he kept in his pocket.
The timer chimed again, small and certain. The room inhaled together without planning to, and for a moment the warm sugar smell sat on top of the summer‑day quiet like a lid, keeping everything gentle until the next voice picked up the thread.
A stray curl of heat from Sato’s oven drifted across the back rows and vanished near the windows. A star sticker blinked once on the floor, then lifted, two fingers pinching air where a wrist should be.
“Evidence of a cookie crime,” Toru said brightly, pressing the star to the margin of a policy booklet like she was swearing it in. “Uraraka’s sticker pack must’ve gone rogue. If I stick it on my glove, you’ll all have to admit I have a hand.”
Aoyama produced a compact that no one had seen him put away, catching his own reflection with theatrical care. “Mon dieu, then at last we will behold the gesture that accompanies such refined commentary.” He tipped the compact, scattering tiny rainbows onto the desk. “But beware, the world is not yet ready for your entire silhouette.”
Ojiro’s tail whisked by to rescue a rolling tape core before it kissed the aisle. He set it on Toru’s desk without looking, voice even. “One sticker only. Two gets distracting in drills.”
Toru wiggled the star like a badge. “Scout’s honor.”
Midoriya’s pen hovered, then tapped once against the margin before moving again, the habit trimmed down from full pages of notes. Toru’s footfalls are six beats lighter than last term, closer stance? Stance work paid off. Ojiro’s tail flick = economy of motion, stillness everywhere else. Aoyama… calmer shine. That’s new.
“Chéri, calmer shine is an artistic choice,” Aoyama said, like he’d heard the thought anyway. He snapped the compact shut and produced a flat tin tied with ribbon. “Also, an oat biscuit, for later. Lactose-safe, because my diet is an epic poem with footnotes.” He nudged it toward Ojiro. “Tail-approved?”
Ojiro took one, more to honor the offering than the hunger. “Approved,” he said after the first bite. “Crisp edge. Good for long days.”
Toru held up the sticker on her thumb and forefinger. “Voilà. Hand, singular.” She wiggled. The star winked. “I promise not to wave it like a lighthouse.”
Aoyama pretended to shield his eyes. “Then I shall not faint like a sailor.” The tease softened into something smaller, honest. “It is good to be here again, non?”
Ojiro answered first, the way anchors do. “It is.” He glanced at Midoriya’s page. “What did you write?”
Midoriya flushed, half-caught. “Oh, just… small notes. Toru’s hand joke, Ojiro’s rescue reflexes, Aoyama’s calmer shine. Stuff worth remembering.”
“Color-coding would be cute,” Toru said. “And safe. We could do hearts for ‘pause’ and arrows for ‘go,’ if Facilities lets us have fun.”
“Arrows are fine. Hearts go in the notes,” Ojiro said, but without heat. The tail tapped once; compromise struck. “We can test it during Jiro’s stairwell sweep if there’s time.”
Aoyama straightened the ribbon on the tin like a line on a diagram. “Then we shall be efficient and aesthetically responsible. How very collegiate of us.”
A chair at the front settled with a soft rubber squeak, a sound like a room taking a breath. Midoriya’s gaze slid to the covered seating chart, the sticky note still telling them to wait. Clock’s near the bell. If he’s going to do it, it’ll be now.
Ojiro checked the clock with a small flick of his eyes. “Almost lunch,” he said, even. “Teacher still hasn’t made it to class.”
“Maybe he fell asleep in the teacher’s office again,” Toru stage‑whispered, star sticker held at attention.
Midoriya shook his head gently. “He’s probably still finishing paperwork from the gym incident.”
A light tik‑tik behind Midoriya’s eyes, weather, not warning, then it passed. The corridor offered a soft run of footsteps; Iida’s hands slowed mid‑chop, and Sato thumbed his timer to quiet before it could beep. Conversations trimmed themselves to the ends of sentences.
The door slid open on a soft motor. A voice, dry as chalk and exactly on cue: “I’m late.”
Aizawa crossed to the board, set a thin folder down, and peeled the sticky from the covered seating chart with two fingers. “Housekeeping,” he said, tone level. “No experiments during homeroom. Tape tests wait until lab hours. Sato, cool them and stow the oven until lunch.” He lifted the cover sheet; magnets clicked.
“Two items. One: Welcome back. Schedules are posted. Lunch after this.” A beat. “Two: we have an addition.” A couple of whispers slid and died as he kept talking, Sero, under his breath: “Transfer, huh?”; Kaminari, scribbling: “From where?” His eyes didn’t hunt the room; they were already where they needed to be. “Animus Athame. Hero name: Embrus. Seat by the window.”
The door eased again. A student stepped through, tall, posture tidy, a line of small piercings catching the room’s light like points on a quiet constellation. He didn’t scan the room; he marked the path he’d been given.
He crossed to the window row, back half, and sat. The room took him in the way a classroom does on a not‑quite‑school day: a few chairs adjusted, a pen paused, one cookie hovered and then disappeared. Curious looks landed, then broke politely back to pages and booklets; the hum of talk thinned rather than spiked.
“Aw geez, teach,” Mina murmured around the edge of a cookie, not quite loud. “Isn’t he supposed to introduce himself?” A couple of small smiles circled the row like a ripple and went still.
Without looking up from the chart, Aizawa said, “Stand and introduce yourself. Keep it brief.”
Static on the wire, edge, not impact. Midoriya’s head tightened with a fine burr behind his eyes. He winced as he watched the new student rise, his mind shifting back to the briefing from earlier today, the same face he’d seen in the video. He let one breath smooth out the prickles.
Animus stood. The strap slipped; the bag tipped, and a narrow metal thermometer slid free and touched the tile with a soft, clean tink. He caught the bag before anything else spilled.
“Name,” Aizawa prompted, dry.
“Animus Athame,” he answered, voice low, even. “Embrus. Transfer.” He crouched, picked up the thermometer, and tucked it away without ceremony, returning to his seat.
Midoriya recognized it instantly from across the room as the small object vanished into the bag, same model All Might favors.
Tsuyu’s pupils tracked the metal once, then returned to her page, the tiniest tilt of her head smoothing out.
Mina grinned around a cookie; Jiro gave the smallest, tidy nod like she was saving the name. Kaminari murmured “cool name” toward his margin, Kirishima offered an up‑chin, you’re in the lane, and talk dwindled into finished half‑sentences.
Aizawa’s gaze did one quiet sweep. “Good. Ten minutes, then lunch.” He tapped the frame of the chart with one knuckle, a tiny sound that traveled just far enough. “Let’s go over this quickly. We don’t have a lot of time. If there are no more interruptions, let’s begin.”
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Chapter 2 is our “room temperature check” letting Class 3-A feel like Class 3-A again while we seat the transfer without fanfare.
Up next in Chapter 3 - Lunch Bell, Old Names: tea, a sunshower, and a familiar face seeing just a little more than most. Comments/notes are super welcome, they help tune the slice-of-life rhythm and character voices.
Chapter 5: Chapter 3 - Lunch Bell, Old Names
Summary:
Lunch in 3-A lands like muscle memory. Sato cools protein bars while Denki “taste-tests,” Mina and Jiro orbit with Toru, and Momo quietly organizes the week. Aizawa pulls Midoriya into the hall with a simple directive: treat the transfer like a classmate, not a mission. At the window, a brief sunshower taps the glass as Tsuyu recognizes the new student, Animus Athame, from an old Obon night by the river. Their conversation is soft, grounded, and familiar rather than dramatic. Uraraka brings word of a half-day and an immediate move to the new Heights Alliance dorms; Nezu’s announcement confirms it. Class energy tilts from reunion to forward motion as 3-A shoulders the afternoon.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, June 1, 2323 , U.A., Class 3‑A Homeroom → Hallway (lunch period)
Desks slid two by two until the room made loose islands of trays and notebooks. Steam lifted from bentos; Sato set a tiny cooling sheet by the window with the calm of someone who’d learned to feed lines.
Kirishima and Bakugo drifted toward the hallway mid‑debate, their voices bouncing once off the doorframe and fading. Mina waved across to Jiro; the two leaned in with Toru between them, a hush‑laugh catching on a private joke. Near the window, Denki hovered over Sato’s tray while Kirishima circled back to peek.
“Calorie‑dense, high‑protein,” Sato said, easy. “Oats, nut butter, whey. No sugar crash.”
“Protein bars?” Denki asked, skeptical but hopeful.
Sato flicked on a pocket fan over the cookies; the little hum joined the chopstick click. “Exactly, just good.”
“If you say so,” Denki grinned. Kirishima nodded. “Sounds awesome. What’s in the oatmeal one?” Sato began to tell him in the background.
At a side cluster, Sero tore a narrow strip of tape. “If cookies are for training, are they taxable as equipment?”
Mineta, genuinely considering it: “I will need a ruling.” They both watched the fan like it might answer.
Uraraka squeezed back through the doorway queue with two bentos balanced and a quick, apologetic smile that didn’t require a reply.
Lunch in homeroom is always a little louder, kero, Tsuyu thought, setting her thermos by a tidy stack of napkins. But today is a not‑quite‑school day. She drew a simple box around requisition, natatorium on a sticky and pressed it to her notebook. Everyone’s eager to train again, she noted silently, watching how people fell back into place after a year’s absence. Peaceful, kero.
Jiro leaned over a desk cluster with Momo and Shinso. “After lunch, stairwell. Decay times, two mic positions, ambient ten.”
Momo didn’t look up from her tablet. “We’ll need to schedule it with Mr. Aizawa.”
Aizawa passed the doorway just long enough to hear his name and added, flat: “No drills after lunch today; nothing formal starts until Monday. Schedule it.”
“Understood,” Momo said, the tip of her stylus flicking a quiet highlight over Animus Athame on her roster before she returned to the checklist.
“Midoriya, with me,” Aizawa added, and Izuku stood to follow him out.
Animus kept to the window seat, posture tidy; in side profile, a constellation glint ran the nearer ear, a matched line on both ears, with one stud on this side lost to the angle. He rose as Midoriya stepped off the row, and they met almost shoulder‑to‑shoulder at the aisle, a near bump that passed without a word; Midoriya’s shoulders tightened by a degree and then eased, like a wire losing its burr. “Sorry,” Midoriya said, already shifting his tray. Animus tipped a small nod and yielded the aisle, letting him go ahead.
Uraraka set their bentos down and exhaled. “Mission accomplished, it’s a zoo out there. Getting to the new classroom is wild.” She blinked. “Ah, I forgot the hot water.”
“I’ll grab it, kero,” Tsuyu said. “Back in a minute.”
The hallway air was cooler, the floor wax catching soft reflections from the window light. At the tea station, a steel urn breathed a little fog. A student stood there with a paper cup, turning it once between finger and thumb before he checked the water with a slender thermometer. The movement was careful without being fussy, habit, not performance. The hallway light cut across his eyes; faint violet rings haloed the irises, the same tell from that summer, tucked where only a careful look would catch it.
That turn, Tsuyu thought, and felt the memory arrive without announcing itself. Those rings. She let the rest of the thought fold up and rest, patient as a frog on a lily pad.
He glanced and shifted an inch to make room at the urn. “Go ahead,” he said, barely above the urn’s breath.
“Tsuyu!” Uraraka jogged up, a little out of breath. “Requisition pinged me, boxes from home just got to the dorm intake. I have to go sign for them.”
Tsuyu nodded. “We’ll catch up later, kero.” Uraraka waved and hurried off. Tsuyu stayed quiet, filled her thermos, and turned to head back to the room. By the time she glanced back, Animus was already gone.
The afternoon sun was an unapologetic splash of gold across the classroom floor. The window was open to the stifling June heat, the cheerful chatter of his classmates an uninterrupted hum behind him. He ignored it all, lost in the sky’s infinite calm. The ceramic of his teacup was warm against his palms, the steam a ghost of a cloud rising into the still air.
Drip.
A single, cool drop of rain, unexpected and absurd, landed on his cheek. He wiped it away slowly, the moisture a shock against his skin.
Drip, drip.
More drops followed, spattering on the windowsill and the dusty glass. The students behind him grew quiet, if only for a moment, confused by the strange shower that was falling while the sky remained a bright, cloudless blue.
Sato panicked as he rushed the cooling protein bars away from the window as rain began to fall.
Animus just stared out at the unlikely sunshower, a single, knowing thought forming. The fox spirit has taken a wife. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the tea as he lifted it for a measured sip.
A young woman sat down across from him, turning the desk in front of him to face his own.
She didn’t say anything at first, just sat down across from him, her tray set gently on the table. Her fingers curled around her drink, her large eyes watching him without blinking.
After a pause…
“I remember you.”
The words aren’t loud. But they land with clarity.
“That summer. You saved me from falling into the river at the festival. You probably don’t remember… but I did.”
She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin on her hands.
Her voice remains soft but steady.
“You’ve changed a lot since then. You feel heavier now, not in a bad way. Just… like you’re carrying something.”
Another beat. Her lips purse slightly.
“You can tell me to leave if you want. But if you’re planning to sit here brooding every day like this, I might make it a habit to join you.”
There’s no pressure in her words. But her presence is anchored. Familiar. Honest.
She doesn’t ask anything else. She simply waits.
He did not return her inquiry at first. Instead, he took a deep breath. “During Obon, right?” Animus let the moment sit between them. “It’s been a long time, Tsu.” He opened his eyes and looked back at the young woman in front of him, grown up but undeniably the same person from all those years ago. “How’s your Obba‑chan been? Well, I hope.”
Tsuyu set her thermos down. “She’s well,” she answered, a small smile. “Obba‑chan still scolds the river for running too fast.” She slid a napkin toward his cup. “She’ll be glad you asked.”
Rain ticked at the glass, a sunshower, brief as a breath. Denki was already back to eyeing Sato’s tray; the room’s hum found itself again.
“You still turn the cup twice before you drink,” she added after a moment, tone easy. “Some things don’t change.”
He had space to answer or not. Tsuyu kept the line gentle. “If you want quiet, I can just sit.”
Across the room, Momo tapped her tablet and lifted two fingers toward Jiro: understood. “We’ll file the stairwell slot for Monday,” Jiro murmured to Shinso, and let it drop.
Animus simply looked at her for a beat, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. He lowered his gaze to his teacup, thumb absently tracing the smooth curve of the ceramic. A drop of rain tapped the windowpane, a small sound threading the quiet between them. He turned the cup once, then again, the old rhythm.
“It’s the polite way,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. After a heartbeat: “Sometimes… It’s good to remember the rules.”
He lifted the cup and took a slow, deliberate sip, a quiet confirmation that some things don’t change.
Tsuyu’s lips parted slightly.
Animus met her eyes and caught the flicker there: the old river under a vermilion sky; lanterns chasing the current; two kids on wet boards laughing. Recognition, not surprise.
“You… do remember.”
She blinked once, slowly, and a thin smile found the edge of her mouth.
“You still talk like that,” she said, softly. “Back then, you made small things feel important.”
Her hands folded in her lap.
“I never forgot that summer. You were strange, but safe. Honest.”
“I used to look for your name in the news,” she added, eyes steady. “I didn’t know if you’d stayed in Japan.”
She studied him a beat longer. The smile eased.
“Guess you didn’t. But you found your way back.” A breath. “I’m glad you’re here, Animus.”
She spun the drink lid with one finger. “You missed a lot.” An invitation, not a push.
A chair leg squeaked across the floor nearby.
Momo stood a few feet away, lunch tray in hand, after dispersing from her group. Her expression was polite, reserved.
“Asui‑san. May I join you?”
Tsuyu glanced at Animus, then back. “We’re just catching up. Please.”
“Thank you.” Momo sat beside Tsuyu rather than across from him, as if to keep the line of the window clear. Her gaze flicked over the constellation piercings and the snake bites, then returned to his eyes.
“Athame‑san,” she said with a small bow. “Welcome to Class 3‑A. I’m Momo Yaoyorozu.” She set her chopsticks down neatly. “If you need materials or access after lunch, I can help you route requests or give you a quick tour on Monday.”
She left it there, formal and kind.
Animus set down his tea out of courtesy. “Yaoyorozu, right?” His tone checked what he already knew. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Mina drifted up to the window row with a grin and a napkin balanced on her fingertips. “Peace offering,” she said, easing a still‑warm cookie toward Animus’s desk. “High‑protein, Sato‑approved. I’m Mina, sorry to cut in.”
Tsuyu angled the napkin his way, a small nod. “Sato’s,” she vouched.
“Thank you,” Animus said, accepting it. He glanced at Sato; Sato answered with a quick thumbs‑up over the cooling tray.
“Jiro,” Jiro added from just behind Mina, dry, economical; she tipped her earbuds in a small nod to both of them. Toru wiggled her fingers in a hello; a hairline gleam skipped where her nails should be as Animus met her eye line and gave a small nod.
“Animus Athame,” he offered, voice even. “Nice to meet you.”
“Your hero name’s ‘Embrus,’ right?” Mina’s eyes flicked to the cup. “I don’t know what that means, but it sounds cool. Respect, window seat tea‑guy.” She lifted her own drink. “Welcome to 3‑A.”
A few more soft taps stitched across the glass; the sunshower kept to its lane. Denki, at Sato’s tray, ran cheerful interference, “So what’s in the oatmeal one again?”, while his other hand palmed a second bar; Sato looked up in time to give him the teacher look.
Uraraka slipped back in with a stamped slip tucked under her arm. “Sorry for the wait, got it signed!” She set it by Tsuyu’s notebook and leaned in, bright. “Heads‑up: Requisition says we’re heading to the new dorms right after lunch, half day. They’re almost done setting everything up.”
“New dorms?” Mina perked.
“Yep. We’re in Heights Alliance, Building A‑1, 3‑A’s on the top three floors,” Uraraka said. “Commons on ten, boys on eleven, girls on twelve. Rooms are way bigger now, ID‑keyed with private bathrooms. You can see the commons from the mezzanines, and there’s a skybridge on the boys’ floor to the teachers’ dorms. Pretty cool. It’s a bit overwhelming.”
Momo’s eyes warmed. “More space will be… appreciated.” She tapped her tablet. “When we arrive, I can help with ID access and any supply requests.”
Jiro smirked, elbow to Mina. “Bet the build quality’s better too. Last time they threw ours up in, what, three days?” The line earned a few grins.
Tsuyu slid the stamped slip closer to her notebook. “We’ll route the natatorium requisition after lunch,” she said, “and check the pool calendar for Monday.”
Jiro tipped her head toward Shinso. “We’ll go with you and pull the request forms and see what’s open,” she murmured; Shinso lifted two fingers in acknowledgment.
Mina clapped once, bright. “Since it’s a half day and we’re heading to Heights Alliance after this, dorm room decoration contest, round two?”
She pivoted, pitching her voice just enough to carry. “Announcement! After we get our keys, decorating kicks off, teams or solo, your call. Just for fun, let’s go wild, 3‑A!”
A scatter of answers rose from the room, Kirishima’s “Manly,” Denki’s “Dibs on lights,” Sero’s “Define ‘tasteful,’” and Tokoyami’s low, satisfied “We shall consult the abyssal palette.”
Momo’s smile warmed. “Sounds fun, keep it informal,” she said. “No rubric, no forms, just bragging rights.”
Jiro hooked a thumb toward Shinso. “You in this time?”
“And you too, Athame,” Mina added, looping Animus in without leaning. “You guys were not here last time, this is going to be so fun!”
The clock nudged toward the bell; clusters began to gather along the center aisle, trays closing and voices brightening.
The ceiling speakers popped to life with a soft crackle. Principal Nezu’s voice came bright and precise: “Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome back to U.A. As a reminder, today is a half-day. After the lunch period, please proceed with your homerooms to your dormitories to complete check‑in. Residential Life and Requisition staff will be available for assistance. Formal instruction resumes Monday. That is all.”
The bell followed a beat later, clean and ordinary.
Hallway , minutes earlier
Aizawa stopped just beyond the doorframe where the corridor swallowed the classroom noise. He didn’t bother with small talk.
“You read the debrief,” he said, voice even. “Couldn’t say this in that room: trust your classmates first. He enrolled, not enlisted. Don’t turn him into homework.”
Midoriya’s hands stilled at his sides. “Understood.”
“If you notice anything off,” Aizawa went on, “log it, time, place, intensity. Don’t telegraph it.”
Midoriya nodded once. “I’ll keep notes. Quietly.”
“And if anyone, media, students, crowds him, redirect to me. Be a class rep without being a warden.”
Midoriya breathed out. “Right. Treat him like a classmate. Make space.” A beat. “If he wants to talk, ”
“Then listen,” Aizawa said. “No savior routine.” He tipped his head toward the door. Enjoy the half-day. You’re allowed to be eighteen.”
Midoriya’s mouth quirked. “Yes, sir.” He followed him back toward the room.
Sun on the desks, rain already gone; 3‑A rose as one and shouldered the afternoon.
Notes:
Thank you for reading this quieter bridge chapter, meant to reset rhythms, confirm AU logistics (half-day + dorm move), and let Tsuyu/Animus recognize each other without melodrama.
Next up: Chapter 4 - Move-In: Heights Alliance A-1 (keys, room layouts, decorating volleys, and the first subtle tells of how 3-A reads Animus in shared space).
As always, comments and bookmarks help me calibrate pacing for the rewrite pass.Big update coming Saturday 9/6/2025
Back to the dorms, first look into the new student mind. (Plot relevant chapter.)
Chapter 4.5 Will also come out and cover each of the Class 3-A new and updated rooms. (Good old nice long detailed fluff. Getting time with each room as they are scored!)What team will win the dorm contest this year? Bakusquad or Dekusquad?
Chapter 6: Chapter 4 - Move‑In: Heights Alliance A‑1 - Rain, Keys, and Room Crowns
Summary:
Move-in day at Heights Alliance A-1: Class 3-A explores the renovated commons, kicks off a “room rodeo” decorating contest, and tours each space-tech haven to zen dojo to glitter runway. Team Midoriya edges out Team Bakugo by a hair, with Sato crowned Room King. Afterward the class holds a round-table of names/quirks/fun facts to welcome Animus (Embrus). Rain, takeout, and easy laughter close the night. Epilogue: Animus winds down and gets a knock from All Might, bearing tea.
Notes:
Timeline: Friday, June 1, 2323 - U.A. Campus → Heights Alliance A-1 (post-lunch, early afternoon).
Content: slice-of-life move-in, room tour contest, light swearing, lots of friendship.
Appendix: full contest scoreboard is in the End Notes (plain text).
Thanks for reading! If alignment looks odd on mobile, it’s just AO3 spacing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, June 1, 2323 , U.A. Campus → Heights Alliance A-1 (post-lunch, early afternoon)
The bell let them up in a bright ripple; trays stacked, chair feet whispered. Iida took point without announcing it, hands low for once, voice steady: “Single line to the elevators; mind the carts.” Outside the windows, the sunshower had settled into a summer sprinkle that made the pavement look lacquered. Overhead, broad glass skybridges stitched the academic wing to the newly renovated Heights Alliance, clean spans of steel and light. A covered 11F skybridge to the teachers’ dorms arced alongside, reminding them how different this was from their old emergency-built dorms.
Mina whistled under her breath. “Hard to believe these were the old dorms, they look… completely different.” She glanced over the modern facade as the class moved across the skybridge toward the dorm lobby.
Iida nodded. “They aren’t the same. These were rebuilt from the ground up. Upgrades are extensive, including ID-keyed access, redundancies, and defined muster points. My parents approved immediately.”
Uraraka’s mouth quirked. “If I hadn’t already stopped by to sign for my package from home, I’d probably be worse than last time, when I almost fainted. Today I’m trying not to.”
Toru, quiet but honest: “Don’t remind me. I’ve already called home three times today. The incident in the gym earlier didn’t help.”
Mina gave Toru a sympathetic glance. “Your parents barely let you move into the dorms last time. I’m surprised they even let you come back after everything that’s happened.”
Toru sighed. “After everything…” She tasted the words. “They only said ‘yes’ when they saw the new plans, and a personal letter of reassurance from Principal Nezu.”
Mina fell in beside Jiro and Toru, walking backward half a step to face them, voice pitched to carry. “Okay, round two: dorm contest is on, pure fun, zero forms. Lights? Themes? We go tasteful or full chaos?”
“Define tasteful,” Sero said from a desk-island behind, already peeling a fresh tape tail like a fidget. Iida angled a look, and Sero hid the dispenser with exaggerated innocence.
Kirishima shouldered the support crate with Sato, making the carry easy. “Manly rule one: nobody blows a breaker,” he said toward Kaminari without looking.
Kaminari already had both hands up. “Pre-emptive innocence. I’m just here to evaluate ambient vibes.”
Aizawa ghosted the line at the rear, presence enough to keep the pace honest. “Commons first,” he said dryly. “Keys after check-in. Don’t leave luggage in the corridor.”
They crossed the covered walk to Heights Alliance A-1. The lobby doors breathed open: cool air and wood polish; a Residential Life desk with a tidy stack of key packets and two staffers in U.A. polos.
“Welcome back, 3-A,” one staffer said, warm-professional. “Commons on ten. After check-in, you’ll get your floor assignment and ID rings. Girls are assigned to 12F, boys to 11F. The main elevator runs to the 10th floor; you’ll take the stairwell up to your rooms.”
Momo tipped her head. “My family asked for the safety review; the answers were satisfactory.”
Kirishima grinned. “Mine said ‘independence is manly, also text.’ Not arguing.”
Kaminari raised a hand. “My mom only asked if the building has surge protection. I told her yes, also me.”
Jiro smirked. “My folks said, ‘Practice quietly.’ It was a look.”
Uraraka’s smile went small and sure as she stepped out on the 10F mezzanine. “Looks even better finished than the preview,” she murmured, one hand light on the atrium rail.
From the mezzanine, they could see the 10F common space spread below, soft seating in clusters, a kitchen tucked behind a glass pass off the lounge (more Michelin than dorm): polished steel and stone under soft lights, induction hobs in a straight line, kettles queued; the windowwall looked over the courtyard, where rain sketched fine streams that clung to the glass.
Koda lifted a hand, gentle. “Um… sparrows are nesting under the balcony eave. Let’s keep the door closed a little.”
“Roger that,” Sato said warmly.
Mina leaned over the mezzanine rail, eyes wide. “Okay, okay, do you see this place?”
Iida, automatic: “Please use the stairs.”
With an easy laugh, Mina took the access stairs at a half-jog, swung around the end post, and popped over the back of a couch, landing on the plush green cushions with a soft bounce. “How big is this TV?” She found the remote and started surfing.
Kaminari jogged down after her, grinning. “Sato, check it out, back of house has a walk-in fridge and freezer.” He added, “I promise not to pair the TV to my quirk. Today.”
Sato came shoulder-to-shoulder with the others at the glass. “Polished steel, labeled shelves… there’s even a service door by the elevator for deliveries. Fewer trips through the lobby.” He didn’t try it; he just smiled, already mapping the space.
Kirishima followed his nose toward rubber and concrete. “Oh, man, personal gym.” He eased open the fitness room door off the hall; mirrors and racks caught the light. Shoji slipped in behind him with a quiet nod.
Bakugo appeared at the doorway with a towel looped around his neck, gave the rack a once-over, and grunted. “If anyone moves the labels, I’m blowing a gasket.”
“Noted,” Kirishima said, amused. “Nobody touches the labels.”
Iida hustled to catch up, hands halfway to a scold, then stopped at a study suite large enough for a whole-class session. “Whiteboards, conferencing cams… This must be the remote learning station for sick days. Excellent.”
“Over here,” Midoriya called. He and Todoroki stood near a tea bar by the island; at the front desk, a Residential Life staffer lifted two key packets. “Midoriya, Todoroki.”
Up on the mezzanine, Uraraka and Jiro glanced at the directory display. “Girls’ floor has its own commons and study hall,” Uraraka reported, pleased.
Sero tipped his chin toward another line on the board. “Same on 11F for guys.” He tried a nearby lounge door out of habit and found it locked.
Aizawa stepped up beside them, tone as flat as his stare. “You’ll need your ID ring to access floor facilities.” He cleared his throat, raising his voice to address the class. “Listen up, first day back or not, rein it in.” The students began to drift from their scouting paths toward the commons desk, queueing for the U.A.-emblemmed rings and dorm rule booklets.
“Okay, okay,” Mina said, hyping quietly. “Tea station equals base camp. After keys: quick vibe scout, then break to floors. Jiro, music-corner recon with Shinso; Sato, snack staging; Momo, we love a checklist, but we don’t need one for vibes.”
Momo’s mouth tugged, amused. “I shall resist the rubric.”
Tokoyami looked out toward the balcony glass. “A more fitting roost. The shadows are… well-behaved.”
Sato eyed the kitchen’s precise layout. “Real kit this time. Not an emergency cart. I can pace a line for real. Dinner’ll be fun.”
An invisible fingertip sketched a quick smile on the glass. “Room tour contest, round two, without the panic under it. That feels good.” Toru’s voice angled toward Shinso and Animus. “You two weren’t here last time. Can’t wait to see what your rooms look like!”
Animus smirked, watching the smile bloom on the glass. Rain began to tick louder; the sky shaded darker. Lightning stitched thin seams across the distant clouds, thunder rolling low a beat later. Shinso glanced at Animus and lifted one shoulder. “Good to know I’m not alone in this.”
Animus gave a reserved nod, then offered a polite smile. “Likewise,” Animus said softly. He hadn’t known these dorms existed until a few days ago, but he was determined to fit in.
Aizawa stepped to the second-floor balcony beside Iida and looked down into the commons. “All right, listen up.” He tapped the ring on his hand, different engraving, same concept. “Residential Life is issuing your ID keys. Keep them on you at all times.” A nod toward Iida, then toward Momo as she joined him. “Iida will run the quick orientation. Momo will flag optional arrangements before classes start on Monday. Don’t make trouble.” He peeled off along the rail, leaving the view to them while the staffers kept working the desk.
Iida raised his voice, crisp. “Orientation walkthrough: these are tower floors ten through twelve; internal signage labels them 3-A Levels 1–3. Skybridge access on eleven. ID keys for rooms and lounges, carry them. Quiet hours begin at twenty-two hundred. Pool and gym: spotter required, towel policy posted, and no quirks in the water.”
Ojiro lifted a hand, tail neatly gathered. “I’ll spot first wave in the gym after check-in, two at a time.”
“Approved,” Iida said. “Thank you, Ojiro.” Questions later; we’ll post the PDF.”
Momo lifted a hand. “Two optional items. One: Open Gym scrimmage with Class 3-B, Saturday, June 2, 17:30 to 19:00 in the Main Gym. Sign-up opens after dinner; power-cap bands provided. Two: U.A. City Day on Sunday, June 3, is the Fashion Challenge. Each student designs one outfit for every classmate under a single shared theme.” She added, practically: “Requisition Committee pre-staged your belongings; most boxes should already be in your rooms.”
Aoyama brightened, hand to heart. “Une Fashion Challenge? Enfin, taste returns to U.A.”
Mina shot him finger-guns. “You’re on my styling council.”
“Then, ” Mina’s voice arrived from the mezzanine where she’d somehow already posted up, hands cupped like a mic. “Let the 3-A dorm room contest begin!”
Iida clapped once, light but firm. “Contest kickoff after check-in. Please form a queue at the desk.”
Mina pointed her remote like a baton. “Keys first, bragging rights after, make your way to the conversation pit to the right after you get your stuff!”
Shinso glanced over to Animus and offered a sympathetic shrug. “Guess we’re on the hook now.”
The line moved in orderly inches. Iida kept it honest with the lightest signals, one palm lower, one nod forward. At the desk, the staffers slid out small packets: an ID ring engraved with the U.A. crest and a thin booklet of dorm rules.
“Ashido, Jiro,” the staffer called. “Kirishima, Sato. Kaminari, Sero.” Names rose and fell; the queue breathed.
Momo stepped up, pen already uncapped. “Replacement procedure if a ring is lost?”
“Report immediately,” the staffer said. “We’ll disable and reissue.”
“Efficient.” She signed, crisp.
Denki lifted a hand, not toward a switch. “Media hub pairing, will the lounge run on the posted Wi-Fi SSID or stay wired? I can help configure later.”
“Credentials will be posted; pairing by request only,” the staffer said. “Thank you.”
Iida inclined his head. “Appreciated, Kaminari. We’ll coordinate the setup this evening.”
Sero peeled a narrow tape tail and wrote Hanta on it, wrapping the ring-box edge. “All these boxes look the same,” he murmured, sticking the label on. Iida considered speaking and chose to let the label pass.
Mineta cleared his throat. “Poster policy? Asking so I can follow it.”
“Dimensions and placement are in the booklet,” the staffer said. “Thank you for checking.”
“Good,” Iida said, pleased. “Appreciated, Mineta. For clarity: campus policy prohibits explicit or sexualized imagery.”
Mineta rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. No sketchy posters. I’m good.” Jiro and Mina both gave him the look. He winced, then managed a small nod. “Understood.”
“Yaoyorozu, Mina,” the staffer called, and Mina pivoted in with a grin big enough to read from the back.
“Tsuyu, Uraraka.” Tsuyu accepted both packets, passed one to Ochaco, and tucked her booklet flat against her key packet.
“Shinso, Athame.” Shinso took his with a small, tired thanks. Animus received his in a quiet handoff, bowed a degree, and slipped the ring on, same hand as the tea habit, clean and unshown. From the glass, an invisible fingertip added a second dot to the smile it had drawn; he angled a low nod toward where Toru’s voice had come from. “Thanks.”
The stair lights along the risers pulsed once; groups began to split for 11F and 12F.
The stair lights breathed on in a soft line. Order helps, kero, Tsuyu thought, shifting her key packet under one arm so the booklet lay flat against her ribs.
“Right side on ascent,” Iida said, light but firm. “No running.”
Bakugo took the stairs two at a time without looking back. “We’re all going up, shut the hell up.”
Iida didn’t bristle; he matched pace. “Safety doesn’t pause because you’re in a hurry, Bakugo.”
Rain combed the windows in thin silver. They rose together to the 11F landing, open air, the commons humming below, a skybridge mouth to one side. Toru’s handprint fogged a little heart on the glass and vanished as she laughed under her breath. Jiro bumped her shoulder, mouth quirking. Tsuyu felt Ochaco ease in close beside her; calm is catching, she reminded herself, and let her breathing settle.
Mina popped up a step on the lower run to be seen. “Okay! Quick announcement, uh, boys versus girls! Room contest warm-up! Losers buy takeout for winners!”
Jiro didn’t even turn her head. “Math, Mina. We don’t have enough girls to make that fair.”
Mina blinked. “Oh. Right. I knew that.” She stage-whispered, “I didn’t know that.”
Momo lifted two fingers, gently. “Even split makes the most sense. We’re twenty-two today.”
Kirishima grinned, already reading the room. “So… Bakusquad vs Dekusquad? That’s fair and manly.”
“Fine,” Bakugo said, arms folding like a period at the end of a sentence.
Midoriya nodded once, steady. “Works for me.”
“Captains decided,” Mina chirped, delighted that her mistake had somehow become a plan. She clapped. “Bakugo and Midoriya draft fast. One-minute timer. Winner picks takeout; other team covers. Go!”
The circle loosened into energy. Kirishima didn’t even wait for his name; he was already at Bakugo’s shoulder with an easy grin. Uraraka slid to Midoriya without looking for a cue, bright as a yes. Kaminari drifted Bakugo-ward on pure habit; Iida stepped to Midoriya, precise. Jiro tilted her head, then crossed to Bakugo with a dry, Don’t make me regret this look. Yaoyorozu joined Midoriya, calm competence. Names began to fly, quick, friendly, no grand speeches, like kids who’d done this a hundred times and learned something each time.
Midoriya caught Animus’s eye earlier than anyone seemed to expect and tipped two fingers toward the open space at his side. “Join us?” He kept it like a courtesy, not a headline.
Animus touched the rim of his new ring like he was checking its weight and stepped over, quietly. Tsuyu clocked the timing, not last; deliberate, low-profile, kind.
This is better, Tsuyu thought, watching little clusters sort themselves: Sero laughing as he pointed, Todoroki’s expression barely moving as he nodded, Tokoyami finding a shadowed corner of whichever team had more shade at their back. She waited for the last few tugs of gravity to settle and then stepped in when Midoriya’s eyes met hers. Even balance, kero.
Shinso hung back near the rail with a small, tired smile, and Bakugo jerked his chin, Get over here already, so he did. Toru’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once: “I’ll round you out, Midoriya.” A spark of glitter trailed across the glass, then disappeared.
“Done!” Mina sang, hands up like she was calling a clean landing. “Team Bakugo versus Team Midoriya. One hour to vibe your rooms. Meet back in the conversation pit for judging. Prize: the winners pick takeout; losers cover, no backsies.”
“Hands off each other’s setups,” Bakugo said, flat. “Touch my boxes and I’m blowing a gasket.”
“Manly ground rule,” Kirishima agreed.
Tsuyu let her smile happen, small and honest. That’s settled, kero. The knot untied into motion, voices overlapping, plans already forming, the storm outside keeping time on the glass.
Iida checked his watch and lifted one finger. “One hour. Meet back in the conversation pit.” The tiny chime on his timer sounded like rain hitting a kettle lid.
“Ready, set, decorate!” Mina sang, already backing toward the 12F stairs with Jiro and Toru in tow. Jiro swung her bag higher; a coil of cables peeked like a tame snake.
“Boys, we’re home field,” Kirishima said, clapping once. “Let’s go!” Sero twirled a strip of tape like a baton; Denki pointed at the media cart as if it might give him a quest.
Midoriya lifted his ring hand in a small circle. “See you in an hour.” Todoroki nodded; Iida mirrored the nod, satisfied.
Shinso slid his packet into his hoodie pocket and angled a look at Animus. “Opposite sides, huh? Catch you after, loser owes tea.”
Animus tipped two fingers in quiet agreement. The storm rumbled a baritone somewhere outside; Shoji shifted a crate to free the stairwell, and the group split clean, girls up, boys out, voices braiding and thinning as the halls took them.
Tsuyu’s feet found a steady rhythm on the risers. Balance first, kero. Then color.
The split felt easy because it was familiar.
On eleven, Kirishima shouldered a box through his doorway and kicked it shut with a grin. Sero was already on a step-stool, laying a clean tape guide along the wall, “so we don’t eyeball crooked later.” Denki uncoiled an HDMI cable like a question and crouched by the media cart to hunt the right port. Bakugo cracked a case, an Allen key set in his fist like a dare. At Midoriya’s desk, Iida steadied a leaning stack while Todoroki set a small tool kit down, precisely.
Up on twelve, Mina flung open a carton, and a glitter-string tangle leapt out; she draped it over her forearms and spun once. Jiro let her cable snake coil neatly on the rug while Toru’s invisible hands pressed washi tape to a mood board until it held. Yaoyorozu measured the inside of a drawer with a tape measure she didn’t really need. Tsuyu pinned a color tab to a wall corner, balance first, kero, and Ochaco fanned a handful of photo prints, testing which ones felt like home.
The hall noises thinned to soft doors and muffled music, little islands lighting up.
The door closed behind him the sounds of the busy world between the halls fell with a hush that felt intentional. His hands lingered on the cold and sturdy wooden door as he leaned against its solid surface. The sound folded the hallway out of the room and left the small weather of his breath, the thin hum of power heard through the outlet, the softened percussion of rain against the tower glass.
He moved to where the boxes waited, numbered, squared, patient, his hand tracing across their sealed tops. His eyes turned to the bed that was too large for one person and exactly the right size for never feeling cornered, the dark canopy perfect for shutting out the light and losing oneself to the empty. The oaken desk had weight, and an emptied spot that seemed to hold a purpose. The ring on his finger, new metal, old impulse, its unfamiliar weight already routine.
New room. Same name. New door. Same prison: low profile. Work first.
He opened one of the smaller boxes tightly sealed in wood and foam, fragile written across it in various places. He pulled from it a small kettle and set it upon the desk to claim the space. Shortly after he produced a cord, socket, and click. He unscrewed the travel tin and let the lid rest upside down like a shallow bowl. Leaves caught the light in their dark geometry. He pulled the thermometer from his bag and lay beside the carefully arranged setup like a slender truth.
For a moment, he looked at the small area. Set up the same way he had been taught all those years ago, and for a moment, he smiled.
His phone woke to a vibration, causing it to fall into the box it was resting on. When he lifted it, pinned threads, a few short messages saved from months that had felt longer than they were; tiny lifelines he refused to play on a loop. He didn’t open them. He knew the shapes by heart.
Below, the building breathed with other people. Doors, voices, a tape measure zipping closed, laughter that rose and fell without looking around first to ask permission. The heat that touched his chest wasn’t anger, exactly. Envy flickered, then obeyed. Good. Keep it that way.
He filled the kettle and let it come to the edge. The kettle began to whisper. His fingers shook once when he reached for the thermometer, a small tremor he pretended was from the cold metal. He steadied his wrist on the desk and breathed in a square: four in, four hold, four out, four wait. The needle eased to its mark. He poured, watching the surface shiver, steam drawing quick white characters that said nothing and then vanished.
He didn’t sit. He mapped without moving: window, door, sightlines, outlets; where the desk should angle so he could see the hall without living in it. He kept the bed’s long side open. No corners. Not today. He could hear Mina laughing above, and Kirishima slapping a palm against a box for pure emphasis; someone played two seconds of a song and stopped like they were checking volume levels. The world kept happening without him. Relief was part of the ache.
He thumbed the phone awake again; the top-most message stayed unread on purpose, two lines from a sister written in the hour between a storm and silence, all the vowels stretched with love and absence. He had starred in it. He had not replied. Not yet. Not like this.
The cup warmed his hands. The first sip rewired his throat into something that could be patient. He let the taste settle behind his teeth and leaned his knuckles on the desk. He could feel the old pressure of eyes that weren’t in the room, administrators, headlines, a thousand stories that wanted a cleaner villain or a cleaner victim, and didn’t know what to do with a person who had to wake up and make tea and decide where a desk should go.
They’re kids who walked through fire and still laugh in a hallway, he told himself, not as an indictment but as a directive. Match their light without stealing it. Earn proximity. Keep your voice measured. Work first.
He set the cup down. The tremor wasn’t gone, but it had something to hold.
A knuckle rapped twice, low courtesy.
“Door’s open,” he said, voice measured.
Shinso leaned into the frame, hoodie hood half-up like it had been a long morning. “Timer says fifty-two and change.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Opposite sides. Loser owes tea.”
Animus allowed himself the smallest smile. “Then you’d better like oolong.”
“Like is strong,” Shinso said, deadpan. “But I’ll drink what I’m owed.” A beat. “You good?” It wasn’t a pry.
“I am,” Animus said, and let it be true enough. “Go win something. I’ll see you in the pit.”
Shinso flicked a two-finger salute, same gesture, different weight, and ghosted back into the hall. The door eased shut; the kettle ticked as it cooled. The room belonged to him again, which meant it asked to be made.
He opened a box by sliding the tape free in one clean pull. Books first, because spines made a wall feel like it remembered things. The titles didn’t matter to the room; they mattered to his hands. He lined a row and left two thumb-widths clear on the right for whatever came next. The second box held cables, a small surge strip, and a rolled mat for under the chair so the legs would glide instead of thunk. Desk things went where they always went: pen tray, notebook, the small brass weight he used to keep papers honest when the window was open.
He angled the large, solid wooden desk with ease to a degree and then another until the door lived in the corner of his eye instead of the center. The chair rolled; the mat caught; he adjusted. He could feel the shape of work appear under the day like stone under water. He found the thermometer case and set it where it would wait without being in the way. He folded the kettle cord into a neat figure-eight. Order first; the rest follows.
Below the noise, the tower’s structure sighed, a long, contented sound of steel remembering its shape in the rain. He pictured the contest circle later, Mina with her pretend microphone, Bakugo making rules out of grunts and being right more often than he wasn’t, Midoriya watching faces instead of furniture. He pictured Shinso’s dry mouth corner when he said the word owed. The bet was nothing, which made it safe. Tea debt. Good currency.
He kept moving. A small framed print went to the desk’s back right corner, not an altar, just proof that a past existed and didn’t own him. Clothes would wait. Posters would wait. The bed would remain unadorned until the room’s lines made sense. He pulled one more box toward him with the side of his shoe, cut the tape, and found the practical things, charging brick, spare cable, a folded note he didn’t read, all the small scaffolding of a life you’re not sure you deserve and intend to build anyway.
He took another sip and let the warmth occupy the space the ache would have used. You were robbed of certain days. You were also given this one. Use it well. The thought arrived without ceremony and sat down where it fit. He nodded to no one.
Animus exhaled the room into place. Work first. He slid a box closer with his foot, cut the tape, and began to make a life out of what he had.
Kirishima shoulder-checked his door and came in laughing at nothing in particular, just the way the hall felt when everybody had a plan. He left the door swung wide; half the rooms on the corridor were propped open with boxes, a string of little stages, voices running back and forth like braided cable. The room smelled like cardboard and cedar. He set the box on the bed, bounced it once with his palm, and grinned.
“Okay. Vibe check.” He cracked the lid. Posters, a red throw, a stack of cracked-spine manga that had done tours with him. From Sero’s open doorway next door came a steady count as if he were teaching the line of tape to behave.
Denki popped into Kirishima’s open doorway without knocking, two HDMI ends held up like a moral dilemma. “ARC? eARC? Which one makes the TV love me?”
“Neither if you jam them,” Kirishima said, taking both and clicking one home. He tipped his chin toward the hall. “Go be useful before Bakugo invents a new rule.”
Down the corridor, from Bakugo’s propped-open door, a drawer thudded shut like punctuation. “If any of you touch the allen keys, I’m eating you,” Bakugo barked, voice pure gravel.
“Protein is protein,” Sero called back, deadpan, perfectly audible through the open doors.
Kirishima laughed and dragged his desk two inches so the chair wouldn’t kiss the wall. The little stuff made a room honest. His phone buzzed; Shinso’s timer pinged the shared thread with a new label: Tea Debt , 00:49:12.
“Nice,” Kirishima said, and slung the red throw over the chair. He stepped back, palms on his hips, and tried to see it the way a friend would. Rain stitched the window; the open doors breathed the corridor in and out. Down the corridor, Midoriya’s voice was low and warm, Iida’s precise, Todoroki’s almost silent. It felt right, like the building was flexing and finding shape around them.
“Manly,” he decided, and started hanging the first poster as straight as Sero’s tape.
Time slid forward on a hundred small decisions, tape hissing into place, screws taking their bite, water cooling from perfect to patient. By the time the hour had a rim on it, the dorm felt different: rooms breathing in, hallway breathing out.
Iida appeared at the 11F rail like a lighthouse, watch raised. “Thirty seconds,” he called, calm, not scolding. His other hand drew a neat circle: down to the conversation pit.
From the 12F rail, Mina made a trumpet with her hands and then ruined the bit with an actual airhorn. The burst ricocheted through three floors and set off five different laughs.
Students began to filter to the stairs and along the inner balconies. Midoriya was among the first to the 11F landing, Iida beside him; Todoroki stepped into place without hurry. Shoji arrived with an unconscious hush, hands empty; Tokoyami’s cloak moved like a quiet flag. On the girls’ side, Tsuyu and Ochaco came together, calm, bright, followed by Yaoyorozu tucking a tape measure into her pocket and Jiro winding a loose cable around two fingers as she walked. Hagakure’s “I’m here!” came from a foot away, cheerful as proof.
Shinso dropped in at the end of a breath; Animus slipped to the balcony rail opposite him, not last, not first, cup finished and hands even. They shared the ghost of a nod, later.
“Ten,” Iida said, eyes on the second hand. “Nine… eight…”
“Don’t sprint, just descend with spirit!” Mina chirped, then covered her own laugh with the back of her wrist.
“…three… two… one.” Iida lowered his arm. “Time.”
Kirishima glanced down the 11F corridor. “I’ll grab Denki.” He jogged two doors and pointed; a muffled “One sec!” came back, and then Kaminari spilled out, victory-posing with a remote he’d clearly just tamed.
“Jiro?” Toru asked, already turning.
“I’m here,” Jiro said, appearing at the top of the stairs with the rest of the girls, one last loop of cable slipping into her pocket as if it had planned the timing.
They poured down in two ribbons and pooled into the sunken pit. The rain kept its soft percussion on the glass. The hour was up, but the warmth wasn’t.
Mina hopped down the last step like she had a mic. “Welcome to the Heights Alliance Room Rodeo, okay, that name is terrible, we’ll workshop.” She aimed two finger-guns at the captains. “Team Bakugo. Team Midoriya. We tour, we judge, we eat.”
Midoriya’s smile was small and sure. Bakugo folded his arms like punctuation.
“Order?” Tsuyu asked politely.
“By floor,” Iida suggested. “Eleven, then twelve, alternating by team where possible.”
“Sounds good,” Kirishima approved.
“Rules,” Bakugo said. “Hands off people’s stuff. Keep the commentary clean. If you break something, you buy two.”
“Sold,” Mina said, sparkling. “Let’s roll.”
Yaoyorozu lifted a hand, gentle. “If it helps, I can create simple scoring slips, very light.”
Iida brightened. “Excellent idea. Please include a clear scale and boxes to check.”
Momo touched her lip, then her palm bloomed white with a neat stack of pads and a cup of pens. She passed them to Mina, who bounced them down the rows like party favors.
“Two quick things,” Momo said as they circulated. “No one scores their own room. And while tonight’s main prize is team takeout, winners choose; other team covers, we’ll also note the highest individual score for a small personal prize.”
Mina, already wearing one of the pens like a headset: “Personal prize is the Room Crown, paper only, very haute couture, and first pick when we order.”
Jiro smirked. “And here I thought we were avoiding rubrics?”
“I promised I’d resist the rubric,” Momo said, amused. “This is rubric light.”
Dorm Room Decorating Contest , Quick Checklist
- Overall Theme & Creativity (1–50): Does the room feel cohesive and original? Effort shows; surprises welcome.
- Use of Space (1–25): Layout, organization, comfort. Smart storage and traffic flow.
- DIY & Personal Touches (1–25): Handmade or repurposed elements; clear personal style.
Scoring notes: Put the room owner’s name at the top and circle their team (Bakugo / Midoriya). Do not score your own room. Highest individual total earns the Room Crown + first pick on the takeout order. Team totals = sum of all member scores; the highest team total wins the contest. Tie-breakers: compare Theme & Creativity first; if still tied, coin flip.
Mina clapped once. “Okay! With our very official paperwork in hand, tour time.”
Mina didn’t need a microphone to set the stage; she just pitched her voice so it landed softly on the open doors of the 11th-floor corridor. “Captain Bakugo, first reveal!”
Bakugo thumbed his door wider and didn’t move from the frame. “Shoes off if you step in. Two at a time. Don’t touch anything.”
That was all the ceremony he allowed. The class gathered in a crescent that kept the threshold clear. Batches of two stepped onto the mat, socks quiet on wood. The room had the feeling of something tuned rather than decorated: dark bedding drawn tight enough to square the corners; a desk cleared of everything except a compact tool roll and a low, steel-necked lamp; cords routed clean and clipped along the baseboard. A pull-up bar spanned the door like a black underline. A folded towel sat on a narrow rack beside a set of resistance bands; nothing leaned where it shouldn’t.
Kirishima leaned just enough to see the hardware. “You sunk sleeve anchors?”
Bakugo’s mouth ticked. “You want it ripped out?”
“Looks solid,” Kirishima said, easy approval in his voice.
Kaminari almost stepped onto the mat in his sneakers and got a warning without volume. “Shoes, dumbass.” The word landed like a tap on the back of the hand. Kaminari laughed, kicked his heels off, and stayed in the crescent.
Momo wrote without looking away. “Minimalist function, cohesive and intentional.”
Iida’s gaze traced the pathways. “Unimpeded. Excellent sightlines for entering and exiting. No trip risks.”
Jiro tipped her chin at the desk. “I like the quiet. It’s not sterile, just… focused.”
Midoriya didn’t comment; he watched the way Bakugo’s hand rested on the doorframe, the way his shoulders settled when people respected the rule about not touching things. He nodded once, the kind of acknowledgment that didn’t need words.
Bakugo didn’t perform pride, but it edged the set of his shoulders. He flicked the tool roll closed with a practiced motion and slid the drawer flush, no rattle, no extra sound. “If you’re done, move. People behind you.”
The pairs swapped out. Sero peered up at the bar and measured the line with his eye. “Level.”
“Obviously,” Bakugo said.
Mina hovered just outside the threshold and spared half a breath to score before she grinned. “Vibe is sharp. Feels like the room would bench-press you if you talked back.”
“Bench-press isn’t for back,” Bakugo said, deadpan. The laugh that rippled through the crescent was quick and clean; he let it pass without chasing it.
Tsuyu checked one small detail the way she always did. The towel folded lined up neatly with the rack; the corners of the bed mirrored the corners of the desk. “Balanced,” she said simply. “Feels ready.”
Bakugo hooked a thumb to signal the last pair through and let the door rest where it had been. “Next.” It wasn’t a dismissal so much as a green light.
Mina lifted her pen like a baton. “Captains alternate, so Midoriya will be across the hall next. Keep your slips handy, no self-scores. Two at a time, same etiquette.”
The crescent loosened without losing its shape. Kirishima bumped Bakugo’s shoulder on the way past, light, familiar. Bakugo didn’t look over. He didn’t need to.
“Captain Midoriya ready?” Mina called, already angling the group across the hall.
Midoriya stepped to his doorway and rested a hand on the jamb like he was remembering to be present. “Same rules,” he said, voice even. “Shoes off if you come in. Two at a time.” He smiled a little. “Please don’t trip.”
The class gathered in another crescent. Pairs rotated through carefully, mindful of the threshold. Midoriya’s room didn’t announce itself; it invited. The desk sat at a slight angle so the hall lived in the corner of his eye. A shallow tray held two pens and a single notebook, open to a blank page, spine relaxed. A small framed print, color low, lines simple, leaned on the dresser instead of hanging, like it had traveled with him. The lamp cast a warm cone that didn’t try to own the space. Bedding plain, window clear.
Iida’s approval sounded like relief. “Efficient and safe. Pathways open; chair clearance ideal.”
Momo’s pencil moved, but her voice stayed soft. “Understated intentionality. Everything supports focus.”
Tsuyu touched the edge of the tray with her eyes, not her hand. “Feels like you, kero. Not loud, true.”
Jiro’s gaze tracked the lamp and the angle of the desk. “Good light discipline. No screen glare.”
Hagakure clasped her hands, visible today thanks to pink gloves, and practically swooned. “It feels so homey! Like a study nook in a hero library or something.”
Midoriya rubbed the back of his head, bashful. “Ah, thanks. It’s not much, just tried to make it comfortable.”
As the last pair stepped out, Momo gave Midoriya an encouraging nod and turned to the next in line. “Shall we continue clockwise? Todoroki?”
Todoroki stood with a slight, polite stretch and guided the group a few doors down. “It’s open.” He slid his door aside, revealing a tidy, sunlit space. “Same rules apply.”
Todoroki’s room was a study in balance, literally. Half the decor leaned cool, half warm. A woven rug of glacier blue stretched from the door to a low coffee table, while a rust-red blanket was folded at the foot of his bed. The walls were mostly bare except for a framed family photo on the dresser and a vintage All Might poster (mid-pose in a frosty battle scene) hung opposite a small Endeavor figurine on a shelf, fire and ice, neither dominating. A sleek humidifier stood in one corner, and an air purifier in the other. His desk held a laptop and a stand of color-coded notebooks. In the wastebasket beneath, a few crumpled draft pages peeked out, evidence of late-night practice essays.
The class rotated through two by two. Momo’s pencil glided across her page. “Color temperature split, yet unified.”
Iida adjusted his glasses, clearly approving. “Clear segmentation for study and rest. No hazards; devices well-placed.”
Kaminari chuckled under his breath. “Of course, half is cold, half is hot. On brand.”
“That humidifier’s probably for his left side,” Sero joked lightly, earning a small smirk from Todoroki.
Jiro gestured subtly toward the All Might poster. “Classic pick. First movie, right?”
Todoroki nodded. “I grew up with it.” He didn’t mention that it was a gift from his mother; he didn’t need to.
As the viewing finished, Mina jotted a quick note. “Vibe: equilibrium. Personal without flash.” She gave Todoroki a bright grin. “Fun touch with the color split, Todoroki.”
He almost smiled. “Thanks. It keeps things… even.”
Mina tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully, then swept an arm toward Kaminari’s door with a flourish. “Time to amp it up! Denki Kaminari, show us what you’ve got!” she chimed.
“Welcome to Casa de Denki!” Kaminari announced with an exaggerated bow, clicking his door open wider. A subtle blue glow pulsed from LED strips tracing the ceiling edges, giving the room a fun, arcade-like ambiance without being overpowering. His setup was undeniably more polished than two years ago: a streamlined computer desk with a twin-monitor rig occupied one corner, cables managed in tidy sleeves and not a tangle in sight. A charging station sat on a floating shelf, neatly hosting his phone and an array of gadgets , noise-cancelling headphones, and a retro handheld gaming console , all lit by a gentle neon-yellow lightning bolt lamp mounted above. On the wall above his bed (dressed in navy-blue sheets with bright yellow throw pillows), a framed internship photo showed Kaminari grinning between Mt. Lady and Kamui Woods, both mentors giving a thumbs-up. Beside it hung a poster of an electric-guitar anime hero, signature scribbled in silver ink. The entire space felt like a cross between a teen tech hub and a laid-back lounge.
“Oooh,” Toru’s voice came from somewhere near the doorway as the invisible girl stepped inside with a friend. “Pretty lights!” The LEDs reflected faintly off her sleeves, tracing her outline in blue.
Momo smiled, pen at the ready. “Modern tech comfort. Playful but clearly functional.”
Iida gave an approving nod at the organized cords. “Efficient. Workstation, entertainment, and relaxation areas are well separated , and no safety hazards.”
Midoriya pointed near the desk at a hefty power strip displaying green lights. “Is that a surge protector with a built-in voltage indicator?”
Kaminari beamed. “Oh, yeah! After… past incidents, I invested in top-of-the-line surge protection. Learned my lesson.” A few classmates chuckled knowingly; everyone remembered the occasional blown fuse in the old dorms when Kaminari got carried away.
Jiro stepped closer to a shelf, noting a row of game cartridges and a small speaker. “I see you modded your speakers.” She recognized the casing as Support Course custom work. “Bass-boosted and everything?”
Kaminari rubbed his neck with a laugh. “Guilty. Tinkered with them a bit, with help from the Support Course folks. Gotta have good sound for music and gaming.”
“He’s being modest,” Sero chimed in, scanning the room. “Denki spent part of last year rewiring the city grid. This setup’s probably disaster-proof.”
Kaminari’s cheeks tinted faintly pink at the praise. “I mean, I got certified in electrical safety. Figured it was time I live up to my quirk – not fry everything around me.” His grin returned as he gestured to a sleek black console under the mounted TV opposite the bed. “Movie night in my room sometime, anyone? I promise the system won’t short out.”
“Bold invitation when we haven’t finished judging,” Mina teased from the doorway, though her eyes sparkled. She scribbled on her score sheet. “Vibe check: I’m feeling a solid gamer zen here.”
“Seconded,” Kirishima said, peering in with an eager smile. “It’s way cleaner than last time, bro. And those neon lights? Manly in a modern way!”
“Thanks!” Denki gave a mock salute. “Figured I should step it up. Can’t let my teammates down on the Neon side, right?” He flicked a small remote, and the LED strips shifted from blue to a rotating spectrum of electric green and purple. A small “whoa” went through the crowd as colors danced on the walls.
Bakugo, arms still folded, raised an eyebrow at the light show. “As long as you keep it to party hours,” he said gruffly, but there was no bite to it.
“Don’t worry, lights out at curfew,” Kaminari vowed, clicking them back to a calm blue.
Tsuyu pointed to a cute magnet on a mini-fridge tucked under the desk , a cartoon frog with sparkly eyes. “Nice magnet,” she said.
“Oh, heh,” Kaminari scratched his hair sheepishly. “Present from Asui – uh, Tsuyu – after internship. A little reminder to hydrate.” Tsuyu’s lips curled in a pleased smile at the mention.
As the pairs swapped to give everyone a peek, Mineta took in the comfy beanbag in one corner and the stack of manga next to it. “Not bad, Chargebolt. You’ve got the bachelor-pad vibe going,” he joked.
“Yeah – for a bachelor who actually studies,” Jiro quipped, noting a neatly organized rack of textbooks on a low shelf (each bookmarked and highlighted).
Kaminari shrugged cheerfully. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.” He waggled his eyebrows, drawing laughs.
Mina clapped lightly to draw everyone back. “Alright, judges, last looks!” She waited a beat as a final few notes were scribbled and appreciative murmurs floated out. Kaminari gave two finger-guns to the crowd, an unabashed grin on his face.
With a satisfied nod, Mina spun on her heel. “Onward!” she declared, already heading toward the next room.
Mina twirled her pen with a flourish and pointed it at the next open doorway. “From Team Bakugo’s side, the one, the only, Eijiro Kirishima!” she declared, injecting game-show hype that drew a laugh from the class.
Kirishima appeared in his doorway with a broad grin, one hand braced proudly on the frame. “C’mon in! Mi casa es manly casa,” he said, only half-joking. He stepped back to let the first pair onto the rug. The room gave off instant energy: a crimson throw draped over the desk chair, posters of classic heroes and shounen manga lining one wall in a collage of bright courage, and a squat rack of free weights neatly tucked beside the dresser. His bedspread was bold red with black trim, one corner already sporting a tiny plush shark that somehow looked fierce instead of cute. On the desk, a cluster of framed photos caught the eye, snapshots of Kirishima with arms slung around friends at volunteer sites, one of him, Bakugo, and Animus in wetsuits giving a thumbs-up on a beach (an internship memory), and a small signed Crimson Riot poster centered above. The room didn’t just reflect Kirishima’s personality – it practically flexed with it.
Momo nodded as she took it in. “Very cohesive. A heroic-spirit motif with personal flair.” She scribbled quickly.
Iida adjusted his glasses, pleased. “Well-organized. Equipment stowed safely, clear path from door to window. Weight rack is secured, good.”
Sero let out a low whistle at the array of weights. “Check out the custom grip board on the wall.” A wooden board hung near the closet, pocked with indentations where Kirishima likely practiced grip strength. “He must’ve made that to train.”
Kaminari leaned in from the threshold, eyes bright. “Is that from our second-year training? Man, you kept it!”
“Had to,” Kirishima confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “I carve a new notch every time my grip-strength PR increases.”
Midoriya’s face lit up at the Crimson Riot poster. “That’s autographed… did you meet Crimson Riot?”
Kirishima chuckled. “Nah, ordered it signed. But hey, keeps me motivated!”
Jiro’s gaze traveled over the collage of posters and photos. “It’s like a mini Hall of Heroes in here,” she said dryly, though her tone was warm. She noticed an electric guitar resting on a stand in the corner, sleek and well-kept. “Nice axe. Didn’t know you kept up with the guitar.”
Kirishima followed her look and laughed. “Oh, that! Yeah, Tokoyami taught me a few chords back during the cultural festival, remember? I still jam sometimes. Helps pump me up.”
Mina hovered in the doorway, bouncing on her toes as she jotted down her own scores. “Vibe is off the charts. It’s like walking into a training montage.”
“More like a get-pumped playlist,” Kaminari quipped, nudging Sero, who nodded.
Tsuyu’s eyes flicked to one of the volunteer group photos on the desk, noting Kirishima muddy and beaming among locals. “It feels… welcoming,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Like everyone’s invited to work hard together, kero.”
“Exactly!” Kirishima flashed a thumbs-up so enthusiastic it nearly sparkled. “This room’s open for all – anytime you want a workout partner or just to hang out.”
Bakugo, arms crossed at the back of the crescent, gave a small snort that was more fond than derisive. “Just don’t drop weights at midnight.”
“Roger that,” Kirishima shot back, unoffended. He patted the padded flooring under the weight rack. “Got soundproof mats – no midnight PRs, promise.”
As the last pair traded places to peek inside, Shoji gently tapped one of the weight plates with a fingertip from where he stood just outside. “Solid iron. You’ve increased your set since the first year,” he observed quietly.
Kirishima grinned at the tall teen. “Heh, figured I should step it up from the old dorms. Couldn’t let Sato’s cake-stealing win last time be my peak.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the group; everyone remembered how Sato’s baking bribery had clinched the 1-A contest. From somewhere toward the stairs, Sato protested, “That was a totally legitimate win!” which made them laugh even more. Kirishima waved a hand in good sport.
“Alright, alright,” Mina said, regaining control with a dramatic clearing of her throat. She flashed a grin at Kirishima. “Any final flex for the judges, Red Riot?”
Kirishima stepped back and gave a mock flex of one arm, flashing his shark-toothed grin. “Just that you’re all awesome. Thanks for checking out my digs!”
“Too wholesome,” Mineta joked lightly, scribbling on his score slip. “Where’s the showmanship?”
“Hey, sincerity is manly,” Kirishima countered, unfazed. With that, he let the door swing mostly closed, inviting the crowd to move on with upbeat chuckles still in the air. Pens scratched on score sheets as Mina led the way back into the hall, already eager for the next reveal.
The next seat over was Sero’s. He sprang up with a loose-limbed energy and beckoned them over. “Alright, welcome to Casa del Tape!”
His door opened on a room that managed to feel both sporty and playful. The walls had a few posters of pro heroes known for urban swings and acrobatics, Air Jet, Native, even a vintage Spider-Man poster snuck in as a joke. A skateboard hung on two hooks above the bed. Rolls of capture tape in various colors were mounted on a rack by his desk like a rainbow arsenal. That desk itself was dominated by a custom rig of pulleys and clamps, half-finished, some kind of jury-rigged tape dispenser upgrade. A Rubik’s Cube and a yo-yo sat next to it, as did a small cactus in a dinosaur-shaped pot. A strip of LED lights ran around the ceiling, currently set to a mellow orange glow.
Two at a time, the class wandered in with smiles. Momo tapped her chin, clearly impressed by the gadget project. “Inventive and vibrant. Equipment doubling as decor.”
“Efficiently utilized,” Iida said. “No obstructions, good wall storage.”
Kirishima gave a low whistle. “Manly décor , love the board. And that tape rack’s genius.”
Sato was already eyeing the tape contraption with professional curiosity. “Think you can rig that to frost a cake?”
Sero grinned. “If you supply the cake, I’ll try anything once.”
Hagakure gasped happily at the dinosaur planter. “Is that Rex? From Toy Story?” Only she would notice, as big a fan of kids’ movies as she was.
Sero laughed. “It is! Good eye, Toru.”
Mina flipped through a few of Sero’s poster tubes propped in the corner. “I see someone brought the whole hero poster club,” she teased.
“Guilty,” Sero said. “Better than a blank wall, right?”
Jiro was bobbing her head at the soft music playing from Sero’s phone speaker. “Nice playlist,” she noted. “Chillhop beats? Solid choice for studying.”
Sero shot her finger guns. “Exactly! Keeps the vibes, doesn’t distract.”
As the tour moved on, Mina scribbled on her score sheet. “Vibe: creative workshop meets hangout spot. Very you, Sero.”
He offered a playful salute as he eased his door closed. “Tape doesn’t lie.”
Mina ushered the group to a door on Team Midoriya’s side. “Our resident martial artist – Mashirao Ojiro!” she announced brightly.
Ojiro slid open his door with polite efficiency and a modest smile. “It’s not much, but… welcome.” The room was arranged in calming, traditional simplicity. A woven tatami-style rug covered much of the floor, and Ojiro had placed his bed low, futon-style: the mattress directly on a raised tatami platform he’d built from interlocking floor tiles. The bedding was plain off-white with a neatly folded sage-green quilt at the foot. Along one wall hung a vertical scroll bearing a single calligraphed kanji for “discipline,” and beneath it a low wood bench doubled as a tea table. A pair of zabuton floor cushions flanked it, inviting conversation or meditation. In the corner, a stout wooden practice post (wrapped in padding) stood beside a bamboo sword (shinai) resting on a rack – training tools kept unobtrusive but accessible. Every item had its place; open space was clearly a priority, leaving plenty of room for Ojiro’s tail to sway freely without knocking anything over.
Momo’s eyes shone with appreciation. Minimalist and serene. A dojo at home. It’s lovely.” She made a note.
Iida stepped in carefully, removing his shoes without needing to be told. “Optimized for movement. Zero clutter and lots of open floor. Remarkably practical.”
Jiro, remembering the chaos of some first-year rooms, gave a small nod. “That tatami platform – did you make that yourself?”
Ojiro rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. “Ah, mostly. They’re modular panels I set up, nothing too hard.” He flicked his tail once, a habit when he was shy. “Let's me run kata drills in the mornings.”
Todoroki stood near the doorway, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the tranquil layout. His voice was soft. “It reminds me of my old room.” A few classmates exchanged knowing smiles – Todoroki’s first dorm room had been famously traditional as well. He added, “Yours feels more authentic, though.”
Ojiro’s cheeks tinted a faint pink at the unexpected praise. “Thank you. My grandfather sent me that scroll from our family dojo,” he said, nodding toward the calligraphy. “Figured it’d keep me focused here, too.”
Near the desk – an unobtrusive piece with a simple bamboo pen cup and neatly stacked notebooks – Hagakure’s invisible hand lifted a colorful crayon drawing pinned on the corkboard above. “What’s this from?” Toru asked excitedly, recognizing the childish scrawl of Thank You, Hero!! above a stick-figure with a big tail among smaller figures.
Ojiro chuckled softly. “Oh… a kid from one of the evacuation shelter classes I helped teach drew that. I kind of treasure it.”
Tsuyu’s smile was gentle. “That’s very sweet, kero.”
“Talk about staying grounded,” Kirishima said, clearly impressed by the lack of ostentation. “Manly in a whole different way.”
Sero peeked at the open closet, where – to no one’s surprise – even Ojiro’s casual clothes were folded or hung with precision. “Is that Best Jeanist’s influence I spy?” he joked, noticing how uniformly everything was arranged by color and style.
Ojiro laughed lightly. “Possibly. He did insist on teaching me how to properly fold a gi and a pair of jeans.”
Mina swiped a finger along the edge of the low bench , spotless. “No dust bunnies here. The vibe is super zen.” She pretended to take a calming breath. “I feel like I should bow or something.”
“N-no, no, please don’t,” Ojiro stammered, waving his hands in polite panic at the thought of anyone treating his space like a sacred dojo. The class chuckled.
Mineta craned his neck to peek under the bed frame, half-expecting a hidden stash of contraband, but came up empty. “The guy doesn’t even have dust to hide,” he said, half in awe, half in resignation.
“Respect,” Aoyama declared softly from the back. His usual flamboyance was tempered as he looked around. “So simple, yet so elegant… étoilé,” he added, dubbing the room with a starry compliment.
Ojiro blinked at the unexpected French, then bowed his head. “Thank you… I think.”
Mina gave Ojiro a playful salute with her pen. “Alright, judges, final notes for Mr. Discipline here.” She waited as a few more marks were made. A warm quiet had settled in the room – a reflection of Ojiro himself.
As they shuffled back into the hall, Uraraka stretched her arms above her head. “That was actually relaxing,” she murmured, and a few others hummed in agreement.
“And educational,” Iida added, posture as straight as ever. He seemed genuinely inspired. “I may take inspiration for my own tidying.”
Pens still scratching on score sheets, the class moved on to the next room.
Next up was Sato. He dusted cookie crumbs off his hands and led them a few steps over. “Alright, come on in, watch your step,” he said kindly.
Sato’s room greeted them with a warm, sweet aroma, like vanilla and cinnamon. It was impeccably neat but homey. A sturdy wooden table stood against one wall, topped with an electric hot plate and a small oven unit, clearly his personal baking station. A row of cookbooks and recipe binders lined the shelf above it, interspersed with jars of sprinkles and cocoa. On his desk sat a large mixing bowl doubling as a catch-all for pens and gadget chargers. The bedding was a comfy patchwork quilt, and a bulletin board above it pinned up recipes, each annotated with notes in his tidy handwriting. A poster of the Sugarhill Bakery’s “Pastry of the Year” winners hung proudly near the door.
The class filtered through, noses already in the air. “Functional coziness,” Momo noted, smiling. “Baking lab meets bedroom.”
“Well-partitioned,” Iida observed. “Appliance area secure, no extension cords across floors. Safety measures observed.”
Tokoyami picked up a laminated recipe card from the table, reading the elegant calligraphy of “Chocolate Soufflé” on it. “There is poetry in this preparation…” he murmured, approving the artistry.
“That smell is unfair,” Kaminari groaned good-naturedly, peeking into the oven (it was empty). “My mouth’s watering and it’s not even on.”
Sato rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I might’ve baked a little something earlier.”
“He absolutely did,” Hagakure chimed, hands clasped. “There were muffins cooling on the common counter when we got our keys, kero.”
Kirishima pretended to stagger against the door. “Sato’s bribing us, and I’m okay with it!”
The room filled with gentle laughter. Aoyama dramatically wiped an invisible tear. “Such divine decadence, très magnifique.”
Mina sniffed the air like a cartoon character floating on a scent. “I feel hugged by sugar. Best feeling ever.”
Sato’s ears went pink at all the praise. “I’ll, uh, bring more next time,” he promised.
As they filed out, Mina scribbled on her sheet with extra flourish. “Vibe: the kitchen of our dreams, but make it Sato’s room. Comfort and heart, check.”
Sato beamed and closed his door softly, the scent of vanilla following them out.
Trailing the group, Sato shut his door amid contented murmurs , the smell of baked goods still following the class. Several students were licking sweet traces from their fingers as they regrouped in the hall.
“Okay,” Mina laughed, catching Sero sneaking the last bite of a cookie, “palates cleared? Onward we go!” She led them to the next room on Team Midoriya’s roster. “Mezo Shoji, ready to show off?”
Shoji stood just inside his open door, six arms at ease and a gentle posture that somehow made his towering frame seem inviting. He inclined his head. “It’s not much, but please… make yourselves comfortable.”
True to Shoji’s nature, the room was airy and calming. He had pushed his bed against the far wall and set it low, covered in a soft gray spread with a texture like woven grass. A single leafy potted plant sat in the corner by the window, which was cracked open just enough to let in fresh air and the faint patter of rain. A hint of sandalwood hung in the air – perhaps incense recently burned, now just a comforting memory. Instead of the standard desk chair, Shoji had laid out a couple of large floor cushions and a sturdy low bench. The setup looked intentionally flexible: easy for someone of Shoji’s build to sit comfortably, and just as welcoming for a guest. By the door, an umbrella stand held a neatly rolled umbrella, and a small towel hung on a hook above it , ready for anyone coming in from the wet weather. The walls were mostly bare save for a framed photograph of Class 3-A at a community service event, and another smaller picture of Shoji and Koda surrounded by smiling children with heteromorph quirks. A few well-worn books lined a minimalist shelf: titles on psychology, hero ethics, and nature field guides. Overall, the space felt less like a personal display and more like a refuge.
Momo’s smile was soft as she noted the details. “Open and soothing. Almost like a little sanctuary.”
Iida pointed to the umbrella stand by the entrance, clearly impressed. “Very considerate. An entryway setup for wet weather , quite thoughtful, Shoji.”
Shoji’s mask shifted as he smiled beneath it. “Figured we’d need it today,” he said in his quiet way.
Tokoyami stepped quietly inside, Dark Shadow peeking over his shoulder. The shadowy familiar gave a hushed, “Nice vibe… very zen,” which earned an amused side-eye from Tokoyami.
Jiro knelt briefly to test one of the floor cushions. “These are really comfy. And adaptable seating is, smart choice. I can tell you arranged things for everyone’s comfort, not just your own.”
Shoji gave a small shrug of his upper shoulders. “We’re a team. My room isn’t off-limits if someone ever needs a quiet spot or an extra study space.”
At that, a couple of people exchanged looks of appreciation. Koda, standing near the potted plant, gently touched one of its leaves with a giant finger. “Um… the plant… It’s a peace lily,” he said softly. He recognized the species immediately. “It’s healthy.”
Shoji nodded. “From my hometown. I brought a cutting over and grew it. Helps with the air… and it’s nice to have something living around.”
Koda’s eyes practically sparkled at that revelation, and he gave Shoji a thumbs-up of approval so enthusiastic it made a few classmates grin.
Mineta peeked around, perhaps hoping for some hidden indulgence to tease – a pin-up poster or secret stash – but found nothing of the sort. “Man,” he said under his breath, “even Shoji’s snacks are probably healthy.” Everyone knew Shoji tended to favor simple onigiri over junk food.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Sato chuckled, patting his own stomach. “I could learn a thing or two about moderation.”
Near the window, Tsuyu noticed a small wooden wind chime on the sill, carved in the shape of a bird. It was perfectly still now, but clearly placed to catch the breeze. “I like this,” she said. “Does it sing when the wind blows?”
Shoji ducked his head bashfully. “It’s quiet, but yes. It belonged to my grandmother. I keep it as a reminder of home.”
Mina leaned against the doorframe, careful not to jostle the hanging towel. “I feel like I’ve done a full yoga class just stepping in here,” she joked lightly. “Vibe check: tranquil AF.”
Iida cleared his throat, half-chiding at her phrasing. Mina just winked at him.
Midoriya’s gaze traveled to the group photo on the wall , the one from the heteromorph outreach event. He remembered that day, a small moment of victory amid rebuilding. “Shoji… you really made this room for all of us, huh?” he said, tone warm with respect.
Shoji’s tentacle-like Dupli-Arms – each ending in a small eye or ear – waved in a modest shrug. “It wouldn’t feel like home without everyone,” he replied simply.
A brief, heartfelt silence fell, filled only by the gentle rhythm of rain against the window. Then Kirishima clapped Shoji gently on the back (mindful of the smaller limbs). “You’re the man, Shoji. Seriously.”
Shoji’s dark eyes crinkled with gratitude above his mask.
Mina let the wholesome moment linger a second more before gently herding them out. “Alrighty, judges, give your scores for Shoji’s serenity. We’ve got more rooms to cover.”
As the class filed back into the hall, they did so a bit slower, as if carrying some of Shoji’s calm with them. More than one person took a cleansing breath.
Except for one, Aoyama was practically vibrating with contained excitement by then. He stood with a flourish and pointed his classmates toward the stairs. “Mes amis, if you’ll indulge me, next, the pièce de résistance!”
With dramatic flair, Aoyama led them one floor up to the 12th, twirling once in the hall for effect before opening his door. “Bienvenue à Château Sparkle!”
Aoyama’s room was nothing short of dazzling. The lights were dimmed to better showcase the constellation of twinkle lights draped artfully along the ceiling. A crystal chandelier lamp cast playful rainbows on the walls. His bedspread was a deep navy dotted with golden stars that matched the canopy of lights above. One corner housed a full-length mirror framed with marquee bulbs, beside a gilded clothing rack displaying a few signature capes and belts like a mini costume exhibit. His desk was immaculately organized with rhinestone-studded stationery, and atop it sat a silver platter of assorted cheeses under a glass dome. The scent of expensive wax and a hint of sweet cologne lent an upscale lounge ambiance.
The class entered two at a time, eyes wide. “Lavish glam,” Momo said, taking in the decor. “Unified celestial motif, very bold.”
“Surprisingly functional under the glamour. No clutter in walkways… though that mirror is somewhat large,” Iida noted, hands on his hips but a smile on his face.
“It’s like a hero runway in here,” Mina giggled, touching one of the dangling fairy lights. “Totally Aoyama.”
Tokoyami gazed around at the sparkles, squinting slightly. “My darkness is… challenged by this brilliance,” he deadpanned.
Hagakure was practically bouncing. “It’s so pretty! Like a dorm room meets a Broadway dressing room.”
Aoyama clapped delightedly. “Oui, exactement! Every day should feel like a performance, non?”
Jiro lifted the cheese dome curiously, finding labeled wedges. “Is this… a cheese tasting set?”
Aoyama struck a pose, hand on hip. “Only the finest samples from my family’s fromage collection. Please, take one! The brie is heavenly.”
Kaminari didn’t need convincing; he popped a small cube of cheese and sighed appreciatively. “Fancy.”
Mina mock-whispered, “He even feeds his guests. Five stars, Yuga.”
Aoyama beamed, guiding the last pair out with a graceful wave. “I do what I must to keep my friends enchanted.”
Mina jotted down notes with a grin. “Vibe: Can’t Stop Twinkling, achieved. Opulent yet surprisingly welcoming.”
Once Aoyama’s door closed (with a melodramatic bow from its owner), the group shifted attention to Tokoyami.
Mina took the cue with a theatrical gleam in her eye. In a playfully ominous tone, she announced, “Now, stepping into the shadows… the one and only Fumikage Tokoyami!”
A few chuckles rose as Tokoyami’s door eased open. The room beyond was dim, lit mainly by the soft golden glow of a desk lamp with an ornate raven-shaped shade. Tokoyami stood inside, cape settled around his shoulders, one hand extended in a polite welcome. “Enter freely,” he intoned – ever melodramatic. Dark Shadow billowed at his side in a friendly coil, its eyes gleaming from an upper corner of the ceiling.
The decor was sparse yet striking. Heavy midnight-blue curtains were drawn halfway, muting the afternoon light to a dusk-like ambiance. The bedspread was black with subtle silver filigree patterns, reminiscent of twilight clouds. A single painting hung above the bed: a moonlit forest scene that Tokoyami himself might have painted (the bold, shadowy brushstrokes looked familiar). On the desk lay an open leather-bound journal beside a quill fashioned from a long black feather. It didn’t take a detective to guess it was one of Hawks’ feathers repurposed as a pen; an elegant inkpot sat beside it, lid off as if recently used. A slim bookshelf held a neat row of classics – Edgar Allan Crow’s poems (as Mina jokingly dubbed them once), a collection of gothic haiku, and a well-worn volume on hero ethics. In one corner, propped on a stand, was a black bass guitar; its presence quietly announced that Tokoyami still valued the power of music. The overall effect was of a room embracing darkness not as something scary, but as something calm and intrinsic.
Momo tilted her head, clearly impressed by the balance. “Gothic elegance. It’s cohesive without being over-the-top.”
Iida nodded, eyes adjusted to the low light. “Uncluttered. Clear walkways even in limited illumination. No tripping hazards.”
“Safe, sure,” Kaminari whispered with a grin, “but I half-expected a coffin in the corner again.” A few people snickered, remembering Tokoyami’s overzealous “lair” from the first dorm contest.
Tokoyami gave a soft ahem that might have been embarrassment. “I’ve… refined my tastes since then,” he murmured.
Jiro stepped forward, her boots soundless on the plush, dark rug that covered part of the floor. She eyed the bass guitar appreciatively. “Still jamming in the shadows, huh?”
Tokoyami’s beak curved in the hint of a proud smirk. “The night has its own melody,” he replied in his poetic way. Then, after a beat, he added more plainly, “Yes… I practice when I can. The acoustics here are agreeable.”
Dark Shadow bobbed behind him, chiming in a stage whisper, “He plays lullabies for the darkness.” Tokoyami swatted lightly at his companion, and a round of muffled giggles spread through the group.
Kirishima leaned in to examine the journal on the desk. The open page was filled with neat, flowing handwriting. “Whoa, is this poetry?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Tokoyami cleared his throat and closed the journal with measured calm. “Drafts,” he said, attempting nonchalance. If birds could blush, he might have. “Merely thoughts on paper.”
“Those looked like song lyrics,” Mina teased softly, peeking at the moonlit painting instead to give him grace. “Multi-talented as always, Tokoyami.”
He accepted the praise with a quiet nod, crossing his arms. “I strive for profundity in all pursuits.”
“Profundity,” Mineta echoed, as if savoring the word. He nodded sagely. “Ten points to vocabulary.”
Tsuyu’s large eyes blinked as she regarded the forest painting. “Did you paint that? It’s calming... but a little lonely.”
Tokoyami followed her gaze to the artwork he had indeed painted over the summer. “Solitude has its place,” he answered cryptically. Then he added, softer, “I’m glad you find it calming.”
From the doorway, Midoriya noticed the feather quill and couldn’t help but smile. “Brilliant use of your mentor’s gift. Hawks would be proud of the penmanship angle.”
Tokoyami’s tone warmed a fraction. “He did always say heroes write their own stories. I suppose I took that literally.”
A low rumble of thunder punctuated his sentence, as if on cue. The lamplight flickered across the room’s silver accents. Dark Shadow murmured, “Atmosphere… nice touch,” toward the window.
Mina took that as her cue to wrap up. “Alright, creatures of the night, mark those score sheets,” she quipped, twirling her pen like a wand before jotting something for herself. “Vibe: poetic brooding, in the best way.”
Aoyama, who had been unusually quiet in the shadows, placed a hand over his heart. “Truly, a room of beauté ténébreuse,” he pronounced – dark beauty. Coming from him, it was genuine praise.
Tokoyami bowed his head in acknowledgement, clearly pleased that his evolved style was so well received.
As the class filed out (a few with one last curious glance at the feather pen or the guitar), Mina stepped back into the hall. “Alright! I think that's enough for the boys’ floor for now.” She grinned and gestured upward. It was time to see what 12F had in store.
Ochaco hopped up, cheeks already rosy. “Okay, my turn! Sorry in advance if it’s not as exciting as that.”
She led them back down the hall on 12F a short way. Her door opened to a space that felt airy and cheerful. “Come on in, watch your step, there’s a floor cushion there,” she urged kindly.
Uraraka’s room was a blend of cute and practical. A plush pink rug covered much of the floor, and two oversized floor cushions sat in a corner around a low table scattered with review books and a half-finished puzzle. String lights (simple white, not too bright) crisscrossed the ceiling in a star pattern. On the wall above her bed hung a collage of photos: her family, Class 3-A group shots from various holidays, and a few candid hero course moments. Her desk had a neatly pinned budget sheet next to her laptop, and an open guide to “Advanced First Aid Techniques.” A small rack by the door held a couple of bargain-store scarves and hats, one of which was a replica of Thirteen’s helmet she got on discount. Under the bed, clear containers revealed neatly folded winter clothes, and… were those coupon organizers? Likely.
Two by two, the class stepped inside. “Comfy functional,” Momo said warmly. “Personal touches everywhere, but everything in its place.”
“Efficiently filled,” Iida noted. “Clear paths, multi-purpose table area, nothing wasted.”
Hagakure was already giggling at the collage on the wall. “Look, it’s us at the dorm Halloween party last year! Ochaco, you kept all these?”
Uraraka laughed. “Of course! They make me happy.” Indeed, the smiling faces in the photos radiated warmth.
Tsuyu examined the first aid guide on the desk, nodding in approval. “Always prepared, kero. That’s Ochaco-chan.”
Mineta was kneeling on a floor cushion (he had flopped there dramatically on entry). “This cushion… I could nap here forever,” he sighed.
“Until she levitates you off it,” Jiro teased, nudging him with her foot.
Uraraka grinned and pretended to activate her quirk with a tap of her fingertips. Mineta yelped in mock fear and scrambled up, prompting laughs.
Mina sniffed the air. “Do I smell… mochi?”
Uraraka pointed to a covered tray on her shelf. “Green tea mochi. My parents sent a batch. Everyone can have some later!”
Kirishima gave her a thumbs-up. “You’re the best, Uraraka!”
As they trickled out, Mina scribbled down a final note. “Vibe: warm and uplifting. Definitely Uravity’s space, grounded, with a little float to it.”
Uraraka shut her door with a content smile as they moved on.
Still smiling at the tiny frog-themed planters on her windowsill – Mina gave a chipper clap. “Alright! Switching gears. Team Bakugo’s next contribution: Kyoka Jiro!”
“Let’s get this over with,” Jiro deadpanned, but the corners of her mouth lifted as she opened her door. “Welcome, I guess.”
Her room was a comfortable collision of music and practicality. The walls bore a few framed posters of classic rock bands and modern pop icons, each carefully selected rather than plastered haphazardly. In one corner, her beloved electric guitar (a sleek black model with violet decals) rested on a stand beside a small amp. Above it, strung across the wall, was a subtle strand of fairy lights interwoven with Polaroids: candid shots of Class 3-A at dorm parties, the cultural festival performance, and a recent pic of Jiro with her earphone jacks plugged into an impressive soundboard at a volunteer event. Her bedspread was deep purple, accented by a cozy-looking gray knit throw blanket. It matched the foam panels she’d mounted on parts of the walls , soundproofing tiles painted a soft lavender to blend in. A low bookshelf by the bed overflowed with vinyl records and music magazines on the lower shelves, and textbooks and notebooks on the upper – organized, but not obsessively so. On her desk, a pair of high-quality studio headphones sat on a stand, and next to them, a small soldering kit plus a half-disassembled metronome hinted at recent tinkering. The room felt lived-in yet composed, each item a note in Jiro’s personal soundtrack.
Momo’s eyes lit up at the sight of the audio equipment. “Music haven meets functional dorm. It’s very you, Jiro.” She jotted notes with a little smile.
Iida stepped carefully around a coiled instrument cable on the floor, noticing it was taped down to prevent trips. “Mindful. Equipment in one zone, study area in another, clear path in between. Safety standards upheld.”
Jiro crossed her arms, trying to hide how pleased she was. “I did my best. Didn’t want anyone face-planting on my cables.” She shot Kaminari a look – he’d tripped over her amp cord back in the first year.
Kaminari held up his hands defensively. “Hey, I learned to watch my step! And nice picks on those posters.” He pointed at one featuring an iconic punk guitarist. “Legendary.”
Jiro shrugged like it was no big deal, but a faint blush rose to her cheeks. “Figured it was time to frame ’em instead of just taping ’em up.”
“Personal touches…” Tokoyami inclined his head from just outside the door. “I recognize that.” He gestured to a black knitted scarf draped over Jiro’s desk chair. “From our festival performance. Glad to see it lives on.”
Jiro fingered the end of the scarf, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yaoyorozu made it for me that day, remember? Of course, I kept it.” Momo beamed at the mention.
Near Jiro’s bookshelf, Hagakure’s glove picked up a colorful flyer pinned to a corkboard. “Shelter Open Mic Night – All Welcome.” Toru read it aloud. “Is this from when you did music therapy, Kyoka?”
“Mm-hm,” Jiro affirmed. “I helped run a few open-mic sessions at the evacuation shelters. That flyer’s from our biggest night – kept it as a reminder of why we do all this.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but pride flickered in her eyes.
Aoyama clasped his hands, looking around as if truly seeing Jiro’s domain for the first time. “Mon Dieu… It’s both chic and rock ’n’ roll. Très bien, Kyoka.”
Mineta nodded vigorously, surprisingly sincere. “Honestly, it’s kinda cool. Feels like a mini recording studio.” He refrained from any off-color joke for once, perhaps out of genuine respect for the setup.
From the hallway, Mina leaned in with a grin. She wiggled an earphone jack cable she’d playfully snatched from Jiro’s amp. “Vibe check: I’m getting major headphone sanctuary energy.”
Jiro raised an eyebrow and, with a quick flick of her wrist, she yanked the cable back like a yo-yo, neatly out of Mina’s grasp. “As long as you ask before borrowing my gear, Ashido.”
Mina laughed and pretended to zip her lips.
Nearby, Midoriya was eyeing a petite potted cactus on Jiro’s windowsill that had tiny musical-note stickers on its ceramic pot. “Are those… notes from All Might’s theme song on there?” he asked in disbelief.
Jiro snorted. “Trust you to find the Easter egg. Yeah – a Support Course friend made me a ‘musical cactus’ as a gag gift. It doesn’t sing or anything, but it looks cool.”
“That’s adorable,” Uraraka giggled, poking her head past Midoriya to see.
As classmates traded comments, Jiro found herself fiddling with the volume knob on her amp – an unconscious sign of contentment. She’d been a bit nervous to show her space, but seeing her friends react with curiosity and fondness put her at ease.
Momo finished jotting down scores with a flourish. “It’s an inspiring setup. I might come to you for soundproofing tips.”
“Anytime,” Jiro replied, then added with a mock-severe glare, “so long as I get credit as co-sound engineer for any future dorm concerts.”
“Deal,” Momo laughed.
Mina theatrically tapped an invisible microphone. “Alright, rockstar – your set is complete.” She gently shooed everyone back into the hall. “Score it up and move those feet! We’ve got more rooms to cover before the night’s out.”
Jiro exhaled in relief as she closed her door, a faint smile lingering as the group’s chatter receded down the hallway. She could hear Mina already hyping up whoever was next, the dorm tour rolling on – and her heart humming along to its familiar rhythm.
Tsuyu was next, standing with her usual calm poise. “Follow me, kero. It’s just over here.”
She guided them one door down. Inside Tsuyu’s room, the air felt a touch cooler and very fresh. The walls had been painted a gentle sage green (perhaps with special permission), and a large frog-shaped cushion sat against the bed frame. Potted plants, small ferns, a peace lily, and a hanging pothos brought a bit of a marsh vibe, but tidily. A shallow wooden basin filled with water sat near the window, with a stepping stone in the middle; it looked like a tiny indoor pond. On her desk were neatly arranged notebooks labeled with various rescue scenarios, and atop one was a photo of Tsuyu with her siblings on a summer day by a lake. A pair of goggles hung from a hook on her shelf, alongside a folded raincoat.
They entered quietly, as if the room’s tranquility demanded it. “Soothing and natural,” Momo said softly. “Eco-tones and personal habitat touches.”
“Optimized for relaxation and training,” Iida remarked. “No clutter, clear floor, safe incorporation of water element.”
Tokoyami stepped closer to a fern. “The greenery thrives… It’s like a fragment of a secret garden.”
Hagakure dipped a finger curiously in the basin and let a droplet fall. “Is this for… you?” she asked.
Tsuyu nodded once. “Sometimes I need to soak my feet, kero. Keeps my skin from drying out. And I like the sound of water.”
Midoriya was scribbling mental notes with his eyes. “Custom environment support… That’s really clever, Asui.”
Tsuyu’s lips curved in a subtle smile. “Thank you, Midoriya-chan.”
Kaminari peered at the goggles. “Those new? They look upgraded.”
Tsuyu followed his glance. “Received them from Selkie’s team. Night-vision capable now.”
“Awesome,” Kaminari said, genuinely impressed.
Mina hugged herself happily. “It’s so calm in here, I might melt. Spa day vibes, Tsuyu.”
As they stepped out, Mina recorded her thoughts. “Vibe: zen frog oasis. Functional for her quirk and totally calming.”
Tsuyu closed the door gently behind her. “Glad you all felt relaxed, kero.”
Down the line, Mineta was practically bouncing on his toes. He struck a pose at his door, one hand sweeping to present it. “Step right up to Mineta’s lair of luxury! Welcome, welcome!”
A few groans and laughs mingled, but everyone gathered around with amusement. Mineta threw his door open with a theatrical flourish. “Enter… if you dare,” he added with a waggish wiggle of his eyebrows.
The room beyond was surprisingly… tame, at least by Mineta standards. It was dimly lit in a purposeful way; LED strips along the baseboards glowed a deep purple, giving everything a lounge-like ambiance. His bed was neatly made with dark satin sheets and a plush black comforter. On the side table sat an empty wine glass and a bottle of sparkling grape juice in an ice bucket (clearly freshly staged). A small speaker in the corner played smooth jazz at a low volume. One wall was decorated with framed vintage superheroine comic covers, tasteful art rather than anything risqué. A funky neon sign above his desk read “GRAPE Expectations” in stylish cursive. The desk itself was organized: textbooks stacked, a scented candle labeled “Midnight Grape” burning gently, and a few neatly capped markers.
It smelled faintly of vanilla and grape candy, an oddly pleasant combo. Two at a time, the class ventured inside, some bracing for something outrageous that never came. Instead, they found a room that was… actually kind of cool, in a quirky Mineta way.
Momo blinked and let out a soft, relieved chuckle. “Playful maturity. A lounge vibe with personal flair.”
“Tidy and unobstructed,” Iida noted with an approving nod. “No… inappropriate clutter.”
Kaminari picked up a deck of playing cards from Mineta’s dresser. “Oh-ho, is this for magic tricks or poker nights?”
Mineta shrugged coyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He then winked. “I’ve been practicing sleight of hand. Strictly for hero training purposes, of course.”
Jiro sniffed the air. “Is that a candle I smell? Grape-scented?”
Mineta clasped his hands behind his back, feigning nonchalance. “Sets the mood, don’t you think? A hero should engage all the senses.”
“Color me impressed,” Sero admitted, tapping the neon sign. “And this pun? High art, my friend.”
Hagakure leaned against the wall, giving a thumbs-up that only showed as a floating glove. “Honestly, Mineta, I expected… well, something that would get you in trouble. But this is really nice!”
Mineta pressed a hand to his chest, eyes shining theatrically. “You wound me, Hagakure! But thank you. I aim to be a refined gentleman.” He plucked the ice bucket up and poured a bit of grape juice into the fancy glass. “Juice, anyone?” he quipped.
That earned a chorus of laughter. Kirishima gently clapped Mineta on the back. “You’ve come a long way, bro.”
Mineta flashed a grin that was more genuine than lecherous for once. “Just wait till you see the bookshelf I plan to build. It’ll be full of actual books, promise.”
As the class filtered out, Mina scribbled her notes while shaking her head in amused disbelief. “Vibe: clean but edgy (in a PG way). Mineta’s growing up, who knew?”
Mineta only pretended not to hear that, shooting a finger-gun pose before shutting the door.
Back on the 11th floor, Koda was up, standing shyly by his door. He held Shoji’s sleeve gently to muster courage. Shoji gave him a supportive nod.
“I’m, um, next,” Koda managed quietly. He opened the door, motioning for them to come in. “Please… watch your step.”
Koda’s room exuded a gentle, natural warmth. The bedspread was a soft green and brown, like forest foliage. On his windowsill sat a neat row of potted flowers, marigolds, daisies, and a tiny oak sapling in a ceramic cup. A large terrarium occupied one corner, complete with a little log and a heat lamp; inside, if one looked closely, slept a green tree frog and a small colony of stick insects that Koda was fostering for the Nature Club. His desk was modest, holding a sketchpad with rough drawings of various animals and a stack of letters from his pen pals at the animal sanctuary. Above the desk, a bulletin board displayed clippings of hero rescues involving animals and thank-you cards from children (with crayon drawings of bunnies and birds).
The class stepped in gently, sensing the kindness in the space. “Nature’s haven,” Momo said softly. “Alive with personal meaning.”
“Clear and creature-friendly,” Iida noted. “Habitats secure, nothing loose or dangerous.”
Tokoyami’s eyes softened at the sight of a sleeping bat in one of the clippings. “It’s like a shrine to the animal kingdom… how noble.”
Shoji peered into the terrarium and gave Koda an approving pat on the shoulder. “They look happy and safe.”
“Th-thank you,” Koda replied, smiling as he watched his little frog breathe calmly. “I’m hoping to release them next week once they’re healthy.”
Hagakure squealed quietly as a tiny stick insect moved. “They’re so cute! I didn’t know bugs could be cute, but leave it to Koda.”
Aoyama dramatically blew a kiss toward the flowers on the sill. “Truly magnifique, flowers for the soul.”
Uraraka clasped her hands near her heart. “This is so wholesome, Koda-kun.”
Even Bakugo, pretending not to listen at the back, cracked one eye open when he heard that a frog lived in the room, perhaps imagining a rogue amphibian hopping around the dorms.
As the last pair stepped out, Mina let out a happy sigh and scribbled away. “Vibe: an animal sanctuary in mini. Gentle and pure.”
Koda ducked his head, pleased that everyone seemed supportive, and Shoji helped him ease the door closed without jostling the terrarium.
Hagakure practically jumped up next, her uniform floating with no body visible inside. She flourished an invisible skirt hem and introduced herself with a giggle. “Toru Hagakure, coming through!”
Her door swung open to reveal a room that was bright and a touch whimsical. Hagakure had lined one wall with a floor-to-ceiling curtain of shimmering material, when she stood in front of it, one could actually discern her silhouette better by contrast. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed overhead, their reflections dancing on the shiny curtain. A section of the room was set up like a mini stage: a karaoke mic, a projector, and a blank wall opposite the shiny backdrop for movie nights. Her bed was covered in a duvet patterned with cartoon ghosts, and a shelf by the bed showcased an impressive collection of horror DVDs and manga (labels facing outward since she didn’t need to worry about blocking anyone’s view of them). On her desk was an array of makeup and accessories, a variety of colorful sunglasses, hats, and gloves, her ways of “appearing” when she wanted to.
The class entered with excited curiosity. “Playful transparency,” Momo said with a grin. “Literally crafting visibility and fun.”
“Well-zoned,” Iida commented. “Entertainment area separate from study area. No obvious hazards, good.”
Mina gasped and ran to the faux stage. “Girl, you made a whole performance corner?! Love it!”
Hagakure’s gloves clapped as she bounced. “Movie nights, karaoke, you name it! I figured if people can’t see me, I can still direct the spotlight elsewhere.”
Jiro was already thumbing through the horror collection. “These are classics… Oh wow, you have the limited edition of Spirited Away and Invisible Man back to back. Heh, nice.”
Hagakure giggled. “Had to. Invisible solidarity.”
Tsuyu stepped in front of the reflective curtain and tilted her head until she saw a faint outline of Toru beside her. “This curtain helps, kero.”
“That’s the idea!” Toru said proudly. “Hatsume helped me with the material. It’s still in testing, but under certain light, I show up as a kind of glimmer.”
Midoriya was scribbling mental notes again at the support gear mention. “Creative visibility solutions… Fascinating.”
“Also, total party central,” Kaminari added, eyeing the projector. “I call first game night here!”
“Ooh, noted!” Toru cheered.
With everyone thoroughly charmed, Mina jotted down her scores. “Vibe: glittery ghost paradise. Fun and inventive, very Toru.”
Hagakure offered an unseen bow (indicated by a lowering of floating gloves) as she shut off her fairy lights and closed the door. “Thank you, thank you… I’ll be here all year!” she joked.
It was Iida’s turn next, and he executed a crisp stand as if he were at a podium. “Tenya Iida, presenting my room.” He unlocked his door and slid it open, standing aside with an ushering hand. “Please, come in, but do remove your shoes and keep to the walkway runner, if you don’t mind.”
Iida’s room was, expectedly, extremely neat and efficient. A navy blue runner carpet lined the path from the door to the bed, ensuring no dirt would mar the polished wood floors. His bed was perfectly made with a U.A.-blue bedspread and hospital corners sharp enough to pass inspection. Above the bed hung a framed poster of his elder brother’s agency (Turbo Hero Ingenium depicted leading a rescue). His desk was organized with a charging station for devices, a stand holding open a thick book on hero ethics, and a clipboard with his daily schedule filled in to the hour. On a shelf, a collection of alarm clocks was displayed, some vintage, some high-tech, all set precisely to the same time. A small whiteboard on the wall listed Iida’s goals for the week in tidy bullet points, and at the very bottom in a different color was a note: “Remember to relax – by order of Ochaco & Momo” with a smiley face.
Jiro glanced around and smirked. “Only you would turn a dorm room into a faculty office, Iida. Clear homage to Ingenium. Backup alarms on top of backup alarms, peak Iida.”
Iida puffed up a bit. “What? I like things orderly. And the carpet keeps dirt off my textbooks.”
“Maximized academically,” Iida praised himself with a hint of humor. “Ample study resources, yet clear living area distinction.”
Kaminari pretended to tiptoe as if in a museum. “I feel like I shouldn’t touch anything… or breathe too hard.”
Jiro smirked. “He’s got backups for his backup alarms. This is peak Iida.”
Hagakure pointed out the whiteboard note. “Hey, we made it onto Iida’s board! See, he does listen to us sometimes.”
Iida coughed lightly, cheeks coloring. “My friends insisted I include some leisure in my schedule,” he explained to Animus, who was examining an antique wind-up alarm clock on the shelf with interest.
“Balance is important,” Animus said kindly. “Even our class rep must recharge.”
“Wise words,” Tokoyami intoned, as if quoting a proverb.
Mina scribbled on her sheet. “Vibe: future CEO’s dorm. Pristine with a side of heart.” She flashed Iida a playful thumbs-up. “Structured, but not soulless. We like it.”
Iida adjusted his glasses, both flattered and flustered. “Thank you. And thank you for staying on the carpet,” he added as they stepped out.
Momo went next, smiling with gentle poise as she guided them a couple of doors down. “Momo Yaoyorozu, vice representative, welcomes you,” she joked softly. She opened her door with a graceful push. “Please, come in. Pairs are fine.”
Momo’s room was elegant and intellectual. The walls were lined with tall, white bookshelves filled with textbooks, reference volumes, and a few classic literature novels. Interspersed were decorative pieces: a scale model of a Victorian-era cannon (a successful creation from her quirk finals, lacquered to preserve it), a glass terrarium with a tiny succulent, and some neatly framed photographs of her family and close friends. Her bed had a plush white comforter and a myriad of pillows in rich blues and golds. On the bed’s headboard, a row of notecards was clipped, each labeled as a “change-log” entry with a date and a lesson learned (Animus might have recognized that method from earlier conversation). Her desk had a sleek laptop on a stand, an organizer with various crafting tools, and a neatly rolled blueprint of some support gadget she’d been designing with Hatsume’s notes in the margins. A wooden mannequin figure (for sketching poses) sat atop her shelf next to a small sewing kit, showing her multifaceted hobbies.
The class walked in, admiring the mixture of comfort and studiousness. “Scholarly chic,” Jiro said, taking in the decor. “It’s like a mini-library, but cozy.”
“Maximized thoroughly,” Iida praised, running a finger along one of the orderly shelves. “Study, rest, and preparation areas are well defined.”
Mina was already leafing through one of the change-log cards pegged to the headboard. “She even decorates with wisdom. Look, ‘Don’t fear mistakes; learn from them – 05/12.’ So on-brand, Momo.”
Yaoyorozu laughed softly. “Those are just personal reminders.”
Midoriya’s eyes sparkled as he scanned her books. “You have the latest edition of Hero Tactics and You! And is that a signed copy of Nano-Tech in Modern Hero Costumes?”
Momo nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! The author visited last year’s symposium. I might have created a fountain pen on the spot for the autograph,” she admitted.
Tokoyami studied the Victorian cannon model. “A relic of battle repurposed into art… how poetic.”
Koda was gently petting the succulent’s glass case as if it were alive. “Even the plant looks happy…”
Sero peered at the blueprint on her desk. “New support item in the works?”
Momo smiled. “Just a prototype idea for a multi-tool staff… still refining it.”
Mina finished scribbling. “Vibe: graceful brainiac. Detailed, but warm. Totally Yaoyorozu.” She gave Momo a quick side-hug, which Momo returned with a pleased grin.
As Momo closed her door, a certain excited energy ran through the group. Only a few rooms remained, and everyone knew who they belonged to, the ones who’d never done this before.
Mina glanced at her roster, then lifted her pen toward the Bakusquad side of the group. “We’ll pause the alternation to slot a miss, Ashido’s next, then Shinso (penultimate), and Animus to close. Same threshold rules, slips ready, no self-scores.”
At the back, Shinso checked the timer thread discreetly looped around his finger; beside him, Animus kept his own score slip folded once between his fingers, unreadable, patient. Rain made small rivers on the common room’s glass wall, the gentle patter setting the rhythm for the finale.
Mina took two little hops backward to her own door like she was emceeing herself, then caught the impulse and softened it to a grin. “Ashido, reporting in. Same rules, shoes off, two at a time. I promise no strobe.”
She slid the door open. The room smiled back.
It wasn’t the neon explosion from her 1-A days; it was the edit. A low dance mat, foam underlay, no thump, claimed a corner in front of a thrifted full-length mirror secured to the wall with an anti-tip strap. A thin run of glow-in-the-dark tape dotted the floor in two short arcs, footmarks for dance drills, muted enough to disappear in daylight. The bed kept to soft white with a sun-pink throw folded at the foot; above it, two framed prints replaced her old collage: one silhouette mid-spin and one festival snapshot where everyone was laughing. A small mirror ball the size of an orange sat on the shelf like a joke she’d learned to keep small.
The desk was tidy: a makeup caddy corralled brushes and palettes; a portable speaker sat on a foam pad beside a slim laptop; a stack of playlist cards, actual index cards, was clipped together with titles like “warm-up,” “slow fire,” “cool-down.” A shallow tray held hair ties, athletic tape, and a mini first-aid kit. Cables hid in a sleeve. No LED rainbow, just a single warm strip tucked under the shelf that made the prints glow softly.
Pairs rotated through. Momo’s pencil found a bright tempo. “Dance-ready, curated sparkle, signature edited. Cohesive.”
Iida tracked the mirror anchors and the mat edge. “Impact damped; mirror anchored; visual markers low-contrast. Neighbor-friendly.”
Jiro touched the speaker pad with a knuckle. “Decoupled. You won’t buzz the hall.”
Kaminari leaned in, delighted. “You laminated the playlist cards? Organized chaos, chef’s kiss.”
Kirishima pointed at the glow-tape arc on the floor. “Footwork road map. Hard.”
Tsuyu’s eyes paused on the festival print where the class laughed together. “Good balance, kero. Fun without clutter.”
Aoyama clasped invisible hands at the shelf. “Mirror ball de-weaponized. Très tasteful.”
Bakugo eyed the speaker. “Bass stays under the floor.”
“Limiter on,” Mina said cheerfully. “And I don’t test routines at 2 a.m.”
Sero sighted the mirror mounts. “Strap hits a stud. Clean.”
Midoriya’s smile was small and sure. “It feels like momentum, not noise.”
Mina marked her slip last, for once. “Vibe: bright and grounded. We can sparkle and be considerate.” She tipped her head toward the hall, letting the last pair rotate out. “Thanks for stepping through.”
She set the little mirror ball so one facet caught the warm strip light and threw a quiet star on the ceiling, then let the door rest.
“Shinso next,” she called, voice carrying without shouting. “Penultimate, same threshold rules. Slips ready; no self-scores.”
At the back, Shinso’s timer thread ticked; Animus’s slip stayed folded once, patient. The rain stitched the glass like applause held in cupped hands. The finale gathered.
Mina’s voice eased down a half-step as she gestured toward the 11F hall. “Shinso, penultimate. Same etiquette, shoes off, two at a time.”
Hitoshi opened the door and stood to the side, one hand resting on the jamb. “Mind the line near the post,” he said evenly. “It’s padded.”
His room looked like he’d drawn it with straight lines and then softened the edges where they mattered. A foam-wrapped training post stood in one corner on a low mat, the base sand-bagged and quiet. A neatly coiled capture scarf rested above it in a fabric sling on a wall hook that hit a stud. Two short tape marks on the floor mapped footwork, no busy grid, just cues he trusted. The bed was spare and low; a slate-gray throw folded like a sentence that stops when it should. On the desk: a compact electric kettle, two mugs stacked on a tray, a notebook with three lines ruled in pencil, and a small vocal steamer beside a tin of lozenges. A cable sleeve managed the cords so nothing snaked into the walking lane.
Light came from the window and a simple desk lamp aimed down. A slim peg rail kept a hoodie, a towel, and a soft drawstring pouch out of the way; the pouch held a voice modulator mask in its case, clean, closed, nothing flashy. A single black-and-white print, a footbridge over still water, hung level above the dresser. On the shelf, a digital timer sat turned to zero; it looked well-used and recently quiet. No posters; no clutter; nothing that would catch an elbow if you changed direction fast.
Groups of two moved through the threshold in quiet consideration. Momo’s pencil set a steady cadence. “Disciplined minimal, threads and lines, softened at contact points.”
Iida traced the little training zone with his eyes. “Training area bounded; post padded; hook anchored to a stud; cords managed. Safe.”
Jiro listened and nodded toward the kettle. “No buzz. The kettle doesn’t sing until you want it to.”
Sero aligned his gaze with the tape marks. “Distances make sense. No overreach baked in.”
Kirishima pointed at the coiled scarf. “That wrap won’t tangle. Clean lay.”
“Learned the hard way,” Shinso said dryly. The corner of his mouth almost moved.
Tsuyu’s gaze paused on the steamer and lozenges. “Voice care is good planning, kero.”
Aoyama clasped invisible hands in delight. “Minimalist noir. Très sobre.”
Midoriya’s praise was small and sure. “Your footwork markers look honest.”
Bakugo flicked the hanging sling with a knuckle. It didn’t swing. “If you crack a wall, you’re patching it.”
“I’ll log it before I swing it,” Shinso returned, not defensive, just procedural.
Mina wrote as she spoke. “Sling mount, footwork tape, voice-care kit. Vibe: quiet, ready.” She glanced at the tray on Shinso’s desk and couldn’t help but add with a teasing lilt, “And the two mugs are a nice touch.”
“Insurance,” Shinso deadpanned, rolling with it. “In case someone shows up with tea debt.”
The laugh that went around was small and clean. Shinso eased the last pair through, thumbed the timer once so it clicked without starting, and let the door rest. “That’s it,” he said simply, resetting his timer thread.
Mina turned to the remaining student with a grin bright enough to chase off nerves. “Finale: Animus. Same threshold rules, slips ready, no self-scores. Take a breath.”
Rain stitched the glass like a held cymbal. The class shifted, anticipation mounting without crowding. The last door waited.
The crescent drew one quiet breath and held it.
Animus opened his door and stepped aside, palm flat against the jamb like he was remembering to be gentle with the building. “Shoes off,” he said, voice even, not loud. “Two at a time.”
The room was simple enough to be read in one glance, and layered enough to reward a second. Pale walls, a low bed pulled tight, a massive Alaskan king frame in dark metal with sheer black canopy curtains gathered at each post like silent sentinels. The desk was turned a few degrees so the corridor lived only in the corner of his eye; it was a heavy, dark wooden piece that looked imported rather than standard issue. A shallow tray on its surface held a phone facedown on a braided charging cable, a pen, and a folded note tucked under the pen, edges softened as if it had been read more than once. On the lower shelf of the desk, a small go-bag sat zipped, clean and unobtrusive. On the peg by the door, a black jacket hung square, sleeve seams aligned. The window kept its view; the curtain tie-back looped once and tucked so it would release with a single pull.
Most of the room adhered to that measured minimalism, save for two personal indulgences. In one corner, atop a narrow cabinet, was a curated tea bar: a neat row of tins labeled in elegant script, a sleek electric kettle already quietly steaming, and two tea cups set on a tray as if expecting company. And on the wall opposite the bed, a floating shelf displayed a small collection of vinyl records and an old-fashioned turntable. A quick scan of the record spines would reveal an eclectic taste: a Joy Division album nestled right next to a Maria Takeuchi city-pop record, among others.
Under the bed, clear storage bins lived flush with the frame; labels faced inward, not out. A small first-aid kit rested on the shelf within reach but not on display. In another corner behind the desk, a powerful custom PC tower with faint amber LEDs sat alongside two neatly stacked monitors; the case’s styling, black steel with ornate grill patterns, echoed the room’s modern gothic lines.
Two by two, the class stepped in, but this time there was a hush. The room asked for it. Momo’s pencil found a careful rhythm. “Deliberate minimal, edges softened, contingencies contained. Hints of… gothic elegance.”
Iida traced the paths with his eyes. “Chair clearance maintained; no protrusions at shin or elbow; emergency items accessible.” His gaze flicked to the go-bag and first-aid kit, then away, accepting their necessity.
Jiro’s eyes lit up at the sight of the records. “He files post-punk next to city pop and doesn’t apologize,” she murmured, crouching to read the labels. “That’s… my lane.” A delighted grin spread across her face.
Mina raised an eyebrow, playful. “Kinda villain-chic, not gonna lie,” she murmured under her breath. The description drew a delighted snicker from Jiro and a subtle thumbs-up from Toru.
Tokoyami, arms crossed thoughtfully, gave a solemn nod. “Elegance in darkness,” he said approvingly, voice barely above a whisper. It was high praise from him.
Kirishima tipped his chin at the desk’s subtle angle. “You gave yourself a little safety window. Smart.”
Aoyama clasped invisible hands. “Simplicity with grace. Très sobre, très juste.”
Midoriya’s voice was warm and brief. “It’s careful. In a good way.”
Bakugo’s glance checked the kettle cord and the footprint of the bins under the bed. “Don’t trip your own plan.”
“Working on it,” Animus said, and the corners of his mouth acknowledged the joke like a truce.
Hagakure was practically vibrating with excitement beside Mina. “You know,” she half-whispered to the girls, “we could have a full slumber party on that bed.” It was an exaggeration, but only slightly. Mina bit back a grin and nodded vigorously in agreement.
Mina marked her slip, then hesitated, smiling around at her classmates. “Note kept, cup ready, go-bag squared. Vibe: quiet, present, with layers.” She flashed Animus a friendly smile as the last pair tiptoed out. “Very nicely done, newbie.”
Animus guided the final two classmates through with a slight lift of his hand and let the door rest where it preferred. “Thank you,” he said, even, unforced.
For a beat, the rain on the glass sounded like a room full of people remembering to breathe. Then Mina lifted her head, energy bright and contained.
“Slips in,” she said, raising her own filled-out scorecard. “No self-scores, add them up.”
The crescent of students loosened into motion. Papers fluttered as scores were tallied; low voices compared notes. Across the hall, a kettle somewhere clicked to readiness, releasing a soft puff of steam. The contest, and the evening, had turned the corner.
The scores were tallied quickly in the lively chaos of the 10F commons. Pens scratched, pages shuffled, and within minutes, Momo had compiled the results on a clipboard. The class drifted into an easy circle around the sunken U-shaped couch, some perched on the plush arms or cross-legged on the floor. Rain tapped steadily at the windowwall, but inside was all warm light and rising chatter.
Momo remained standing, flanked by Iida, who cleared his throat for quiet. “Attention, everyone!” he announced, excitement threading through his formality. “The contest scores are in.”
A hush fell, broken by a few stifled laughs as Mineta pretended to pray at the mention of scores. Mina bounced on her heels, unable to contain a grin.
Momo held up the clipboard. “First, congratulations to all of us. The room designs were wonderful, no false praise. The improvement from our first year is remarkable.” She paused to let a little cheer pass through the group. “Now for the results. The team totals were within a few percentage points of each other, but…” She traded a look with Iida, who gave a proud nod. “Team Midoriya takes it!”
A whoop went up from Team Midoriya’s side of the couch. Uraraka and Tsuyu high-fived, and Tokoyami allowed himself a small, satisfied nod. Sato’s easy smile broadened, and Midoriya looked quietly proud, a relieved breath leaving him as he met Bakugo’s eyes across the circle. Bakugo clicked his tongue and looked away, but not before a grudging smirk flickered; the contest may have been close, but a win was a win.
“As promised,” Momo continued, “Team Midoriya gets to choose our victory dinner.” She inclined her head toward Midoriya, prompting him.
Midoriya sat up, caught off guard at being the center of attention. “Oh! Um, well, any ideas?” He immediately opened it to the group with a sheepish laugh. “Team Midoriya, what are we in the mood for?”
“Korean BBQ,” Tokoyami suggested under his breath, a hint of enthusiasm in his usually stoic tone.
“Ooh, or hotpot!” Uraraka added, eyes bright. “We can order a bunch of sides and share.”
Yaoyorozu rested a finger on her chin. “Yakiniku could be delivered on portable grills… We’d have to mind the ventilation, though.”
“Sushi platter?” offered Ojiro, flicking his tail gently against the couch. “Easy to share, no smoke.”
Sato clasped his hands in mock plea. “Why not all of the above? I’m starving.” Laughter rippled as he patted his stomach in emphasis.
Midoriya laughed along with them. “We are twenty-two growing heroes… Honestly, I think we can manage a combo.” He looked around to see enthusiastic agreement. “How about a mixed feast? Some sushi, some grilled meat and veggies… something for everyone.”
“Plus dessert, courtesy of our top chef,” Kaminari chimed, pointing at Sato.
At that cue, Sato brightened. “Ah, that reminds me.” He ducked over to retrieve a tin on which he’d written “share after” in big letters. The tape came off with a brisk zip, and as he lifted the lid, a heavenly scent of butter and chocolate wafted out. “Double-chocolate chunk cookies,” he announced bashfully. “Baked last night. I… hoped we’d have something to celebrate.”
He didn’t even finish the sentence before Mina and Kirishima leaned in, inhaling dramatically. “Sato, you legend,” Mina sighed, pretending to swoon against Jiro.
“Legend of the kitchen,” Kirishima agreed, eyes shining cartoonishly.
Within moments, cookies were being passed around the circle. Even Aoyama set aside his lactose concerns to nibble one (“dark chocolate, no cream, très bien!” he declared). The collective hum of delight that followed the first bites could have powered Kaminari’s whole room.
On the opposite side of the couch, Bakugo chewed thoughtfully and gave a single firm nod. “Acceptable,” he pronounced, which, for him, was high praise. Sato beamed at that, looking like he’d won a second contest.
Iida adjusted his glasses, smiling as crumbs disappeared from plates almost as fast as Mineta’s tears in the face of good food. “Before we lose focus entirely,” Iida interjected, raising his voice just enough, “there’s still the matter of the highest individual score.”
“Ooh, room crown time!” Mina sing-songed, brushing cookie crumbs off her hands. Beside her, Hagakure clapped invisibly, her sleeves and scrunchie bouncing.
Momo held up a playful construction paper crown decorated with doodles and tiny star stickers. “Our Room King or Queen gets this… exquisite headpiece, ” she allowed a ripple of laughter, “, and first pick when we order dinner.” She scanned the names with a delighted smile. “With an impressive average score of 95 out of 100… Sato takes the crown!”
“Eh? Me?” Sato nearly dropped the last cookie he was about to eat. The class broke into applause and a few good-natured whistles. Kirishima reached over to clap Sato on the back, nearly knocking crumbs out of him.
“Those cookies really were worth bonus points,” Jiro teased, winking.
“Cheater by charisma!” Sero declared, laughing.
“Come on up, Your Majesty,” Mina giggled, beckoning Sato to stand.
Sato’s cheeks flushed pink as he rose. Momo met him in the middle of the circle and, with a ceremonial flourish that got everyone grinning, placed the silly paper crown on his head. “Speech!” Mineta heckled, prompting another round of chuckles.
Sato adjusted the crown (which sat comically on his fluffy hair) and cleared his throat with an exaggerated ahem. “I’d like to thank the academy, er, my classmates, for their discerning taste in interior design,” he joked. “And I humbly accept the responsibility of first dibs on dinner. Which, by the way, I choose to share with all of you.” He dipped into a playful bow that made the crown wobble.
“Long live the King of Cookies!” Kaminari cheered, raising an imaginary glass. Laughter and cheers went up as Sato returned to his seat, crown slightly askew and a big, embarrassed smile on his face.
The celebration settled into a comfortable murmur after that. Team Bakugo took their narrow loss in stride. Kaminari was already joking that they’d definitely reclaim glory in the next challenge (whatever that might be). Bakugo rolled his eyes and muttered something about “damn tie-breakers,” but the corner of his mouth stayed lifted; he seemed content enough devouring a second cookie.
On the couch’s arm, Mina lounged upside down, legs kicking lazily in the air. “So worth it,” she sighed happily. “Not a single bad room in the bunch. We rock.”
“We certainly improved,” Momo agreed, reclining with a cup of tea. “Even Mineta’s, ” She caught herself. “I mean, especially Mineta’s,” she corrected graciously.
Mineta gave a theatrical thumbs-up. “Heh, I know what I am. But seriously, you guys haven’t seen anything yet. I have plans for a bookshelf, once I buy the wood.”
“Attaboy,” Kirishima laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
In the gentle hubbub, Midoriya’s gaze drifted across the circle to Animus. Animus sat at the end of the U-couch, quietly observing the lighthearted banter with a cup of cooling tea in hand. Sensing Midoriya’s eyes on him, he offered a small, polite smile. He looked content, if a bit reserved, amid the boisterous camaraderie.
Midoriya returned the smile and pushed himself to his feet. “Hey, everyone?” he called, not loudly but with enough warmth that heads turned. “Since we have a new class member joining us, I thought maybe we could properly introduce ourselves, beyond just rooms and scores.”
“Yes! Yes!” Uraraka piped up immediately, sitting upright. “We haven’t done a round table in forever.”
Iida was already standing; he had clearly been about to suggest the same. “An excellent idea. We should each give our name, quirk, and maybe a fun fact or focus for this year.” He looked around at the circle of familiar faces. “It’s only proper we officially welcome Athame to Class 3-A.”
Momo stood as well, hands clasped in front of her. “Iida and I can moderate. We’ll go in seating order to keep it simple.”
Animus blinked, momentarily surprised to be the focus of this sudden attention, then inclined his head graciously. “Thank you. I… would appreciate that.” His voice was measured and quiet, but it carried sincere gratitude.
“Yosh! I’ll go first!” Mina announced, popping up from her inverted sprawl and nearly flinging herself over the back of the couch. In a dramatic pose, she put one hand on her hip and saluted with the other. “Mina Ashido, hero name Pinky! Quirk: Acid!” She gave a playful wink. “I can secrete acid from my skin, strength and solubility controlled at will. This year I’m focusing on agility training and, uh, maybe running Class 3-A’s social calendar.” She shot Animus a dazzling grin. “Fun fact: I won the middle school dance championship twice. So if you ever need dance moves or a pick-me-up, I’m your girl!”
“Plugging her dance skills right off the bat,” Jiro teased, strumming an imaginary guitar. “Classic Mina.”
Mina plopped back down with a self-satisfied beam as Iida scanned for the next person. “Continuing clockwise… Tokoyami?”
Tokoyami adjusted his posture, folding his cape neatly as he rose. He gave a polite half-bow, one hand over his chest. “Fumikage Tokoyami. Quirk: Dark Shadow. I manifest a sentient shadow beast from within me. I endeavor to sharpen my control over darkness and stealth tactics.” He paused, eyes glinting under the brim of his familiar black cap. “Fun fact: I practice poetry by moonlight. The pen is my ally when the sword is sheathed.”
A few smiles flickered around the group; a poetic flourish was very Tokoyami. “It’s good poetry, by the way,” Midoriya added kindly for Animus’s benefit. “He had a piece published in the school literary bulletin.”
Tokoyami’s cheeks darkened a shade, but he accepted Midoriya’s praise with a dignified nod and took his seat.
Next was Shoji. He unfolded his large frame from the couch and inclined his head. “Mezo Shoji. Quirk: Dupli-Arms. I can replicate my senses by growing extra appendages and organs.” He flexed an extra arm briefly, then let it rest. “This year I’m focusing on reconnaissance and rescue synergy… using my quirk to gather intel quietly and help those who might not be easily reached.” His voice, though soft, carried a comforting weight. A subtle smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Fun fact: I volunteer with heteromorph advocacy groups. Sometimes that means bringing a bunch of shelter animals for kids to play with.” His eyes crinkled kindly. “If you ever see a line of little kids following someone with a litter of kittens after class… that’s probably me.”
“Aww, Shoji, that’s so sweet,” Hagakure cooed, clapping even though only her floating gloves showed it.
As Shoji settled, Ojiro stood and gave a small, respectful bow, tail curled politely off the floor. “Mashirao Ojiro. Quirk: Tail.” He pointed back at the strong, prehensile tail extending behind him. “It’s pretty self-explanatory. I use it for martial arts and movement. I’m training to refine my close-combat techniques this year, learning some new throws and counters.” He rubbed the back of his neck, modestly. “Fun fact… I’ve been practicing shodō (calligraphy). It, ah, helps with focus and precision. I can write ‘dedication’ in four different styles now.” A few classmates murmured appreciatively.
“His calligraphy is beautiful, by the way,” Yaoyorozu interjected, remembering how Ojiro’s neat labels had impressed her during the room tours.
With a grateful smile, Ojiro sat down, and it was Jiro’s turn. She stood and flicked one of her earphone jacks forward in greeting. “Kyoka Jiro, hero name Earphone Jack. Quirk: Earphone Jack,” she said dryly. “I plug these, ” she lifted a jack “, into things and channel my heartbeat into devastating sound. I’m working on finer sound manipulation and some leadership stuff, believe it or not.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Fun fact: I play bass and guitar, and I’m trying to learn the keyboard. Music’s kinda my thing.” She added in a softer, humorous tone, “Also, I have a pet cat named Mika who’s way too good at turning off my alarm clock.”
“That’s why you’re late sometimes!” Mina gasped theatrically, prompting chuckles.
“Blame the cat, always blame the cat,” Jiro replied with a grin as she sat down.
Next was Denki, who virtually leapt to his feet. “Denki Kaminari, hero name Chargebolt!” He struck a cheesy thumbs-up pose. “Quirk: Electrification. I can generate and absorb electricity. If I overdo it, I get a little, ” he twirled a finger near his temple, referencing his well-known post-overcharge goofiness, “, loopy. This year, I’m working on controlling it better, so I don’t fry my own devices anymore. Also, if anyone wants to play old school video games, I’m your guy.” He wagged his eyebrows comically. “Fun fact: I’m a pro at retro video games. Seriously, challenge me to Mystery Monster Go! or any arcade classic, guaranteed I’ll win.”
“Facts, unfortunately,” Kirishima called out, recalling many lost gaming sessions to Kaminari.
Denki took his seat to friendly eye-rolls, and Iida gestured to the next student with a polite smile. “Mineta?”
Mineta popped up, straightening an imaginary tie. “Minoru Mineta, hero name Grape Juice!” He gave a theatrical bow. “Quirk: Pop Off. I pull these, ” he tapped the round grape-like orbs on his head “, off and they stick to stuff. Super sticky, super strong.” He flashed a grin. “I’ve been improving my quirk control and, uh, working on creative ways to use it beyond just trapping baddies.” He coughed, as if acknowledging past… mischief. “This year I’m focusing on teamwork tactics and upping my stamina so I can spam grapes all day without keeling over.” He spread his hands sheepishly. “Fun fact: I’ve been working on new ways to use them besides trapping bad guys, and, um, I’ve been practicing my drawing lately. Maybe I’ll show you sometime. I started a little online comic last year, The Grape Vine Chronicles. It’s a gag manga loosely based on our class. Names changed to protect the innocent, of course.” He wiggled his eyebrows, clearly proud of this.
A beat of silence, then laughter broke out. “You what?” Kaminari snorted.
“Wait, are we in it?!” Hagakure gasped, half-delighted, half-mortified.
Mineta just put a finger to his lips cryptically. “I can neither confirm nor deny. But Volume One has five-star reviews.”
p>
Sero face-palmed, laughing. “I'd better be the handsome lead, Mineta.”
“In your dreams,” Mineta cackled, sitting back down.
Iida pinched the bridge of his nose with a good-natured sigh. “Moving on… Koji?”
Koda, who had been trying to sink into the floor during Mineta’s theatrics, rose slowly with Shoji’s encouraging nudge. “I’m… Koji Koda,” he said quietly. “Hero name Anima. Quirk: Anivoice. I… I speak to animals.” He offered Animus a shy smile. “I’m focusing on using animals more in search-and-rescue and recon. They can go places and notice things we might miss.” He paused, cheeks pink. “Fun fact: I’ve been… raising some butterflies in my room. It’s part of a conservation project. Once they hatch, I’ll release them in the school garden.”
A collective “aww” went around. “That’s so wholesome, Koda-kun,” Uraraka said, beaming. Even Bakugo, pretending not to listen, cracked one eye open at that, perhaps imagining rogue butterflies flapping around the dorms.
Koda ducked his head, pleased at the support, and eased back down.
Hagakure practically jumped up next, her uniform floating excitedly. She flourished an invisible skirt hem and introduced herself with a giggle. “I’m Toru Hagakure! Quirk: Invisibility.” She twirled once, apart from the faint outline of her hands and the bobbing of her yellow shoes; she was effectively unseen. “I can bend light around me. It’s great for stealth, not so great for hide-and-seek with friends.” That earned a laugh. “I’m working with the Support Department on a light suit that can help me appear when I want to. It’s still in testing, but fingers crossed!” Toru’s voice turned sing-song. “Fun fact: I love horror movies. I know, I know, the invisible girl likes invisible ghosts, who would’ve thought? But seriously, if anyone wants to binge some spooky films, I’ve got a collection.”
“We should do that for Halloween!” Mina gasped, already imagining a horror movie night.
Hagakure gave two thumbs up (sleeves floating in mid-air) and sat down, her enthusiasm palpable.
It was Iida’s turn, and he executed a crisp stand as if he were behind a podium. “Tenya Iida, class representative. Quirk: Engine.” He pointed to the muffler-like protrusions on his calves. “I have engines in my legs that allow me burst-speed movement. I specialize in fast rescues and interventions. This year, I’m focusing on advanced emergency response and improving my reaction time even further.” He adjusted his glasses, every bit the earnest leader. “Fun fact: I maintain a strict daily schedule, down to five-minute increments. It’s… actually quite fun for me to tick off completed tasks.” A mixture of fond groans and laughs rippled through the class.
“Manual Iida and his beloved checklists,” Sero teased, to which Iida responded with a light chop of his hand and a good-natured chuckle.
Momo went next, smiling with gentle poise. “Momo Yaoyorozu, vice representative. Quirk: Creation. I can create any non-living object from my body fat, so long as I understand its molecular structure.” She tapped her temple lightly. “I’m diving deeper into support equipment and strategic leadership this year, trying to be a hero who can think and plan on her feet.” She exchanged a nod with Iida, their partnership in class leadership evident. “Fun fact: I’ve developed a habit of writing change-logs for my life, after every major event or mistake, I note what I learned. It’s quite… organized,” she chuckled. “And I love historical fiction novels; I have plenty if anyone wants to borrow.”
“That notebook of hers is basically a second brain,” Jiro added, earning a warm elbow from Momo as the class chuckled.
As Momo sat, Bakugo stood, hands jammed in his pockets. His face held its usual intensity, but there was a subtle ease in his posture among his peers. “Katsuki Bakugo. Hero name… still Dynamight,” he said with a little snort, acknowledging the name he’d finally accepted. “Quirk: Explosion. I sweat nitroglycerin and blow it up.” Animus could see the pride restrained behind his ruby eyes. “I’m pushing my limits on control and power, trying to minimize collateral while maximizing impact.” He jerked his chin toward Animus specifically. “Also doing some special training projects with a few of these nerds. Triad drills, combat simulations. We’re gonna run the first year ragged.”
“That’s the plan,” Kirishima interjected with an enthusiastic fist pump.
Bakugo smirked at that, then continued. “Fun fact…” He rolled his eyes upward as if it pained him to think of something personal to share. “I can make beef stew now. It doesn’t suck. Don’t expect me to be your chef.”
Kirishima chuckled. “I had some. It was good, he just won’t admit it.”
A few surprised looks met this confession; Bakugo rarely talked about domestic skills. He quickly rounded on them. “What? I can follow a damn recipe. Don’t make it weird.”
“Actually, it was amazing,” Kirishima vouched, patting his stomach. “Guy’s got a knack for spice balance.”
Bakugo’s ears went a bit red. “Shut it. I just hate crap food.” But the pleased twitch of his lips gave him away. He sat down to scattered applause (and a couple of playful “Yes, Chef!” calls from Kaminari and Sato).
Kirishima took the cue to go next. He sprang up, scarlet hair catching the overhead light. “Eijiro Kirishima, hero name Red Riot! Quirk: Hardening. I harden my body like rock, no, like steel!, and make myself a human shield or battering ram.” He flexed an arm, skin instantly jagged and dark like rough stone, then relaxed it back to normal. “I’m honing my durability even further and working on some tag-team moves with my buddies.” He threw an arm around Bakugo’s shoulders and gave him a hearty jostle. Bakugo clicked his tongue but didn’t protest the camaraderie. “Fun fact: I’m a total history buff for old heroes. Crimson Riot’s my idol, hence the name, and I’ve got a signed poster from him framed in my dorm now. Also,” he flashed Animus a grin, “I might’ve been the one to drag everyone into that room contest in our first year. No regrets, man. Good times.”
“Hear, hear!” Sero laughed, raising an imaginary glass again. “Kirishima’s manly spirit is the backbone of Class A.”
With an embarrassed laugh, Kirishima sat, scratching the back of his head.
Shinso was next. The indigo-haired boy uncrossed his arms and stood with an economy of movement. “Hitoshi Shinso. Quirk: Brainwashing.” His voice was low and even, almost monotone, but not unfriendly. “I can control someone who verbally responds to me, for a while at least. This year I’m honing my close-combat skills and multi-target control, making sure I can handle myself if my quirk only takes out part of a threat.” He scratched lightly at his neck, where a capture-scarf choker might go. “Fun fact: I’ve become something of a cat person. I, uh, feed a couple of strays behind the dorms. If you ever hear me meowing to thin air… that’s why.”
That earned a round of grins. “He acts all aloof, but show him a kitten and he’s all mush,” Kirishima rumbled fondly. “Trust me, I’ve seen it.”
Shinso rolled his eyes with a faint smirk and took his seat amid light laughter.
Next to Shinso, Todoroki rose, hands in his pockets. His heterochromatic eyes swept the group briefly. “Shoto Todoroki. Quirk: Half-Cold Half-Hot. I generate ice with my right side and fire with my left.” He demonstrated briefly by conjuring a small frost patch on one palm and a tiny flame in the other, then dousing both. “This year I’m focusing on refining simultaneous use of both elements, better power economy, and temperature control.” He spoke in a measured, soft deadpan. “Fun fact: I really like cold soba. I know the best soba shops in the city… probably too many, honestly.”
A small wave of chuckles spread around. “He’s not kidding,” Midoriya chimed in. “Shoto dragged me to four soba restaurants in one weekend until we found ‘the one.’”
Todoroki shrugged lightly, a ghost of pride on his face. “What can I say? When it comes to soba, compromise is not an option.” That earned him good-natured laughter as he sat down.
Sero hopped up next, easygoing grin in place. “Hanta Sero, hero name Cellophane. Quirk: Tape.” He flicked his elbows, unspooling a ribbon of tape from each and retracting it just as fast. “I shoot tape from my elbows. Works like super-strong tape for binding or swinging around.” He pretended to be Spider-Man, swinging for a second. “I’m working on creative capture tactics this year, spider-webbing, net traps, maybe a tape trampoline? We’ll see.” He gave Animus a friendly nod. “Fun fact: I’m the self-declared gift-wrap king of Class A. You know those gorgeous tape patterns on your birthday presents? Yep, that’s me. I can gift-wrap anything perfectly with my quirk.”
A few “ooohs” sounded. Mina wagged a finger. “It’s true. My last present from Sero looked professionally wrapped. The man’s got skills.”
“Party trick and practical hero skill in one,” Sero said, winking as he sat down.
Now it was Sato’s turn. He stood, still wearing the paper crown from earlier, slightly askew on his head. “Rikido Sato, hero name Sugar Man. Quirk: Sugar Rush.” He patted his bicep. “I convert sugar into strength. The more sugar I eat, the stronger I get, for a short time, anyway. But I also get sleepy if I use too much.” He chuckled. “This year, I’m focusing on increasing my sugar-processing efficiency and reducing that crash time. More power, less nap.” He spread his hands sheepishly. “Fun fact: I love to bake. But you probably knew that. So hmm… Ah! I started a little cooking channel online over the summer. ‘Sugar and Spice Hero Kitchen.’ I only have like ten subscribers, but it’s been fun.”
Gasps of excitement burst out. “YOU have a cooking channel?!” Mina practically screamed, then cleared her throat as Sato turned pink. “I mean, drop the link later, okay? For research.”
“Absolutely,” Sato laughed.
Aoyama practically leapt up next, doing a little twirl as he did. “Yuga Aoyama, hero name Can’t Stop Twinkling!” He sparkled, literally, as a tiny burst of laser light shimmered off his dazzling smile. “Quirk: Navel Laser. I shoot a fabulously powerful laser from my belly button.” He placed both hands on his slim hips and winked. “I used to get tummy aches if I fired too long, but I’ve improved très beaucoup with my new belt support device. This year, I’m aiming for sustained beams and precision aiming, pew pew!” He mimed blasting a villain in style. Then he flipped his glittery hair. “Fun fact: I consider myself Class 3-A’s fashion consultant. I host a weekly salon de mode in the common room. Anyone who wants tips on costume bedazzling or color coordination, I’m your man.”
Mina cheered quietly. “He really does. He talked me out of clashing pink-on-pink in my hero costume. Life saver.”
Aoyama blew Mina a kiss, then one to Animus for good measure, and sat down to a round of applause as bright as his persona.
Uraraka hopped to her feet, a bundle of positive energy. “Ochaco Uraraka, hero name Uravity! Quirk: Zero Gravity. I make things weightless with a touch of my fingertips.” She pressed her fingers together in demonstration. “I can make myself float, too, if I’m careful. This year I’m focusing on advanced rescue techniques, heavy lifting with minimal collateral damage, and improving my black-out threshold so I don’t, y’know, barf from overuse.” She laughed with self-deprecation. “Fun fact: I’m the best bargain shopper in the class.” She puffed up proudly. “Seriously, I have coupons and discount codes for days. Need a new hero costume piece for half off? Come to me. I once got Iida new running shoes for 70% off with a little coupon-fu.”
“She did,” Iida confirmed, shaking his head in amazement. “It was nothing short of heroic.”
“Her shopping trips are the stuff of legend,” Jiro stage-whispered to Animus, making Uraraka blush and laugh as she sat down.
Next to her, Tsuyu Asui stood with her hands neatly clasped. “Tsuyu Asui, but call me Tsuyu, kero. Hero name: Froppy. Quirk: Frog.” She tilted her head, frog-like. “I have the abilities of a frog, jumping, sticking to walls, long tongue, camouflage…” She demonstrated by extending her tongue past her classmates and snatching a stray cookie crumb off Sato’s shoulder, to laughter and a mock “Hey!” from Sato. Tsuyu retracted it calmly. “This year, I’m working on large-scale aquatic rescue and improving my adaptability in extreme temperatures. Floods, cold water, fast currents, kero, I want to handle it all.” She placed a finger to her chin in thought. “Fun fact: I have a lot of siblings, two little brothers and one little sister. Taking care of them taught me patience. Also,” a tiny smile played on her lips, “I’m surprisingly good at hide-and-seek. Camouflage helps.”
“She’s not kidding,” Hagakure piped up. “She once vanished in the common room during a game, and we never found her until she revealed herself.”
Tsuyu blinked serenely. “Toru, you were looking right at me. I was on the ceiling light, kero.”
Animus’s eyebrows raised, clearly impressed, as chuckles went around. Tsuyu sat down without fuss.
Next was Mineta (who had already gone), so the baton passed onward; actually, the last person left was Midoriya himself. Momo and Iida both turned to him expectantly, and Midoriya realized it with a start.
“O-oh, right! Me.” He rubbed the back of his neck and stood up, smiling bashfully. “I’m Izuku Midoriya, hero name Deku. Quirk: One For All.” He paused, realizing that he might need context. “It’s… a bit of a long story, but basically it’s a power that was passed down to me. It gives me super strength and a few extra abilities I’m still mastering.” He clenched a fist, and the air around it crackled faintly with green energy before he relaxed. “This year I’m focusing on fine-tuning those abilities and improving my situational awareness as a leader-in-training.” He looked around at his friends, clearly proud to be among them. “Fun fact: I’ve filled… um… about thirteen notebooks with hero analysis notes since my first year. If you ever need obscure hero trivia at 3 AM, I’m your guy.” He gave Animus a sheepish grin. “Seriously, I might have something on just about any hero or quirk by now.”
“He really will deliver a dissertation,” Iida affirmed with an affectionate sigh. “We’ve timed him.”
A round of affectionate laughter went up as Midoriya sat down, cheeks a bit red but eyes bright. The circle then turned to Hagakure’s right, where, by process of elimination, Animus himself sat, now effectively the last to introduce.
Noticing this, Iida straightened formally. “And finally, our new class member: Athame-san.”
Twenty-one pairs of eyes fell upon Animus with encouraging expectation. Animus set aside his teacup gently and stood. The rain’s rhythm against the windows seemed to soften as he gathered his thoughts. He inclined his head in a courteous half-bow. “I’m Animus Athame, hero name Embrus. Quirk: Avatar.” He flicked one of the black, steel-like earrings on his left ear, drawing attention to the matching array of piercings along both ears. “The support gear I wear, these seals, allows me to form up to three stable links with other people. Through those links, I can mirror certain quirks to anyone connected and impart an amplification effect similar to a quirk awakening to support the team. Heteromorphic and stockpile-type quirks don’t work with my power, unfortunately. And it’s… costed. There’s a toll on anyone I’m linked with. So I keep it precise.”
A few classmates exchanged impressed looks. Midoriya’s eyes practically sparkled at finally hearing a description; he was undoubtedly already scribbling mental notes a mile a minute.
Animus continued, voice respectful and humble. “This year, my focus is integration. Learning to work as a team, to contribute meaningfully to the group.” His gaze traveled across the familiar faces of Class 3-A. “I have a lot to learn from all of you.”
He paused, then added softly, “Fun fact: I’m something of a tea enthusiast.” A modest smile touched his lips as he glanced down at the cup he’d set aside. “I collect blends and brews from all over. So if you ever see me fussing over water temperature in the common kitchen… that’s why.”
“He made that oolong in his room earlier,” Shinso chimed in, lifting his own cup in a subtle toast. “It’s solid.”
“Oh! We’ll have to have a tea party,” Uraraka said brightly, clapping her hands together. “I’d love to try some.”
Tsuyu smiled and added. “I met Animus one summer when we were all much younger, and he always loved Tea Ceremonies even back then. Like some old man, kero.”
Animus inclined his head in agreement. “I’d be happy to share. Perhaps I can learn your preferences too.”
As Animus took his seat again, Mina let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped against the back of the couch dramatically. “Ahh, our class is officially complete. We have two tea nerds now, sorry, enthusiasts,” she corrected with a wink at Animus and Momo, who was known for her elaborate tea sets. The group chuckled.
Midoriya stayed standing just a moment longer, eyes warm as they swept over his friends. “Welcome to 3-A, Animus. And… I guess welcome back to all of us, too.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish with emotion. “It’s really good to be here with everyone.”
“Hear that? Our resident Midoriya is getting sappy,” Bakugo drawled, though the edge in his voice was fond. “He’s right, though.”
Animus felt a gentle nudge at his elbow, Toru’s invisible hand, lightly tapping. She leaned close and faux-whispered, “Glad to have you with us. We’re only mostly crazy.” Her playful giggle made Animus chuckle under his breath.
“Thank you,” he murmured back, pitching his voice for her ears alone. “I already feel at home.” And strangely, he realized he meant it.
The circle dissolved into relaxed conversations after that. Iida and Yaoyorozu quietly slipped out to coordinate the takeout order (Team Midoriya’s feast was going to be legendary by the sounds of it). Sato’s cookie tin emptied entirely, and Bakugo of all people flicked the last few crumbs out and dusted his hands, looking content.
By the time the food arrived, delivered by a beleaguered but smiling U.A. support staffer, the rain outside had intensified into a steady downpour. The class didn’t mind; they were too busy digging into a spread of sushi rolls, grilled beef, stir-fried vegetables, and even a bubbling hotpot that Yaoyorozu insisted on conjuring a lid for between servings. Laughter bounced off the high ceilings of the common room as they recounted moments from the room tours: Mineta’s dramatic “Welcome!” (complete with mock wine glass flourish), the shocked face Sero made when Kaminari’s sudden guitar chord startled a passerby during a jam session, the poetic way Tokoyami described the lighting in Shoji’s room (“a held note,” he’d said, earning an approving nod from Shoji).
Animus listened as much as he spoke. He found himself between Midoriya and Shinso on the couch, the three forming a quiet sub-group of observers amid the din. Midoriya would occasionally chime in to excitedly connect something Animus said to an anecdote from their first year or something All Might had once told him. Shinso, for his part, would quip dryly now and then, like pointing out how loud the dorms were tonight compared to the near-silence of the old General course halls, a comment that made Animus smile.
Across the circle, Kirishima was animatedly comparing sparring techniques with Ojiro, throwing light punches in the air to demonstrate. Hagakure had migrated (along with her plate) to sit by Tsuyu and Mina, where they were excitedly planning that horror-movie marathon now that they knew of Toru’s collection. Aoyama had fetched a deck of cards from somewhere and was showing Sato a simple magic trick, making a queen of hearts appear from behind his ear. Sato laughed appreciatively and tried to mimic it with far less grace.
Eventually, stomachs were full, and the adrenaline of the day began wearing down. One by one, classmates trickled to their feet to head to their new rooms for the night. The communal cleanup was swift. Yaoyorozu’s efficient system of trash-sorting had everyone disposing of takeout containers and chopsticks in record time, and Iida made sure the common kitchen was spotless (“We will NOT start the year by breaking the cleaning rota,” he declared, pointing to a neatly printed schedule on the fridge).
“Kaminari, lights,” Jiro reminded, nodding to the overheads. He gave a salute and dimmed the common room lighting to a cozy low, leaving only the gentle glow of fixtures along the walls.
A warm contentment settled in Animus’s chest as he took in the scene. Here was a class, his class now, comfortably falling into a familiar rhythm: the little rituals of “good night” being passed around, Mina making sure to remind everyone about weekend plans (and getting a “Yes, mom” from Mineta and a “We’ll be there!” from Hagakure). Tokoyami slipped out to the balcony for a moment, umbrella in hand, to feel the rain; Shoji followed quietly, ensuring his friend didn’t stay out too long in the cold.
“Feels different from the outside, huh?” Shinso’s low voice drew Animus’s attention. The indigo-haired boy was observing him with an understanding half-smile.
Animus, who had been watching the others with a content but wistful expression, blinked. “What does?”
“Belonging,” Shinso clarified gently. “Being in it instead of looking in.”
Animus considered that, a slow smile warming his usually cool features. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It really does.”
Shinso nodded once, a gesture heavy with his own experience. “They’re good people,” he said simply.
Across the room, Midoriya caught Animus’s eye and shot him an encouraging grin as if to say We’re glad you’re here. Animus felt a swell of gratitude.
They were good people. His people, now.
As the last of his classmates ascended the stairs to the dorm floors, Animus lingered a moment in the dimly lit common room. The rain tapped a gentle rhythm on the glass, and he closed his eyes, committing the sound to memory.
Today had been long and overwhelming, but it ended in a way he never expected: surrounded by warmth and camaraderie, in a place that felt strangely like home.
He opened his eyes to find Shinso still beside him, hands in pockets, gaze on the rain. They exchanged a quiet look of mutual understanding before Shinso gave a slight tilt of his head toward the stairwell.
Animus returned a small nod. Together, in comfortable silence, the two made their way toward the stairs, the muffled laughter of their classmates echoing from the floors above.
Tonight, Heights Alliance felt alive with possibility, and for Animus Athame, Class 3-A’s newest member, it was the promising start of not just a school year, but a new life entwined with these vibrant, extraordinary people.
If every day from here on out held even a fraction of the heart he’d felt today, Animus thought as he ascended toward his room, then maybe, just maybe, this place could truly be home.
Rain began as a polite patter and grew into a steady drumming against the glass, the kind that turned city lights into smeared watercolor. Alone in his newly claimed space, Animus thumbed open the final requisition packet left on his desk. A slim note slid out:
Requisition Status: Personal Tea Set , Pending. Compliance review in progress; items retained until full certification.
He stared at the words. The muscles in his jaw tightened. Of course, the tea kit had to clear “regulation testing” when half the class could level a block with their quirks. He exhaled, steady and slow, counting each beat of breath the way his sisters taught him as a boy: four in, four hold, four out, four wait. The calm didn’t chase the heat away, but it gave him something to hold.
On instinct, he reached for the travel kettle he’d unpacked earlier. Empty. No kettle, no leaves. He flicked the edge of his thermometer instead, the little tool Midoriya had noticed at lunch. The steel clicked, a hollow sound in a quiet room.
He drifted to the window. Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the corner of the dorm like a watchtower; rain ran in rivulets down its face. The courtyard below glittered with reflected pool lights and the soft spill from the commons. Inside, laughter had died down to murmurs; the class split off to their rooms, bellies full and spirits eased. Up here, Animus watched water smear the skyline and listened to the hum of his own pulse. Serenity sat shoulder-to-shoulder with anticipation. Somewhere between them lay his resolve.
A soft knock broke the rhythm. Two measured taps. The kind that announced someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.
“Embrus? It’s All Might,” came the low, courteous baritone through the door, not the booming hero bark, but the voice of a man. His silhouette loomed in the hallway light, large and reassuring even in shadow. “If you have a moment… I brought tea.”
Animus’s hand hovered over the knob. Frustration eased; curiosity slipped in its place. He couldn’t help the faint, genuine smile that tugged at his mouth, not born of camaraderie but of anticipation, as he turned the handle.
Appendix , Full Dorm Contest Scoreboard
Scoring per category: Theme & Creativity (max 50), Use of Space (max 25), DIY & Personal Touches (max 25). Totals are averages per judge (out of 100). Team totals are the sum of all 11 members’ scores.
| Student | Theme & Creativity | Use of Space | DIY & Personal | Total Avg. Score |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Rikido Sato | 46/50 – Excellent | 24/25 – Great | 25/25 – Outstanding | 95 |
| Momo Yaoyorozu | 43/50 – Great | 23/25 – Great | 23/25 – Great | 89 |
| Tsuyu Asui | 43/50 – Great | 24/25 – Great | 23/25 – Great | 90 |
| Fumikage Tokoyami | 42/50 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 23/25 – Great | 88 |
| Ochaco Uraraka | 40/50 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 84 |
| Mashirao Ojiro | 39/50 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 83 |
| Shoto Todoroki | 39/50 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 83 |
| Koji Koda | 38/50 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 22/25 – Good | 83 |
| Tenya Iida | 37/50 – Fair | 25/25 – Perfect | 20/25 – Fair | 82 |
| Izuku Midoriya | 39/50 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 22/25 – Good | 84 |
| Animus Athame | 38/50 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 23/25 – Great | 84 |
| Team Midoriya Total ▶︎ | 436/550 | 252/275 | 247/275 | 19,875 points |
| Student | Theme & Creativity | Use of Space | DIY & Personal | Total Avg. Score |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Hanta Sero | 45/50 – Great | 24/25 – Great | 25/25 – Outstanding | 94 |
| Yuga Aoyama | 44/50 – Great | 24/25 – Great | 24/25 – Great | 92 |
| Mina Ashido | 42/50 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 23/25 – Great | 88 |
| Eijiro Kirishima | 41/50 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 22/25 – Good | 86 |
| Mezo Shoji | 40/50 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 22/25 – Good | 85 |
| Denki Kaminari | 40/50 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 85 |
| Kyoka Jiro | 40/50 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 85 |
| Hitoshi Shinso | 40/50 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 23/25 – Great | 85 |
| Katsuki Bakugo | 38/50 – Good | 25/25 – Perfect | 21/25 – Good | 84 |
| Toru Hagakure | 38/50 – Good | 21/25 – Fair | 22/25 – Good | 81 |
| Minoru Mineta | 36/50 – Fair | 22/25 – Good | 22/25 – Good | 80 |
| Team Bakugo Total ▶︎ | 404/550 | 251/275 | 250/275 | 19,750 points |
Result: Team Midoriya wins the contest , 19,875 points vs 19,750 for Team Bakugo. Room Crown awarded to Rikido Sato.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! This extra-fluffy move-in special took me a full week to pull together. I tweak pacing and detail based on your feedback, did the room tours hit the sweet spot? Next up: A talk form the former number one hero himself, the 3-B open-gym scrimmage and U.A. City Day’s Fashion Challenge. Scoreboard follows. Are all to come maybe not in one big chapter! Comment help me with pacing, I am still new to posting online so all the help is welcomed!
BellaRose45 on Chapter 5 Thu 04 Sep 2025 10:07PM UTC
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Animus Athame (Animus_Athame) on Chapter 5 Fri 05 Sep 2025 01:29AM UTC
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BellaRose45 on Chapter 5 Fri 05 Sep 2025 10:52PM UTC
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Animus Athame (Animus_Athame) on Chapter 5 Sat 06 Sep 2025 08:37PM UTC
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