12 years later

The insistent chant of “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” echoed through Izuku Midoriya’s bedroom— The Pro Hero Arise or also known as Shimura Nana, faithfully serving as his alarm clock.
The recorded voice droned on until he could no longer pretend it was someone else’s problem.

With a groan, Izuku cracked open one sleep-heavy eye.

Warm morning light poured through the slats of his blinds, painting golden stripes across his rumpled green-and-black duvet. He rolled onto his side, the springs of the mattress creaking in protest, and groped blindly for his smartphone on the nightstand.

Fingers brushing a stack of Notebooks and a stack of hero magazine clippings, before he finally grasped the smooth glass. He flipped it upright and swiped the alarm notification to the right, and with a soft click, the voice stopped. His lock screen appeared: a striking portrait of his favorite heroine, the Symbol of Peace, along the glowing digits, 6:23 AM.

Izuku let out a slow breath. He flexed his fingers, feeling a tingle of warmth spread through his hand and forearm. "If only I could sleep five more minutes", he mused.

He sat up, hair matted up in every direction, and rubbed his face until the last vestiges of sleep blurred away.
Swinigg his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the cool floorboards. Stretching once more, he rose and padded across the room to his dresser. Above it, a vibrant poster of Hero Arise beamed down at him—her thumb raised, smile from ear to ear, her trademark Cathphare "The strongest are those who smile" stretching over the Poster.

“You’re all in your third year now,” the teacher began, her voice carrying easily over the quiet classroom. “Which is why you need to start seriously thinking about the path you’ll take in life.” She held a neat stack of papers in her hands. “I have here your plans,” she continued, “along with some strong example applications for universities and jobs that you can use for yourselves.” She paused mid-sentence, her gaze sweeping over the class before settling—pointedly—on the girls.

“I think a lot of you already know what you want,” she said, a small, knowing smile curling her lips.

Several of the girls lit up at once, faces brightening with a rush of excitement. The room seemed to swell with energy as whispered plans and eager glances spread. By contrast, many of the boys dropped their eyes or hunched their shoulders, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“You want to be heroes, don’t you?” the teacher said suddenly, voice taking on a sharper edge. With a theatrical flick, she tossed the papers into the air; they fluttered down between desks like oversized snowflakes. The girls erupted, showing off their quirks without restraint—light sparks, swirls of color, a ripple of wind—each displays a little proclamation of intent.

Most of the boys, though, kept their faces turned skyward as if they could catch their courage back from the ceiling. A few looked away, some scowled, and others swallowed hard.

“Now, now, girls,” the teacher admonished with an indulgent smile. “Let’s not embarrass our lovely male students too much. Control yourselves… just a little.”

“Stop putting yourself down, Teach,” a loud voice cut through the buzz.

All heads turned to a girl who lounged like she owned the classroom. Booted feet rested on the desk; her short, messy blonde hair stuck up in defiant tufts. Crimson eyes flashed with blunt ****.

“’Cause I—hell, even the rest of the so-called extras—are still better than some quirkless incels,” Katsumi Bakugo declared, grin wide and brazen.

Silence fell for a beat, then murmurs rippled through the room—half scandal, half approval. A boy near the window hissed, “She’s such a stuck-up bitch,” and a few other boys echoed the sentiment under their breath.

“Such arrogance,” a girl sniffed, palms briefly bursting into tiny flames as if to emphasize the point. Beside her, a student with skin like weathered stone shrugged. “Still — her quirk’s flashy. Perfect for hero work.”

“Extras—how rude,” someone tutted primly from the back.

“But she’s not entirely wrong,” another voice admitted reluctantly, admiration barely disguised.

“I kind of like that confidence…” a quieter girl murmured, eyes bright.

“Putting her feet on the desk—disgraceful,” snapped a neat-haired student.

“She’ll get away with it,” one boy muttered, half resigned. “Administration doesn’t punish future pros.”

“Besides,” someone else added, “she’s got the grades to back her up.”

The teacher let out a small, indulgent sound. “I know you have a chance to be an amazing hero,” she said, eyes closed and a patient smile softening her features, “but you should be more respectful, young Bakugō.o I heard you applied to U.A. — is that correct?”

“U.A.? Wow.” The response came in a flutter of whispers. “I heard their acceptance rate is only 0.1%.”

“Such a prestigious school.”

“My brother says the first-year classes make you fight robots as big as houses.”

Katsumi’s grin only widened. She pushed herself up in the chair, boots thumping lightly against the desk, and tossed a loose strand of hair back with a casual flick. “Of course I applied,” she said, voice ringing with easy certainty. “I’m going to U.A., and then I’ll be the Number One Hero. I’ll even surpass the Symbol of Peace—Arise.”

“That’s wonderful, young Bakugo,” the teacher said, her eyes sweeping the room like a hawk. She let the praise hang a moment before adding, almost casually, “But I hear someone else here also applied to U.A.’s famous school.” The words landed in the classroom, and the students’ murmurs died away; disbelief rippled across faces—who else would dare apply to such a prestigious University?

“Young Midoriya,” the teacher continued, a sly, expectant glint in her eye.

The name struck him harder than it had any right to. Izuku—green hair mussed from sleep, still half in the fog of the morning—jerked in his seat and let out a small, involuntary yelp. Surprise and panic rose hot in his throat. He could feel every head turning toward him, the weight of a hundred curious eyes pressing down like heat. Fingers that had been idly tracing notebook margins stilled.

Time seemed to stretch. The teacher’s gaze was fixed on him, patient but probing, and for the first time, all the talk about acceptance rates and heroic futures felt unbearably personal. He became aware of the rustle of paper, the soft intake of breath from the row behind him, the tiny shift of a chair—noises that suddenly meant everything.

“Why don’t you tell us about your choice and your dreams, like Katsumi?” the teacher asked, her tone gentle but pointed.

“Well I I-I… w-wan–want…” he tried to stammer out, caught off guard by the sudden question and painfully aware of how unsteady his voice sounded. The words tangled in his throat before they could take shape, tripping over each other like panicked animals.

A thousand thoughts began to churn and collide in his mind, rising from somewhere deep in his gut until they pressed against the back of his tongue. Dreams, fears, and half-formed sentences crowded there, but each one withered before it could leave his lips.

He swallowed hard, the sound loud in his ears. The weight of the room seemed to press in on him. He could feel the stares—every single one of them—like needles pricking through his skin.

Disgust, envy, bewilderment, and hate.

Just as his answer began to form, a single explosion thundered down onto his desk.

CRACK!

Smoke stung his nose. Burn marks blackened the wood. Izuku hit the floor hard.

“HEY, DEKU—ARE YOU AN IDIOT?!” Katsumi roared, slamming her palm down again for emphasis. Her voice was all heat and scorn.

“You’re a man, quirkless — even beneath these female extras,” she sneered. The class flinched; a hush fell.

For a split second, she froze: the muscles around her mouth softened, her eyes dropped to his face, and something like pain flared there. She swallowed, then barked, “You think you can compete with me? With villains?” Her hand, callused and still warm from the blast, reached out before she could stop it and grabbed his sleeve, hauling him upright roughly. Up close, he could see she was trembling.

“Don’t be stupid,” she hissed out, as she turned around with slightly red cheeks.

Katsumi scuffed her boot against the desk in a petulant huff. Izuku let out a relieved breath, the pressure in his chest easing as the classroom’s attention snapped back to the teacher.

(84 minutes later)

The bell finally rang, and the class spilled out into the corridor in loose clusters. Students drifted into groups, voices rising in the familiar post-lesson din.

“Man, that was scary,” Sato Aki said as he fell in step beside Izuku. He had a round, friendly face and a curtain of black hair that hung over his eyes.

Another friend, Murano Yuki — with brown hair swept up in an up-bang — jogged to catch up. “But why do you even try for U.A.?” he asked, half curious, half incredulous. “You know how impossible it is for people like us to get in.”

“I know, Murano,” Izuku replied, tucking his textbooks into his bag. He gave a small, embarrassed smile. “It’s just… sometimes I don’t even know why I want to go there.” The admission came softly, honest; he looked down at his shoes for a moment before meeting their faces again.

“Hopeless dreamer,” Sato teased, watching his friend flush. He grinned, then tried to change the subject. “Did you guys see Mt. Lady’s debut?”

Both boys nodded. “She’s definitely a looker, huh?” Sato said, nudging Izuku with playful warmth. His grin widened, making the others chuckle.

Murano scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, she’s got presence. Not my favorite, though — I thought Ryukyu had more… .”

Sato laughed. “Come on, don’t be shy. Did you see that figure? Perfect curves, firm ass, big but round tits.” His voice dropped conspiratorially; a few nearby students glanced over and snickered.

Izuku’s face warmed. “She’s… she’s definitely attractive,” he admitted, cheeks pink. “But I usually prefer more muscular heroes — like Miruko, or…” He swallowed, suddenly aware of how his words sounded.

“Arise, am I right?” Sato said with a punch to Izuku’s side, laughing.

“Well…” Izuku stammered, the word falling out in a little fluster as he tried to find the rest of his sentence.

“Oi — Deku.”

Those two sharp syllables shut the group down. Voices died mid-laugh; even Sato’s grin faded. The hallway seemed to lean in as Izuku turned and found Katsumi striding straight for him, boots thumping like a warning drum.

She had two girls flanking her: one with feathered wings folded tight against her back, the other with long, noodly fingers that twitched idly. Both were old friends—kids who’d shared scraped knees before quirks had rearranged their lives. Now they folded around Katsumi.

“I still have something to clear with you, Deku,” she said, voice hard as stone.

“What do you wa—” Sato started, stepping forward.

Katsumi’s head snapped toward him. Her eyes flashed; a vein stood out on her jaw. “This has nothing to do with you, pretty-hair extra,” she spat. She turned back to Izuku. “Deku.”

“Y-yes?” he managed, throat tight.

“Why do you want to go to U.A.?” Her tone went quiet—soft enough that it landed on him like ice. The hush made him colder than her insults had. He could feel the other students’ gazes, sense the way they clustered like a tide.

“Well… it’s my dream to go there,” he said at last, fumbling for words. “It’s a great school—good programs, good teachers—”

“You want to be a hero, am I right?” she interrupted, not shouting but pressing, so that the silence did the work of volume. Izuku’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

She smiled then, but it was a predator’s grin. “I was right about you.” The words slipped out sharp and fast. “This isn’t some comic book or anime. Trash like you will be crushed by girls like me and—” She paused, jaw working. For a single, terrible second her expression softened; her fingers curled, then flexed as if to stop herself from doing something else. The look lasted no longer than a blink, and she slammed it back into place.

“If I see you at the entrance exam, I will kill you.” The threat rang out, ugly and public. The winged girl shifted; the stretch-fingered friend laughed too loudly somewhere behind her. Izuku’s hands dug into his bag strap as Katsumi started to walk away.

His legs felt suddenly rooted to the floor. He swallowed, the heat of a thousand eyes on him, and managed, “Katsumi — why.... what are you trying to say to me?”

Half a step from him, she turned once more — as if to toss the final insult over her shoulder, or maybe to listen for his answer.

“Give up on your dream,Deku.”