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Momo Yaoyorozu (八や百お万よろず百もも Yaoyorozu Momo) - “The greatest strength in a leader isn't their voice - it's their ability to listen when no one else does.”

Age - 19-23

Birthplace - Aichi Prefecture

Birthday - September 23rd

Blood Type - A-

Physical Description - 5'11 with a mature physique, her hair was raven black, tied into a spiky ponytail with a large strand hanging on the right side of her face. Her skin was a pale porcelain, and her eyes were big yet sharp, colored onyx, paired with short eyebrows often set in a stern expression. She had a scar on her left temple that went to her upper cheek from the Forest Training Camp ambush by the L.o.V First Year. When Momo returns after almost a year underground, her hair is cut short to where it falls a little past her shoulders where before it reached her mid back and has gained a small scar on her upper right lip.

Personality Description - Serious, levelheaded, calm and introverted while unapologetically blunt with her comments about people's mistakes and miscalculations, tending to be very direct. A very prudent, dedicated person who was a natural leader and very kind and polite but still relatively reserved. She was selfless, always putting other needs and wants first while also being a person who gets inspiration from others who could take the role of a leader when necessary. She also had a tendency to be very sassy in her remarks, though it doesn't appear to be intentional. Momo often wears a mask of perfection, compartmentalizing her emotions and opting to help others through their struggles without acknowledging her own.)

Quirk - Creation; Gave her the ability to create any non-living material/object from her exposed skin by transforming the molecular structure of her fat cells. To create something, she needed to understand the molecular structure of what the material/object is made of. The more Momo ate, the more material she had to work with, so she needed considerable food ingestion for her Quirk to be effective. However, it took her a slightly more extended period to create large objects. This aspect of Momo's Quirk is likely the reason for her slim figure, as she constantly burned her fat to create objects. This was also a significant weakness because if she generated too much without replacing her calories, she could become weak and anemic.

(Former) School - U.A. High

Occupation - Support Course Student -> Hero-in-Training -> Support Item Developer/Aegis Innovations CEO/Vigilante

Also Known As - The Everything Hero; Creati -> The Everything Vigilante; Infinity

Favorite Food (Headcanon) - Gyoza

Hero -> Vigilante Costume -  An open back high-collared, sleeveless crimson leotard with silver lines at her waist and around her arms. It covered her entire torso yet had a boob window. Her high-collared red cape over her costume with a ring around her neck and a large red gemstone at her throat that used to be exclusively for her winter costume she now wore all the time, modifying the material to be comfortable and suitable in all weather conditions. She had crimson leggings - the side thigh being open and outlined in silver as she can only use her Quirk with exposed skin - and a gold utility belt around her waist. The book she used to carry - what her mother dubbed the 'Yaoyorictionary' - on composition information, was now converted into a watch, making it more convenient. She wore her sports calf-length red boots with heels, which dipped sharply down in the center. The collar of the boots was lined with silver, while there was a gold hexagonal outline on the back of the shaft of the boot from just below the collar to the ankle, and the sole of the boot was black. -> An open back high-collared, sleeveless burgundy leotard with gold lines at her waist and around her arms. It covered her entire torso yet had a boob window. Her high-collared burgundy cape over her costume with a ring around her neck and a large black gemstone at her throat that used to be exclusively for her winter costume she now wore all the time, modifying the material to be comfortable and suitable in all weather conditions. She had burgundy leggings - the side thigh being open and outlined in gold as she can only use her Quirk with exposed skin - and a silver utility belt around her waist. The book she used to carry - what her mother dubbed the 'Yaoyorictionary' - on composition information, was now converted into a watch, making it more convenient. She wore her sports calf-length red boots with heels, which dipped sharply down in the center. The collar of the boots was lined with silver, while there was a gold hexagonal outline on the back of the shaft of the boot from just below the collar to the ankle, and the sole of the boot was black.

Fun Facts (Headcanons) - Momo had a somewhat casual, natural, and non-lewd view toward nudity, she also had very little self-preservation and fidgeted when she was nervous or anxious. Due to past experiences, there are very few men outside her family Momo trusted. Her hands were rougher than expected from training, but still soft. She smelled like vanilla, roses, and a hint of cherry blossom. Her favorite fruit was strawberries. She needed to eat twice a normal person to maintain a healthy weight due to her Quirk and already fast metabolism, she also wore contacts - but only for reading. When Momo was overly embarrassed, nervous, or flustered her Quirk activated subconsciously and Russian Matryoshka Dolls popped out from her arms.

Other Facts (My AU) - As a child she wasn't allowed outside the property gate unless 'absolutely necessary', and while the Yaoyorozu Estate took up a whole street line worth of houses, it got boring. Momo couldn't interact with other kids; she didn't have friends. All she had were her studies and lessons. Everything was planned out for her since before she was born. She didn't get an opinion, a say, or an option for what she did or didn't do. Momo's mother, Hidoi, was strict, neglectful, and emotionally abusive. However, she was also extremely possessive of her daughter, controlling every aspect of Momo's life. Momo's father, Zankoku, meanwhile barely came out of his office. Her parents want her to inherit their business, Momo saw no reason how she couldn't do both Hero Work & the business at the same time as her parents were very against her going into Hero Work (which Hanta Sero, her cousin, introduced to her) or even leaving their presence - as evidence by her childhood - but at the same time ignored her. Now as she's in the Support Course she has changed plans to inherit her parents' business but make changes to it to be a Support Item Manufacturing Company for heroes. Momo's childhood was even more damaging to her Autism - still undiagnosed - and fast metabolism and Quirk because controlling every aspect of Momo's life meant her meal portions as well, and they were always less then was necessary and she was frequently underweight as a child. Momo is Half-Russian, on her father's side, who adopted her mother's Japanese last name to fit in better, though he does have a glaring Russian accent. Now, Russian is Momo's first language, though as a child genius she was fluent in Russian, Japanese, and English by the age of 5, besides the point - Momo has always had a Russian accent. It faded as she aged, but never truly went away. However, due to the scolding of her mother and being bullied for it when she went to her Private Academy for middle school - something her parents begrudgingly agreed to so Yaomomo could learn how to properly socialize - she masked it. But it never truly went away, and she was never fully comfortable speaking without it.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Shouto Todoroki (轟とどろき焦しょう凍と Todoroki Shōto) - "I want it, too. I'll be a hero!"

Age - 19-23

Birthplace - (Near) Shizuoka Prefecture

Birthday - January 11th

Blood Type - O+

Physical Description - 6'0 1/4 and rather muscular and well-built for his age, stemming from his intense training as a child, with fairly tanned skin. His eyes, in shape, were thin and reserved, while being heterochromatic, left eye an icy turquoise while his right a steel gray and usually set in a neutral expression. His hair was slightly frazzled and mimicked the mismatching, the right locks chalk white and the left locks crimson red with a few small flecks white on the left and crimson on the right at the crown. It was grown out - to piss off his father - and tied back into a small, low, slightly messy, ponytail at the base of his neck, with his bangs falling to his mid-nose bridge and parted twice to avoid obscuring his vision. On the left side of his face was a burn scar from his hairline to halfway down his cheek from when he was a child, his mother had a lapse of sanity due to his father's abuse and threw a kettle of boiling water she had near her over her son's face. However, what scarred him was Rei attempting to soothe the burn using her Frost Quirk - though it's fading as he ages. He also had a small X-shaped burn at the center of his chest from using Phosphor excessively during his fight with Dabi without mastering it.

Personality Description - Cold, aloof, distant, and socially awkward. He closed himself off, not bothering to build friendships or connections with others, which stemmed from his abusive upbringing and complicated family life. However, after First Year's Sports Festival, he became somewhat sociable and kind, even gaining a sense of humor and occasionally smiling, although still retaining his distant attitude and nonchalant demeanor. While usually quiet, Shouto possessed a moderate level of arrogance inherited from his father, which, combined with his solitary tendencies, made him take the initiative without considering the opinions of others at times, displaying confidence that he could take on any obstacle with his strength. Shouto seemed to prefer acting alone, though he only did for practical purposes since it allowed him to unleash his full power without worrying about allies. Calm and composed yet brutal in combat, Shouto was well-grounded on ethics, since defeating his oldest brother, Touya/Dabi, while some of his awkward character remained, he became more laid back and made a name for himself as a hardworking hero who treated all his fans equally and with respect. Just as he always wanted, Shouto became his own hero, with people thinking less and less of him as Endeavor's son. Touya had only been given a few years and could only talk for a few minutes a day, however, he'd defied the odds and made a full recovery. Now, Touya had gone through rehab at Fujitani Hospital and was now back with his family. Enji retired from Hero Work to spend all his time making amends for his actions. Shouto once had a deep loathing for his fire abilities, which he inherited from Endeavor, as it symbolized his father's wickedness towards him and his mother as well as what he was born to be: a tool to surpass All Might, a fate that he detested. Shouto often felt bothered by Enji's mere presence and could barely contain his anger while talking to him, especially whenever the Pro Hero brought up the purpose he had intended for his son since before birth. Ironically though, Shouto's animosity towards his father made him more like how Endeavor was, being apathetic and indifferent towards others while obsessively focusing on his own goal of rejecting his father. Shouto was quite reflective of his own growth, due to this, he was not against his father trying to make amends with his family and become a better person, knowing from experience that a single thing can change a person if they allow it to. However, Shouto's grudge towards Enji had not yet disappeared, self-admitting that such resentment can't vanish so easily and that he was wrong in trying to bury it. He remained relatively cold towards Enji and had made it clear that forgiveness for his past treatment of him and his mother was difficult but has also demonstrated worry about his father's safety. Ever since Enji tried to repair his relationship with his family, Shouto had taken a cautious, yet hopeful approach to this development, not seeming against the possibility of forgiving his father; however, he made it clear to Endeavor that he must earn it.

Quirk - Half-Cold-Half-Hot; Gave him the ability to generate ice from the right side of his body, and flames from his left side. If he overused one element without utilizing the other, then his body temperature would suffer; the ice half would cause frostbite and the fire half would cause heatstroke. Until his bodily limit was reached, however, neither had any visible effect. Shouto could easily negate this weakness by alternating between ice and fire. Further development of his Quirk and mastery over his fire had allowed Shouto to combine both halves into a 'cold fire', making use of his circulatory system to move the hot and cold blood around his body, merging the fire and ice into one ability - which he called Phosphor. This gave Shouto immunity to heat-based Quirks, as well as improved offensive capabilities, especially against those with such Quirks. However, this way of using his Quirk required a certain level of concentration to maintain it; otherwise, it would falter and dissipate.

(Former) School - U.A. High

Occupation - Hero-in-Training -> Pro Hero -> Vigilante

Also Known As - The Frozen-Fire Hero; Shouto -> The Frozen-Fire Vigilante; Shouto

(Former) Hero Chart Ranking - UNRANKED -> #3 -> NONE

Hero -> Vigilante Costume - A navy blue heat-resistant jacket with elbow-length sleeves, it was collar high, with a cooling/heating device within it, and joined in the center by a gray neckpiece while featuring a large gray-blue T-shaped stripe going from his waist to his armpits. Baggy pants of the same color as his jacket, a metal-plated tactical vest that functioned as both a heater and radiator. White boots with soles equipped with spikes and a thin line running down the center of each of them a darker pale gray. He also sported a brown utility belt around his waist, which could hold eight little metal capsules containing medical supplies hanging off. He also wore two burgundy wrist guards with armor-like bracing, accompanied by plating from his wrist to his knuckles, which could store up heat and cold to help condense his power. -> A black heat-resistant jacket with elbow-length sleeves, it was collar high, with a cooling/heating device within it, and joined in the center by a gray neckpiece while featuring a large silver T-shaped stripe going from his waist to his armpits. Baggy pants of the same color as his jacket, a metal-plated tactical vest that functioned as both a heater and radiator. White boots with soles equipped with spikes and a thin line running down the center of each of them a darker pale gray. He also sported a white utility belt around his waist, which could hold eight little metal capsules containing medical supplies hanging off. He also wore two white wrist guards with armor-like bracing, accompanied by plating from his wrist to his knuckles, which could store up heat and cold to help condense his power.

Fighting Specialty - Ranged Combat

Favorite Food - Zaru Soba

Other Facts(Headcanons) - His hair was soft yet two different textures, the white thin while the red held more volume and was fairly fluffy. His hands were calloused from training, yet gentle. He smelled like smoke, sage, and hint of peppermint. His favorite fruit was blackberries. When Shouto was mad, his right side activated subconsciously, lowering the temperature in the room, when he was flustered, his flames subconsciously activated.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Mei Hatsume (発はつ目め明めい Hatsume Mei) - "Heh heh heh... Failure is the mother of invention, Power Loader-sensei. Thomas Edison once said that. Just cuz a creation doesn't work as intended doesn't mean the effort is wasted..."

Age - 21-27

Birthplace - Kyoto Prefecture

Birthday - April 18th

Blood Type - O+

Physical Description - A reasonably short girl with quite a mature build. She has salmon pink hair, which is generally shoulder-length, although it does vary, which is styled into thick dreadlocks and side-swept to her right, though mostly kept in a ponytail. Her eyes are wide and sloped upwards with some notably long upper eyelashes, their irises green-yellow with a cross in the center, making them look somewhat like scope lenses.

Personality Description - Mei is a smart, off-setting, and assertive girl, often making those around her uncomfortable. She loves creating gadgets, which she refers to as her "super cute babies". Mei has a habit of "going straight to the point" and is very shameless and opportunistic when it comes to advertising her inventions. While talking to people, she has a habit of getting awkwardly close to them, which usually causes them to back away from her, but she still moves up to them. She can also be manipulative, as she tricked Tenya Iida into using her support equipment to promote her inventions. Mei believes that while inventors like her may not be fighters, they still help the field of heroics through their inventions. Mei shows no fear when it comes to failing, seeing it as an opportunity to learn and do better next time, which is why she does not mind when her inventions fail. Mei can be seen as self-centered due to putting her love of inventions and gadgets above others, but this selfishness is not a negative as it is out of motivation to improve herself. She does seem to be a little bit absent-minded as she is easily distracted and can sometimes be completely unaware of her surroundings, as shown by her inability to sense one of her inventions catch on fire as she was speaking with Izuku Midoriya. Furthermore, she seems inept at reading body language and social cues, apparently being oblivious to Izuku's discomfort with her close proximity to him on several occasions.

Quirk - Zoom; Mei's Quirk allows her to make her vision zoom in on whatever is in her line of sight. If she really focuses, Mei can see things as far as five kilometers.

(Former) School - U.A. High

Occupation - Support Course Student -> Support Item Developer/Lightly Labs Founder

Favorite Food - Chocolate

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Enji Todoroki (轟とどろき炎えん司じ Todoroki Enji) - "I'll be making amends and apologizing for my sins for the rest of my life... Whether you're all around to see it or not. And I'll shield you kids from the fiery fallout to the best of my ability. If there's a reason I survived, that's got to be it."

Age - 45-51

Birthplace - (Near) Shizuoka Prefecture

Birthday - August 8th

Blood Type - AB+

Physical Description - A tall, sturdily-built man with a very muscular physique. He had short crimson hair, which he wore spiked up around his head, and sharp turquoise eyes. His beard and mustache appeared to be made of fire, but when he voluntarily turned off the flames on his face, a slight amount of stubble showed around his jaw. He had a large, jagged scar on the left side of his face reaching from his hairline all the way down to his chin, his right arm was ripped off in the Final War, and he has burns all along his face and body.

Personality Description - Described as a prideful and ambitious man. His obsessive drive to surpass All Might in strength and power has followed Enji throughout his entire life, and repeated failure has plagued him since his youth. Dedicated to his studies and hero work, Enji strived to become the absolute strongest Pro Hero in the country. However, the figure of All Might proved itself too much of an insurmountable obstacle for him or anyone else to overcome, leaving Enji in a growing state of despair as he became increasingly aware that closing the gap between him and the Symbol of Peace was futile. As a result, Enji turned into a cold, callous person who didn't care for anything but his impossible dream. Enji would become a cold, even abusive father and husband, with his actions negatively affecting all members of the family he formed. Shouto, his youngest child, was considered his masterpiece, a tool with all the correct elements to exceed All Might's ability and nothing else. As a result, Enji focused all his hopes on Shouto, forcing him through incredibly harsh training from a young age and showing no concern for his son's desires. The rest of his children were ignored and perceived as "failures" that weren't allowed to interact with their younger brother. Enji became verbally and physically violent towards his wife, Rei, whenever she tried to defend Shouto from the brutal training to the extent where she began to fear him and started seeing him in the faces of their children. When his wife succumbed to a mental breakdown and injured Shouto, Enji sent her to a psychiatric ward to prevent her from getting in the way of his child's development. At the same time, he wasn't entirely without feelings and concern for his family. Upon learning that his first son, Touya, had stronger fire powers but a body that could not handle his flames, Enji quickly stopped forcing his efforts on Touya in fear for his well-being and was frustrated when he refused to quit and kept burning himself. Beforehand, he was content with training Touya to be his successor, despite him not inheriting the ideal Quirk that he desired, and his training with Touya was nowhere near as harsh or brutal as he would be with Shouto. Also, despite their arranged marriage, he did show some sentiment towards Rei when they first got together, remembering her favorite flower despite her only telling him about it once. As the years passed however, Enji became more stubborn and impatient to fulfill his lifelong goal. Being so devoted to his hero work and his dream, he never took the time to learn how to be a family man, believing that all he could show anyone was the world of a hero. Rei accused Enji of using his hero status to avoid his problems as a father, and he would admit this to be true to Natsuo years later, confessing that all he could do was dodge his responsibilities and blame others. This avoidance of his parental responsibilities led to the abuse of his wife and the neglect of his children, especially Touya, who drove himself hysterical yearning for his father's acknowledgment after being replaced in favor of Shouto. While Touya's apparent death devastated him, Enji's obsession with training Shouto remained, feeling as though it would have all been for nothing had he given up. After the Kamino Incident, which resulted in All Might's retirement and Enji's succession as the No. 1 Hero, Enji's character shifted in a course. Enji's interest in the title of No. 1 Pro Hero was always based on earning it through merit and ability, valuing his work in attaining the No. 1 spot more than the spot itself. As such, he became furious about reaching the top through a technicality, feeling that his efforts from a lifetime were now wasted. As much as he disliked his longtime rival All Might, Enji still respected his power and feats as the No. 1 Hero, to the point of not believing that the "real" All Might was a sick and weak-looking man. Sensing the rising crime and unrest in a society losing its Symbol of Peace, Enji began questioning his role and duty as the new No. 1 Hero. After a conversation with All Might about what being the No. 1 Hero means to the world, Enji starts considering how he treated his family up until then. He starts visiting his estranged wife with frequency, even though the doctors in charge of her recovery have stated that this action is not best for her, and he wishes to become an actual father figure to his children, despite Natsuo's vocal desire to not have the older man involved in his life. While aware that his two sons resent him, Enji still attempted to atone for his past actions and made an effort to connect with his children; knowing that he wouldn't be so easily forgiven, he at least wanted to repent and help them recover from the dreadful childhood he made them go through. However, Enji soon concludes that his family is better off without him and would go on to buy a new home for his children and their mother while he remains by himself, willing to distance himself from them so they can be happy. However, despite public backlash and his Ranking plummeting following the Final War and finding out of his domestic abuse, Enji kept his Hero License and continues to be a Pro Hero, refusing to retire.

Quirk - Hellflame; Allowed him to produce and manipulate large amounts of extremely intense fire at will. He appeared to be immune to other flames and can easily control the shape and temperature of the blaze as well. Enji's level of control enabled him to utilize his flames in unorthodox ways, such as concentrating flames and heat to his feet to achieve limited flight. He had been shown shaping his flames into long-range and melee weapons, such as when he struck a Nomu with a spear made of fire and was even capable of emitting fire from his eyes as shown when he burned All for One's hand when the villain attempted to steal his Quirk. Using too much of his power would overheat Endeavor's body, causing a depletion of stamina, and an impairment of his physical functions.

Occupation - Pro Hero -> Vigilante

Also Known As - The Flame Hero; Endeavor -> The Fire Vigilante; Endeavor

Hero Chart Ranking - #1 -> #38 -> #45 -> NONE

Hero/Vigilante Costume - The Gates of Hell, is comprised of a tight, navy turquoise bodysuit, with flames streaming across his chest, upper torso, arms, and most prominently, his shoulders as well as large stripes running across his torso, completely engulfing the spaces between his flames. He uses his flames as a makeshift mask around his eyes, and his tall boots appear to be either made of fire themselves or constantly left alight, as only their soles and laces are visible around the flames. He sports white bracers designed to look sharper and armor-like, and they completely encase his arms. On the back of his hands are grill handguards with holes to flush a torrent of flames out the back of his hands if needed, and his fingers are exposed from the base knuckles. Endeavor also has shoulder pads and a new belt that are made of the same material as his bracers. His belt is a stylized kanji for 'Flame' (炎).

Fighting Speciality  - Ranged Combat

Favorite Food - Kuzumochi

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Izuku Midoriya (緑みどり谷や出いず久く Midoriya Izuku) - "It's not all black-and-white. Most things in this world are in shades of gray. A blend of fear and anger. Which is exactly why... I've gotta extend a helping hand!"

Age - 19-23

Birthplace - (Near) Shizuoka Prefecture

Birthday - July 15th

Blood Type - O-

Physical Description - 5'7 1/4 with a round face framed by a mop of fluffy dark-green hair grown out in a mullet which curled up at odd angles around his head, casting noticeably dark shadows onto itself and was parted slightly to the right. His eyes were large and somewhat circular, and his irises were emerald green, which at times are very watery, and are usually stretched quite wide, giving him an innocent, energized appearance. He had a set of four symmetrical freckles in diamond formations, one on each cheek. Izuku had often been described as "plain-looking" or "not standing out" by others. He had developed and defined muscles, the fingers on his right hand slightly deformed, and his hand showed visible scarring. His right arm was further damaged after his intense fight, leaving many more scars. Following his recovery after the previously mentioned fight, Izuku wears a black compression sleeve on the upper portion of his right arm in order to support the heavy damage it sustained: it is partially visible when he wears short sleeves. He had two face scars, one on the right side of his head, and the other below his right eye spreading down his cheek and reaching his chin.

Personality Description - A very timid, reserved, and polite boy, frequently overreacting to abnormal situations with exaggerated expressions. Due to yeаrs of being looked down on by Katsuki Bakugou for lacking a Quirk, he is initially portrayed as insecure, tearful, vulnerable, and non-expressive. These traits were especially present around Katsuki, who also constantly harangued him for his aspirations to become a hero. However, after being accepted into U.A., making new friends, and facing Katsuki, Izuku gradually matured into a more confident and braver person who was always eager to prove his worth as a hero, eventually developing strong leadership skills, which combined with his passion and strategic abilities, had turned him into a central figure. Izuku was a quite diligent and strong-willed student, being extremely (and sometimes scarily) enthusiastic about topics related to heroes. His dream drove him to write down notes about everything he learns about heroes' Quirks and fighting capabilities. Thanks to this practice, Izuku had developed a great analytical mind and can form complex battle plans in a few seconds, factoring in the best ways he could utilize the Quirks of allies and enemies alike for his own advantage. Izuku externalizes his observations through endless mumbling, a habit that annoyed or creeped out his peers. Izuku often wrote down his observations in a variety of notebooks. He checked on them regularly during school activities, during his free time, or at night. Izuku was caring and emotional, never hesitating to help or rescue someone in danger, even if he knew that he might not be strong or otherwise qualified enough to do it. Often, he did this on instinct, taking a more careless approach than the usual overthinking he goes through and putting himself in peril in order to protect someone.

Quirk - One for All; Transferred to him from Toshinori Yagi, Izuku's Quirk allowed him to stockpile an enormous amount of raw power, allowing him to significantly enhance all of his physical abilities to various boundless levels. This resulted in unbelievable levels of strength, speed, stamina, agility, and durability. When Izuku activated One for All, red, vein-like lines course throughout the empowered part of his body. Izuku could focus the stockpiled power into a single body part, or spread it across his entire body evenly, though, focusing the power in a single part puts a greater strain on that part of his body. He was also able to control what percentage of his full power that he uses. Since he was not born with this power, his body was not naturally suited to handle it, however, over time and with continued training with it, his body has become more accustomed to bracing for the strain. He was able to handle 45% of his full power without breaking his bones, with 30% being his normal output. In addition to the stockpiling power, Izuku also had access to a subconscious realm where vestiges of the consciousnesses of the previous One For All holders dwell. These vestiges could trigger Izuku to activate One For All without any conscious input from himself, as seen when he was under the control of Hitoshi's Quirk and illusionary shadows of these echoes appeared in his vision. Izuku had little to no control over this aspect of One For All, being unable to freely enter or exit, his body not being fully materialized, which limited his movement within the realm, and only being able to talk through muffled sounds since his mouth has not fully manifested yet. However, Izuku had reached the point where he can freely communicate with the vestiges of the previous users while still conscious. Izuku is the first holder of One for All known to have gained access to this realm while still alive. Izuku was granted access to the Quirks of the previous owners of One for All, but he has since transferred someof them to Tomura in an effort to defeat him. This left him with only Blackwhip, Smokescreen, and Float, having transferred Gearshift, Fa Jin, and Denger Sense.

(Former) School - U.A. High

Occupation - Hero-in-Training -> Pro Hero -> Vigilante

Also Known As - The One-for-All Hero; Deku -> The One-for-All Vigilante; Deku

Hero Chart Ranking - UNRANKED -> #2 -> NONE

Hero/Vigilante Costume - Created by Melissa Shield and Mei using data collected from All Might's against All for One; funded by members of Class A and gifted to him by All Might, Izuku receives a new technology-based Hero costume that looks markedly like his Costume Zeta, albeit more mechanical. This costume can be stored as a briefcase that is marked with the number 18, Izuku's seat number when he was a student.

Fighting Specialty - Close and Ranged Combat

Favorite Food - Katsudon

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Katsuki Bakugou (爆ばく豪ごう勝かつ己き Bakugō Katsuki) aka Kacchan (かっちゃん Katchan) - "If you keep looking down on everyone... you're never gonna notice your own weaknesses."

Age - 19-23

Birthplace - (Near) Shizuoka Prefecture

Birthday - April 20th

Blood type - A+

Physical Description - A young man of above-average height, with a slim, muscular build, and a fair skin tone. He has short, spiky, sandy blond hair with choppy bangs that hang over his eyebrows, as well as two braids at the back of his head, designed to look like lit fuses. His eyes are sharp and crimson red in color. His right arm is heavily scarred much like Izuku's, additionally, Katsuki's right cheek bears a stitched scar, marking the side of his face. He also has two scars on his body: an impacted one near the base of his left shoulder that stretches to his clavicle, and one on his lower stomach area.

Personality Description - A crude, arrogant, short-tempered, and aggressive person. He ends to come off as unheroic; this problematic behavior going all the way back to his early childhood days when he was known to bully. However, after being accepted into U.A. and experiencing several personal defeats, one of them even coming from Izuku, Katsuki has gradually changed into a less antagonistic person, albeit still retaining a lot of his unpleasant traits. While often portrayed negatively, Katsuki's fierce character and competitive drive have actually granted him an important role among Class 3-A, as a sort of inspirational mood-maker. Determined and thirsty for victory, Katsuki smiles eerily when in the middle of a battle. He is incredibly focused on achieving his own authentic victories and has learned to never underestimate his opponents. Katsuki is not only very athletic and talented at fighting, but also very intelligent and extremely perceptive, capable of strategic planning and improvisation. Katsuki also possesses surprising talent in other areas, such as cooking and music, even though he doesn't show a particular interest in them. Overall, Katsuki is considered a natural-born genius with the potential to be one of the best Pro Heroes around. While a rather volatile hero-in-training who reacts and snaps more than thinking, Katsuki is smart enough to discern who his enemies and allies are. He is not particularly nice or open with people who are on his side, or anyone else for that matter, but will act less unfriendly and sometimes even kind to those that manage to earn his respect. Because of his attitude and vulgar language, Katsuki's U.A. classmates often react negatively to him, although they have come to appreciate his skills and warm up to his personality. Katsuki matures slowly through his time at U.A., coming to befriend some of his classmates and willingly engaging in social interaction with them, though remaining solitary for the most part. Katsuki has a habit of bestowing insulting nicknames upon others, he also refers to people he doesn't know as "Extras" treating them as little more than fodder or steppingstones to his victory until he faces them head-on. Despite this, he can address others properly when it matters, such as when he's serious or in the heat of battle. Katsuki values honesty highly and never lies to the point his brash candor is seen by some as rude and insensitive. He is never afraid of speaking his mind and will notice when people are not being truthful to him. Katsuki is an excellent judge of character, making it hard to deceive him. Due to the constant praise of his abilities and powerful Quirk, Katsuki has developed a superiority complex, and because of that, he desires to be the first and best at everything. Katsuki loves to win above all else and cannot stand it when he doesn't, leading him to lose his already short temper or, less often, sulk. He is fiercely competitive and will never settle for less than the number one spot, having a compulsive need to always strive for victory and also prove people who doubt him wrong. However, Katsuki also values hard work and fair play, to the point of refusing to acknowledge a winning result if he feels that his victory was not earned by actual merit. Along with that, he detests being pitied or looked down on by others and will hold contempt towards those that don't take him seriously, while recognizing the effort of those that manage to put up a challenge against him. Because of his Quirk and talents, Katsuki is very confident and brave to where he is willing to go against anyone who challenges him. He never backs down from a fight and will go out when facing such a powerful opponent. Katsuki is immensely prideful and prefers to act alone, as he hates the idea of being protected or having to rely on other people to assist him unless, in the latter's case, he is recognized as the unquestionable leading figure within a team. Katsuki also has an honorable side to him.

Quirk - Explosion; Allowed him to secrete nitroglycerin-like sweat and ignite it on command, allowing him to create strong, condensed explosions. The more Katsuki sweated, the stronger his explosions became. Katsuki had a strong grasp on the applications of his Quirk, not only could Katsuki use the explosions for attacking, he could also use them to propel himself and navigate through the air at high speeds, allowing him to fly at his opponents without giving them time to react, as well as evade incoming attacks, even while in the air. The shockwave from an explosion could even be used as a shield. Katsuki could keep up his explosions continuously. If Katsuki overused this power, his forearms and other areas where he triggered explosions will start to ache.

(Former) School - U.A. High

Occupation - Hero-in-Training -> Pro Hero -> Vigilante

Also Known As - The Explosive Hero: Great Explosion Murder Lord Dynamight -> The Explosion Vigilante; Dynamight

Hero Chart Ranking - UNRANKED -> #4 -> #15 -> NONE

Hero/Vigilante Costume - A tight, black, tank top with no left sleeve and a long black sleeve that envelops his entire right arm and shoulder, featuring an orange "X" across the middle, creating a V-neck design. There were two black dots along the left side of the collar, which was the trademark of his costume's designer. The outfit included a metallic neck brace with rectangular ends, each having three holes on either side. He wore black sleeves extended from streamlined Grenadier Bracers shaped like smoke grenades up to his biceps, finishing with thin orange tips and featuring silver sights fastened to every knuckle. A green and orange belt, equipped with grenades, secured his baggy pants that had green straps and knee guards. On his feet, he sported black, knee-high combat boots with orange soles, eight eyelets, and straps at the top. His mask was jagged and black, with a large, orange-rimmed flare shape protruding from each side around the eyes.

Fighting Specialty - Close & Ranged Combat

Favorite Food (Headcanon) - Karakarakuo Tsukemen

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Keigo Takami (鷹たか見み啓けい悟ご Takami Keigo) - "I'm Hawks. The man who's a bit too fast. A society where heroes can enjoy a little boredom... I'll make it happen, I promise, at my trademark top speed."

Age - 24-30

Birthplace - Fukuoka

Birthday - December 28th

Blood Type - B-

Physical Description - A man of average height with a slim and narrow build. He had feathery, ash blond hair that was swept messily backward, with some of the front tufts sticking up in arcs above his head. His eyebrows were notably thick, having a similar texture as his hair, and he had faint stubble on his chin. The left side of his face had a jagged scar from his cheek to his neck, and severe scars across his entire back to his upper neck as well as a giant knife slice mark on the right side of his chest and face and a large jagged scar on his forehead. His eyes were golden-brown and rather triangular, with two small black triangles just below his tear ducts and in the top corners of his eyes, making them resemble those of a bird.

Personality Description - Keigo was shown to be highly intelligent, both emotionally and logistically. He promoted a carefree and jovial attitude, while his constant vigilance often hid under layers of serenity and equanimity. Keigo acted laid-back while being on constant alert, usually speaking his mind and coming off as quite rude at times. Keigo disliked formalities, often acting unpredictably while being cocky and taunting. He acted nonchalant and jokingly submissive since he did not care about social status or recognition. Keigo used a lot of sarcasm such as when he agreed serenely when Katsuki Bakugou claimed to have been faster, and he reacted with ironic adaptation when someone claimed him to be lesser. Keigo believed that popular approval was the most important metric a Pro Hero should be judged for since it was the task of a hero to put the citizens at ease - something that he claimed he's unable to do. Keigo showed a preference for the lower hero ranks as it would allow him more freedom and avoid the burdens of being a top hero. He stated his wish was to patrol in a free, leisurely fashion and "take it easy." Still, Keigo was said to be ferocious in regards to his Pro Hero duties, understanding the importance of a leader figure among all heroes after All Might's retirement. When around others he liked, Keigo was very talkative and could have a prolonged one-sided conversation casually while helping dozens of civilians simultaneously in his area of influence. He also claimed that he would always strive for what he longed for. Keigo's cunning had been shown multiple times as he outsmarted his surveillance monitors, as well as plans his actions ahead in order to have explanations for the Hood incident. He was rational and more far-sighted than other Pro Heroes, allowing him the best chances to go undercover. He had also demonstrated his intelligence through his investigative work, being quickly able to deduce the truth behind One for All and its connection to All Might and Izuku Midoriya. He appeared relaxed in situations of great pressure, such as during the Japanese Hero Billboard Chart. Keigo's gestures were lively, expressive, and highly personalized, as he always wanted to get his voice across. He claimed to be "bad at keeping it in," even though he possessed complete control over his facial expressions and body language, which made him an extremely skilled liar. But apparently, he adored the truth, finding lying to be too much work. While Keigo may seem uninterested in most things, he had a good heart, as he saved every single witness from Hood's attack and was silently disgusted at the strain of maintaining his duty-act as a double agent amidst a cabal of villains and terrorists. He also felt guilty about Endeavor's scar, having coaxed the High-End attack into a contained area to reduce casualties. While he seemed relaxed and under-challenged as typical of most prodigies, he was in fact hard-working and under constant pressure with his hero career. Keigo's optimistic side was what led him to want to find the good in others, potentially due to his own personal guilt over never truly forgiving his mother, something he commended Shouto over after learning of his reconciliation with his mother. Alongside trusting Endeavor and witnessing his growth, as well as believing Lady Nagant still has the heart of a hero even after her turn to the dark side, the biggest example of his compassion was with Twice, who he managed to develop a genuine bond of friendship with (even while undercover). Having realized that Twice was truly a good person at heart, and feeling remorseful for exploiting his trust, Keigo held a genuine desire to help the villain rehabilitate, even if the plan ultimately failed.

Quirk - Fierce Wings; Keigo's Quirk granted him a pair of large, bright red, feathery wings on his back. These wings allowed him to fly, and he could telekinetically control the movement and nature of each individual feather with ease, enabling him to harden them into a blade-like state and/or shoot them as projectiles, as well as control their speed and trajectory. The feathers are light, yet considerably strong; with just a single feather he is capable of carrying a medium-sized object, such as a rock or a human being, and he can carry larger objects by using multiple feathers. With his many feathers, he is easily able to carry multiple loads at once. He can also feel the vibrations in the air through them in a manner similar to echolocation, allowing him to sense people's locations. As Keigo sheds more feathers, his wings gradually shrink, impairing his ability to fly. When he loses all his feathers, it takes at least two days for them to grow halfway back, which can be a considerable drawback. His feathers are not of infinite quantity and prove to be lacking in abundance during certain occasions. Keigo has mentioned that he does not have enough feathers to hold up a collapsing building, but does have enough to evacuate the victims from said building. Aside from the limited feather quantity, the biggest weakness of Fierce Wings is fire, as it can burn Keigo's feathers, severely impairing his mobility. Following the Paranormal Liberation War, Keigo's Quirk was greatly hindered due to the injuries he received from Dabi. While his wings grew back enough for him to fly, he was forced to rely on prosthetics to compensate for his missing feathers, limiting his speed.

Former Occupation- Pro Hero

Current Occupation - President of the Hero Public Safety Commission

Formally Known As - The Wing Hero: Hawks

Former Hero Chart Ranking - #2

Favorite Food - Chicken

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Fuyumi Takami (鷹たか見み冬ふゆ美 Takami Fuyumi) - "Ugh... should've known... but with Shouto at U.A. and finally able to see mom again... and now that she's starting to cheer up, since you're making an effort... I thought... I thought we might just turn into a real family..."

Age - 24-30

Birthplace - (Near) Shizuoka Prefecture

Birthday - December 6th

Blood Type - AB+

Physical Description - A young woman of average height with turquoise eyes. She has white hair, flecked with a few noticeable traces of a crimson-like color, which is mostly shoulder-length aside from the ear-length side bangs she sports and the short clump she leaves hanging down her forehead. She wears a white dress shirt with a plain grayish peach-colored cardigan, the sleeves worn rolled up to just below her elbows, along with navy blue jeans. She also sports brown dress shoes and a pair of red-framed rectangular glasses. During the Final War, Fuyumi receives burn marks and scars right after exposing herself to the battle between Dabi and Endeavor. In the aftermath of the war, Fuyumi's burns have mostly healed, with only three notable scars remaining on her face.

Personality Description - Fuyumi was a kind-hearted person who cared deeply for her family. She took on a nurturing role for her younger brother, Shouto, during their mother, Rei's absence. It was shown that she had an amicable relationship with both her brothers, Shouto and Natsuo, as well as her mother whom she often visited at her hospital ward. She also had a teasing side, as she taunted Natsuo for having a secret girlfriend at college. Fuyumi didn't show the same resentment towards her father as her brothers did, although she confirmed that she did feel the same way as them at times. Despite this, Fuyumi tried to get along with her father for the sake of their family changing for the better, an idea which she was hopeful about after taking note of her father's changing attitude and Shouto's healing relationship with their mother. She was shown to worry about her family whenever something happened to them, including her father, as she was horrified to see him grievously injured during his battle with Hood. She also showed visible panic when Shouto came back from saving Katsuki, and was frantic upon hearing that Natsuo was kidnapped by a villain whom her youngest brother and his friends later fought. The feeling that she "couldn't do anything for Shouto" remained in her heart. This was also what inspired her to become a teacher, as she felt that she couldn't protect her youngest brother. For all her positivity, Fuyumi admitted that she was too afraid to stand up to her father's abuse and could only do her best to keep up the appearance of a happy family, acknowledging that she too held some partial blame regarding her older brother Touya's fate. Even so, she agreed to unite with her family to help their father stop Dabi. Fuyumi had proven to be very brave, as during the Final War, she chose to accompany her mother and Natsuo in confronting Dabi, who was releasing a deadly inferno and was on the verge of self-destructing. Fuyumi used her ice Quirk to help contain Dabi's explosion, telling her older brother that she can't bear to lose anyone again and pleading with him not to take everyone down with him as well.

Quirk - Frost; Fuyumi inherited her mother's ability to generate ice, to both coat herself in it and blast it out.

Occupation- Teacher

Favorite Food - Ice Cream

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Touha Takami (鷹たか見み凍とう羽は Takami Tōha)

NO PICTURE AVALIBLE

Age (when introduced) - 6-7

Birthplace - Musutafu

Birthday - December 17th

Blood Type - B+

Physical Description - Fair skin, golden-brown eyes, chalk white hair swept messily backward, with some front tufts sticking up in arcs above his head, along with a small, braided ponytail at the base of his neck.

Personality Description - Touha had a carefree and jovial attitude, while his constant vigilance often hid under layers of serenity and equanimity. Touha acted laid-back while being on constant alert, usually speaking his mind and coming off as a bit rude at times. Though, despite this, he was a kind-hearted person who cared deeply for his family and friends.

Quirk - Ice Wings; Touha possessed two powerful white wings (dyed to fade into deep turquoise at the secondary feathers). These wings allowed him to fly, and he could telekinetically control the movement and nature of each individual feather with ease, enabling him to harden them into a blade-like state and/or shoot them as projectiles and control their speed and trajectory. He could coat his wings with a layer of ice while they’re in any state, if this ice touches the target, they’ll be frozen. The feathers were light, yet considerably strong; with just a single feather, he could carry a medium-sized object, such as a rock or a human being, and he could carry larger objects by using multiple feathers. With his many feathers, he could easily carry multiple loads at once. He could also feel the vibrations in the air through them like echolocation, allowing him to sense people's locations. By flapping them hard enough he could generate a freezing wind to slow down his enemies, he could also blast ice from his wings. As Touha sheds more feathers, his wings gradually shrink, impairing his ability to fly. When he loses all his feathers, it takes at least two days for them to grow halfway back, which can be a considerable drawback. His feathers are not of infinite quantity and prove to be lacking in abundance on certain occasions. Touha does not have enough feathers to hold up a collapsing building but does have enough to evacuate the victims from said building. Aside from the limited feather quantity, the biggest weakness of Ice Wings is fire, as it can burn through Touha’s ice and his feathers, severely impairing his mobility.

Favorite Food - Grilled Fish

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Chapter Text

The sun was rising, painting soft hues of gold and pink across U.A. High's campus, but Shouta Aizawa couldn't care less. He sipped his coffee - the kind that tasted like sludge but did the job of waking him up - and shuffled into Power Loader’s workshop. The air smelled of oil, metal, and Hatsume's latest questionable invention, though at this early hour, even she was absent.

Momo Yaoyorozu was already there, poised and patient as ever. She stood rigidly, her hands clasped in front of her, betraying just a hint of nervous energy. Aizawa wasn’t surprised; the girl was a picture of discipline. She looked like she had rehearsed this moment a hundred times over, as was typical of her. Power Loader, on the other hand, was rummaging through some tools, muttering something about calibrating Hatsume’s latest contraption before it exploded again.

"You're here early," Aizawa said flatly, setting his mug down and glancing at Momo. "Even by your standards."

Momo straightened further, if that was even possible. “Yes, Aizawa-sensei. Thank you for meeting with me.”

Aizawa grunted, dropping into a chair that creaked under his weight. He already had a feeling this wasn’t going to be an ordinary discussion. “Let’s hear it.”

With a deep breath, Momo began. “I would like to request a transfer to the Support Course for my second year.”

The words hung in the air, met with silence save for the faint hum of machinery. Aizawa’s expression didn’t change, but his sharp eyes narrowed slightly. Power Loader actually paused in his tinkering to look at her.

“Why?” Aizawa’s tone was clipped, though not unkind. It was the tone of someone who wanted answers, and quickly.

“I’ve thought about this extensively,” Momo said, her voice calm but carrying a weight of conviction. “During the Final War, it became clear to me that I am not… suited for the role of a front-line Pro Hero. Despite my efforts, my contributions were minimal, and my actions - though well-intentioned - were either overlooked or outright dismissed. It’s clear that the public and even my peers view me as inadequate in this role.”

Aizawa frowned, his jaw tightening. That wasn’t the full story, and he knew it. The adults, himself included, had made choices during the war - choices that had sidelined her and denied her the opportunity to lead as she should have. But he let her continue.

“I believe I can make a greater impact in the Support Course,” Momo went on, her words carefully chosen. “My Quirk is uniquely suited for it, and my knowledge of material sciences and engineering could be far better utilized. I’ve already spoken with Power Loader-sensei, and he is open to the idea.”

Power Loader nodded, scratching the back of his head. “Kid’s not wrong. She could be a big help around here. Hatsume might actually calm down with someone like Yaoyorozu keeping her in check.”

Aizawa shot him a look, unimpressed by the attempt at humor, before turning his attention back to Momo. “And what about Class 1-A?” he asked. “You’re one of the strongest students in that class - not just in ability but as a leader. You’re willing to leave that behind?”

Momo hesitated, her composure cracking just slightly. “I’ve already considered the implications. To minimize disruption, I’ve suggested Setsuna Tokage from Class 1-B take my place. She’s also a recommendation student and has the skills to contribute effectively. As for the vacancy in Class 1-B, Yuuga Aoyama can fill that spot. He… deserves a chance to rebuild himself after what happened.”

Aizawa leaned back, folding his arms as he studied her. She had planned this out thoroughly - no surprise there. But something about her reasoning didn’t sit right with him. It wasn’t that she was incapable; far from it. It was that she didn’t believe in herself, and worse, she didn’t think anyone else did either.

“You know this isn’t just about logistics,” he said finally. “You’re running away.”

Momo flinched, and for a moment, her mask of perfection faltered. But then she straightened again, meeting his gaze with quiet determination. “No, Sensei. I’m not running. I’m redirecting. This isn’t a decision I’ve made lightly. I want to make a difference, and this is how I believe I can do it.”

Aizawa sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t one for sentimentality, but hearing this from one of his top students - someone who had so much potential - stung more than he cared to admit.

“Fine,” he said gruffly. “But you’ll have to explain this to the class yourself. They’ll demand answers, and I’m not going to cover for you.”

Momo nodded, a flicker of gratitude crossing her face. “I understand.”

Power Loader clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. “Well, then! Welcome aboard, Yaoyorozu. You’ll have your work cut out for you, but something tells me you’ll manage just fine.”

As Momo offered a polite bow, Aizawa watched her, his expression unreadable. He still didn’t like it - not because he doubted her reasoning, but because he doubted the circumstances that had led her to this point. But if this was what she needed to find her path, who was he to stand in the way?

Momo watched as Aizawa-sensei disappeared down the corridor, his scarf trailing lazily behind him. Even now, after their meeting, she wasn’t quite sure if his reluctant approval felt like a victory or a defeat. The weight of her decision pressed against her chest, but she pushed it aside. There was no turning back now.

“Well, Yaoyorozu,” Power Loader said, breaking her reverie. He motioned for her to follow him deeper into the workshop. “Let’s get you settled. You’ll be spending a lot of time here, so might as well get comfortable.”

Comfortable. That word caught her off-guard. She wasn’t used to the concept, at least not in a professional setting. The Hero Course had been all about maintaining composure, following protocol, and pushing yourself to the limit. Comfort had always been secondary - no, irrelevant. She fell into step behind him, clutching her notebook tightly.

The workshop sprawled out before her like a labyrinth of creativity and chaos. Workbenches overflowed with half-finished gadgets, wires snaking across surfaces, and an assortment of tools scattered like fallen leaves. On one side, a large wall displayed a collection of blueprints, each one marked with frantic scribbles and edits. The air buzzed faintly with the hum of dormant machinery.

“This will be your lab,” Power Loader announced, stopping in front of a workstation. It was relatively clean compared to the rest of the room, though still far more cluttered than what Momo was used to. A single stool sat beside the bench, and above it, shelves lined with materials - metal alloys, chemical compounds, and various other supplies - beckoned invitingly.

Momo hesitated, her eyes scanning the space. “This… will be mine?” she asked, her voice betraying a mix of awe and trepidation.

“Yup. Hatsume’s got her corner, and now you’ve got yours. I’ve stocked it with the basics, but if you need anything specific, let me know. Just try not to blow anything up, alright? We’ve got enough of that already.”

She offered a small nod, mentally cataloging the materials on the shelves. This was a different kind of battlefield, one where she could wield her knowledge and ingenuity without judgment. It was both exciting and daunting.

Power Loader gestured for her to follow him again, leading her toward a closet. He opened it to reveal a row of various-sized jumpsuits, aprons, and gloves. “You’ll need these for certain projects - safety first and all that. But outside of that, you can wear whatever you work best in.”

Momo blinked, not quite processing his words. “Whatever I work best in?”

He turned to face her, arms crossed. “Yeah. Tank tops, sweats, hoodies - whatever you’re comfortable in. Labs like these aren’t about flashy uniforms or looking the part. They’re about getting things done. Trust me, the less restrictive, the better.”

The idea was almost unfathomable. For as long as she could remember, she’d adhered to a strict sense of formality, even in her personal life. Relaxed attire in a professional setting felt… alien. But as she considered it, she realized how liberating it might be to focus entirely on the work without the burden of appearances.

“I see,” she said carefully, filing away this new piece of information. She glanced at Power Loader, who was already moving on, muttering something about reorganizing the inventory. His easygoing demeanor was a stark contrast to the rigid structure of the Hero Course.

As they returned to her workstation, Momo’s mind began to race. There was so much potential here, so much she could create, learn, and accomplish. But with that potential came the weight of expectation—not from others, but from herself. She would have to prove that this was the right decision, that she could thrive here in ways she couldn’t elsewhere.

“Well,” Power Loader said, clapping his hands together. “That’s the gist of it. Dive in, make yourself at home, and if Hatsume tries to rope you into one of her wild experiments, just say no. Or, you know, run.”

A small smile tugged at Momo’s lips. It was the first time she’d felt at ease all morning. “Thank you, Sensei. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I never thought you would,” he replied, his tone unexpectedly sincere. Then, with a wave of his hand, he left her to her thoughts and her newfound space.

Momo turned back to the workbench, her fingers brushing lightly over the surface. This was it - the beginning of a new chapter. She set her notebook down, flipped it open to a blank page, and began to write.

Momo glanced around the workshop, her gaze lingering on each detail of her newly assigned lab station. It wasn’t messy, per se, but it lacked the meticulous order that made her mind feel clear and focused. She set her notebook down and took a deep breath. Organizing first would help her feel grounded.

The process was therapeutic in its own way. She started by categorizing the materials on the shelves - metals, plastics, chemicals, and so on—into neat rows, labels facing outward. The tools came next: each wrench, soldering iron, and multi-meter carefully wiped clean and placed in logical order based on frequency of use. She even adjusted the stool at her workstation, aligning it perfectly parallel to the desk. When everything finally looked just right, she took a moment to admire her work. The environment felt… manageable now, under her control.

Satisfied, Momo picked up her notebook and flipped to a blank page. She’d been thinking about a design for a compact shield generator - a tool that could help heroes protect civilians in unpredictable scenarios. She sketched out a rough blueprint, her strokes precise and deliberate. As always, her process was methodical: first, the design itself, then a list of required materials and their properties. She jotted down notes in the margins, reminders for adjustments and potential challenges during assembly. At the bottom of the page, she reserved a section to record how long it took to build - a routine she’d developed to track her efficiency.

She was so absorbed in her work that she almost didn’t hear the faint sound of rapid footsteps approaching. The door to the workshop slammed open with a dramatic flair that sent a nearby stack of blueprints fluttering to the floor.

“Power Loader said there was someone new here!” a voice rang out, high-pitched and brimming with energy. “Where are they? Where’s the newbie?”

Momo looked up just in time to see Mei Hatsume stride into the room like a whirlwind, her pink hair bouncing with each step. Her wide, unblinking eyes scanned the space, locking onto Momo with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile. Mei’s grin was so wide it was almost unsettling.

“You!” Mei exclaimed, pointing at her with a grease-stained glove. “You’re the new one! What’s your name again?”

“Yaoyorozu Momo,” she replied, setting her pen down and standing politely. She offered a small bow, though Mei was already halfway across the room and didn’t seem to notice.

“Right, right, that’s what I said.” Mei waved dismissively, clearly forgetting the name just as quickly. She leaned in close, examining Momo’s workstation with a mix of curiosity and approval. “Nice setup you’ve got here. Efficient. I like it. Not as good as mine, of course, but still solid.”

Momo took a half-step back, trying to maintain her personal space without being rude. “Thank you,” she said carefully. “I’ve just finished organizing.”

“Organizing? That’s cute.” Mei laughed, the sound loud and abrupt. “But you’ll see soon enough - this place doesn’t stay organized for long. Not when real genius is at work.”

Momo’s lips twitched into a polite smile, though she wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Mei was now circling her workbench, peering at her notebook with unabashed curiosity.

“Oh, what’s this? A shield generator?” Mei’s voice rose with excitement as she picked up the notebook without asking. “Huh, pretty solid concept. Bit basic, though. Needs more oomph. Like a built-in propulsion system! Or lasers! Lasers make everything better.”

Before Momo could protest, Mei was flipping through the pages, her enthusiasm unabated. “You’ve got a good eye for detail, I’ll give you that. But you’re gonna have to loosen up if you’re gonna survive here. The Support Course isn’t about neat little boxes and tidy schedules. It’s about creativity, chaos, and making babies!”

Momo blinked, completely thrown by the phrasing. “Babies?”

“My inventions!” Mei clarified, holding up a wrench like it was a trophy. “My super-cute babies! They’re my life, my soul, my everything!”

“I see,” Momo said, though she wasn’t sure she did. Mei’s energy was overwhelming, like a tornado sweeping through the otherwise calm environment. It was a stark contrast to Momo’s reserved demeanor, and she found herself struggling to keep up.

Mei finally handed the notebook back, her grin as wide as ever. “Anyway, welcome to the Support Course! If you need anything - or, better yet, if you want to help me build something amazing—just holler. Oh, and don’t mind the explosions. They’re part of the process.”

With that, Mei spun on her heel and strode out of the workshop, leaving behind a faint smell of burnt metal. Momo stood there for a moment, notebook in hand, trying to process the encounter.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, glancing back at her workstation. “That was… unexpected.”

She sat down again, picking up her pen and returning to her blueprint. The interruption had been jarring, but oddly enough, she found herself feeling a bit more at ease. If nothing else, it was clear that the Support Course was going to be an entirely new experience.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The classroom was quiet - unnervingly so.

Shouta Aizawa sat slumped at his desk at the front of the room, a cup of coffee balanced precariously on the edge. He rubbed his temples, the paperwork from Momo Yaoyorozu’s transfer still stacked neatly in his drawer. He wasn’t one for sentimentality, but he’d be lying if he said the day didn’t feel off.

The first to enter the room was, as usual, Midoriya. The boy gave his typical bright greeting, then hesitated at the sight of Hitoshi Shinsou in Mineta’s old seat. Shinsou, for his part, didn’t look up, already lost in whatever notes he was scribbling.

“Good morning, Shinsou!” Midoriya said, a bit too enthusiastically.

“Morning,” Shinsou muttered without looking up.

Midoriya blinked, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Thankfully, the awkwardness was interrupted by the arrival of Bakugou, whose explosive personality immediately filled the room as he stormed past with a curt “Move it, nerd.”

The rest of the class began to trickle in shortly after. Setsuna Tokage, fresh from Class 1-B, strode in confidently and took her assigned seat at the very front. Her easygoing demeanor made the transition seem effortless, though Aizawa noted the curious glances she received from the others as they pieced together what her presence might mean.

As the minutes ticked by, the room filled with the familiar chatter of Class 1-A. Kaminari was cracking jokes with Kirishima, Jirou was half-listening while fiddling with her earjacks, and Sero leaned back in his chair, balancing a pencil on his nose. Shouto Todoroki sat silently at his desk, his usual stoic expression betrayed only by the occasional glance toward the empty seat beside him.

And that’s when it happened.

The noise in the room began to fade as realization struck. First it was Ashido, the antenna-like horns in her hair twitching as she scanned the room. Then Uraraka, who had been chatting with Iida, stopped mid-sentence. Slowly but surely, every gaze turned toward the empty seat at the back of the room.

Yaoyorozu’s seat.

“Wait… where’s Momo?” Kaminari asked, breaking the silence. His voice carried a hint of unease, a stark contrast to his usual carefree tone.

“She’s always here first,” Uraraka added, looking around as if Momo might appear from thin air. “She’s the one who sets up the desks and everything.”

“Maybe she’s running late?” Kirishima offered, though even he didn’t sound convinced. Everyone knew that wasn’t like Momo. She was punctual to a fault.

Shouto shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on her chair. He said nothing, but the slight furrow of his brow didn’t go unnoticed by Kaminari, who leaned over and whispered, “Todoroki, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shouto replied, though his tone lacked its usual calm detachment. He kept his eyes on the empty chair, his mind racing with quiet worry.

“She’s probably fine, guys,” Jirou said, though her expression mirrored everyone else’s concern. She tapped her earjacks against the edge of her desk, a nervous habit she rarely indulged in. “Maybe she’s got something else going on.”

“That’s not like her,” Iida declared, standing abruptly. “As Class Representative, it’s my duty to ensure that all members of our class are accounted for. I’ll-”

“Sit down,” Aizawa interrupted, his voice low but commanding. The room fell silent as every eye turned to him. He looked up from his paperwork, his expression unreadable. “Yaoyorozu transferred to the Support Course.”

The announcement hit the class like a sudden gust of wind, leaving stunned silence in its wake. Kaminari blinked, struggling to process the words. “Transferred?” he echoed. “Like… left the Hero Course?”

“Yes,” Aizawa said simply, his tone giving nothing away.

“But why?” Uraraka asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. “She never said anything about this. Did something happen?”

“That’s for her to explain, not me,” Aizawa replied. “If you want answers, you’ll have to ask her yourselves.”

The room erupted into a flurry of murmurs and questions, the students exchanging worried and incredulous looks. Shinsou and Setsuna stayed quiet, their gazes flicking between their new classmates and Aizawa.

“She didn’t even tell us?” Jirou muttered, her earjacks drooping. “I thought we were her friends.”

“She’s got her reasons,” Sero said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “Momo wouldn’t just… leave without thinking it through.”

“She’s brilliant,” Shouto said suddenly, surprising everyone. His voice was steady but carried an edge of conviction. “If she made this decision, it’s because she believed it was the right one. But…”

He trailed off, his gaze once again drifting to her empty seat. The rest of the class shared the unspoken sentiment: they trusted Momo, but they couldn’t help but feel like something was missing - like they had failed her somehow.

Aizawa watched the scene unfold, his expression softening just slightly. He’d expected this reaction, though it didn’t make the moment any easier. Momo’s absence was palpable, a void that couldn’t simply be filled by reshuffling seats or assigning roles. But he also knew his students well enough to trust that they would seek her out, support her in whatever way they could.

“All right, enough,” he said, cutting through the noise. “This doesn’t change the fact that you’re still part of Class 1-A. You’ve got work to do. Focus on that for now.”

The class settled down reluctantly, though the tension lingered in the air. As Aizawa returned to his paperwork, he caught a glimpse of Shouto glancing at Momo’s seat one last time before turning back to his own desk.

Okay, so. Something was definitely up.

Denki Kaminari slouched in his seat, aimlessly twirling a pencil between his fingers while his brain hummed with theories. Momo transferring? To the Support Course? No way. There had to be an explanation - like, maybe she was on some secret hero mission and couldn’t tell anyone. Or maybe this was one of those “it’s for your own good” situations where Aizawa-sensei was keeping them all in the dark to protect them.

Yeah. That had to be it. Right? Right?

He looked around the room for backup, though he wasn’t going to find much. Setsuna seemed perfectly at ease, as if she hadn’t just been transplanted from Class 1-B. Shinsou was hunched over his desk, completely ignoring everyone. Not suspicious at all. But the rest of the class? Oh, they were restless. Denki could see it in the way Jirou kept fiddling with her earjacks, or the way Uraraka kept glancing at Momo’s empty chair, her face scrunched in concern. And Shouto? Shouto was staring at that chair like it owed him an explanation.

Denki leaned over to whisper to Kirishima. “Dude. What’s the play here? We can’t just let this slide.”

Kirishima scratched the back of his head, looking just as conflicted. “I don’t know, man. Maybe we just ask Aizawa-sensei-”

“Yeah, right!” Denki hissed, cutting him off. “And get hit with one of his ‘none of your business’ glares? No thanks.”

From the front of the class, Iida had his hand raised. “Aizawa-sensei, there seems to be an issue with-”

“Nope,” Aizawa said, not even looking up from his paperwork.

“But you haven’t even heard what-”

“No.”

Iida sat down, looking like a kicked puppy, and Denki sighed dramatically. Someone had to do something. And by 'someone', he meant everyone but him. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long.

“Uh, Sensei?” Mina piped up from the middle of the room, raising her hand. “My hero costume’s shoes have been acting kinda weird lately. Should I, like, take it to the Support Course?”

“No,” Aizawa said again, his voice flat as a pancake.

“Actually, uh,” Sero cut in, waving his hand casually, “the tape dispensers on my costume have been sticking a little. Maybe Yaoyorozu could-”

“No.”

“But Sensei!” Uraraka added, practically bouncing in her seat. “The boots on my costume are starting to wear down, and I thought-”

“No,” Aizawa interrupted, finally looking up. His gaze swept the classroom, and Denki swore it could have turned them all to stone. “Let me make one thing very clear. None of you are visiting the Support Course for excuses like ‘costume repairs.’ Now stop wasting time and focus.”

The room went silent. For about five seconds.

Denki sank lower in his chair, throwing a quick glance at Jirou, who was smirking just enough to make him feel called out. “Plan B?” he mouthed at her.

“Wait until lunch,” she mouthed back, rolling her eyes like he was an idiot. Which, okay, maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong. Lunch was when they could corner Momo and demand answers.

The rest of class dragged by in agonizing slow motion. Denki spent most of it daydreaming about potential scenarios. Maybe Momo had gone undercover to infiltrate some Support Course conspiracy. Or maybe Power Loader had offered her some once-in-a-lifetime mentorship. Or maybe - and this was a big maybe - she just wanted a change. Nah, scratch that last one. Momo was all about plans and logic. She didn’t do anything without, like, a spreadsheet of pros and cons.

Finally - finally - class ended. Denki bolted from his seat so fast he nearly tripped over his bag. Jirou caught his arm before he could faceplant, muttering something about “calm down, Jamming Whey” as they joined the rest of the group funneling out of the room.

Shouto was leading the pack like a man on a mission, his usual poker face replaced with a subtle yet determined frown. Even Bakugou, who normally couldn’t care less about “class drama,” was tagging along, though he grumbled the entire way about “wasting time on this crap.”

“Okay, people,” Denki whispered as they neared the Support Course building. “Operation ‘Find Momo’ is a go. Act natural.”

“No one’s acting natural,” Jirou shot back, giving him a light shove. “You’re literally vibrating.”

“Am not,” Denki said, though his voice wavered.

“Shut it, Dunce Face,” Bakugou growled, shoving past him. “We’re doing this my way.”

“Your way?” Uraraka whispered. “What’s your way?”

“Kick the door in and demand answers.”

“Absolutely not!” Iida snapped, waving his arms dramatically. “We’ll approach her respectfully and request an audience-”

“Oh my God, we don’t have time for a PowerPoint,” Kaminari groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “Let’s just-”

But before they could agree on a plan, they rounded the corner and spotted her. Momo Yaoyorozu, sitting at her newly assigned workstation, notebook open as she sketched out what looked like a blueprint. She hadn’t noticed them yet, her focus completely absorbed in her work.

Denki stopped dead in his tracks, the rest of the group piling up behind him like dominoes. “Okay,” he whispered, grinning nervously. “Maybe let’s not all, like, swarm her at once? She’ll freak out.”

“She’s not the one who’s freaking out,” Jirou muttered.

And, well, she wasn’t wrong.

Kyouka Jirou didn’t need to be a mind reader to know the others were a mix of nervous and impatient, especially Denki, who was vibrating like an overcharged battery next to her. She rolled her eyes at the chaos brewing in their little impromptu stakeout. How had they all ended up peeking around the corner of the workshop like they were in some kind of amateur spy movie?

Her gaze flicked to Momo, who was sitting serenely at her workstation, completely unaware of the human disaster zone that was her former class. She was hunched slightly over her notebook, pen in hand, her focus so intense it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist. It was peak Momo - a picture of composure and precision, her every movement purposeful. Yet, even from this distance, Jirou could see the subtle tension in her posture. The kind she wore when she was overthinking.

Momo always tried to carry everything on her shoulders. That’s just who she was - polished, composed, always looking out for others. Jirou saw it as her unspoken duty to make sure Momo didn’t keel over from all the pressure she put on herself. Sure, Momo was taller, looked older, and radiated this big-sister energy, but Kyouka had always felt like they balanced each other out. Momo was the mature perfectionist, while Jirou was the laid-back reality check.

“What’s she even doing?” Denki whispered, craning his neck like an overeager flamingo. His whisper wasn’t exactly subtle, though, and Jirou elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. He let out a pitiful “ow” but didn’t argue.

“She’s working,” Jirou hissed back. “You know, like she does. Unlike you.”

Denki pouted but kept quiet. For about five seconds.

“Okay, but why didn’t she say anything?” Mina chimed in, her whisper loud enough to make Jirou wince. “Like, we’re her friends, right? She couldn’t have just-”

“Pipe down,” Bakugou growled from behind them. His arms were crossed, and he looked about three seconds away from barreling into the workshop. “This is a waste of time. Let’s just ask her already.”

“No!” Uraraka whispered urgently. “We need to be tactful!”

“Tactful my-”

“Guys,” Jirou cut in, her voice low but firm. “You’re not exactly being subtle here.”

She sighed, glancing back toward Momo, who was still oblivious to the circus happening mere feet away. The whole thing was ridiculous. They all cared, obviously, but this wasn’t how to go about it. They were just going to end up scaring her. And sure enough, she could see Bakugou’s patience wearing thin. His eye was twitching - a bad sign.

“Bakugou, don’t-” she started, but it was too late.

“Oi, Yaoyorozu!” Bakugou’s voice cut through the air like a thunderclap.

Momo jolted so violently that her pen skittered across the desk, and she half-rose from her chair, wide-eyed. If Jirou hadn’t known better, she might have thought Momo had been caught committing a crime instead of just… working.

“B-Bakugou!” Momo stammered, clutching the edge of her desk like it was a lifeline. “What are you - what are you all doing here?”

She glanced past him and finally noticed the rest of the group, who were awkwardly shuffling into view, looking anywhere but directly at her. Denki tried to play it cool, leaning against the wall, but promptly slipped and almost knocked over a box of scrap metal. Jirou facepalmed.

“What the Hell do you think we’re doing?” Bakugou snapped, crossing the threshold and glaring down at her like she owed him an explanation. “What’s this crap about transferring? You didn’t think we’d notice you’re gone?”

Momo blinked rapidly, clearly flustered. “I-I didn’t mean-” She stopped, taking a deep breath to compose herself. “I didn’t think it was something that needed to be discussed. It was… a personal decision.”

“Yeah, well, it’s our business too!” Kaminari piped up, trying - and failing - to sound authoritative. “You’re one of us, Momo! You can’t just- just disappear without saying anything!”

Jirou stepped forward, placing a hand on Momo’s shoulder to steady her before she completely spiraled. “Hey,” she said gently, her voice softer than usual. “We’re not mad. We’re just… worried, okay?”

Momo’s expression softened, though she still looked like she wanted to curl into herself. “I appreciate your concern, truly. But this is what I believe is best for me. I didn’t want to burden any of you with it.”

“Burden us?” Mina repeated, her hands on her hips. “Girl, you could never be a burden. We’re your friends!”

Jirou nodded, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah. We just want to know what’s going on. You don’t have to do this alone.”

For a moment, Momo looked like she might cry, though she quickly blinked it away. Instead, she offered a small, tentative smile. “Thank you. All of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugou grumbled, though he didn’t sound nearly as annoyed as he had earlier. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced away. “Just don’t pull crap like this again.”

The tension in the room began to ease, though Jirou had a feeling this conversation wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. But for now, they’d cracked the surface.

Chapter Text

Momo Yaoyorozu had never worn sweatpants in public before.

She hadn't even owned sweatpants before. Every article of clothing she'd ever worn - be it her U.A. uniform, hero costume, or even her supposed 'casual' attire - was carefully chosen to present a refined image. Polished, elegant, sophisticated. That was who she was supposed to be.

But here she was, standing in front of a mirror in the Support Course locker room, staring at herself in a simple pair of navy sweatpants and a fitted long-sleeve shirt.

It wasn’t that she minded them. The fabric was soft, comfortable even. Practical for long hours working in the lab. Power Loader had encouraged her to wear something less restrictive, emphasizing function over appearance. Hatsume had been far less tactful about it.

“Fancy Girl, you can’t do Support Course work in those stiff rich-kid clothes!” she had declared, gesturing wildly at Momo’s neatly pressed blouse and tailored slacks. “You’ll ruin them! Plus, they look uncomfortable. You need mobility! And grease stains? Oh man, you have no idea how many grease stains you’re gonna get-”

Momo had tried to object, but Hatsume steamrolled over her, tossing a pair of sweatpants at her without ceremony. “Try those! They’re comfy, I promise. No one here gives a crap what you wear, Fancy Girl, just don’t wear anything you’d cry over ruining.”

She had hesitated, but ultimately, practicality won.

Now, looking at herself, she felt oddly… exposed. Not physically, but mentally. The clothes weren’t uncomfortable, but they were unfamiliar. For years, her wardrobe had been curated to uphold an image - one she hadn’t even chosen for herself. This was different. There was no expectation here. No scrutiny. No need to be perfect.

Still, she hesitated.

Would people see her differently? Would she see herself differently?

She swallowed the thought and squared her shoulders. This was fine. She was in the Support Course now. She had a goal, a plan. The specifics were still forming, but she knew what she wanted—to inherit her parents’ business and transform it into something useful. A Support Item Manufacturing Company for heroes. Something meaningful.

She pulled her hair into a ponytail, adjusting her posture with practiced precision, then turned away from the mirror. It was time to get to work.

Hatsume, predictably, didn’t seem to notice the change.

“Fancy Girl!” she called the second Momo stepped into the lab, waving a wrench above her head. “You! You’re exactly what I need - come look at this!”

Momo sighed but complied, stepping over a mess of blueprints and scrap metal as Hatsume pulled her toward a workbench. There was an unfinished prototype sitting there, wires splayed messily across its surface. “Alright, so,” Hatsume started, her words running together in excitement, “this baby is supposed to be a shock-absorption mechanism for impact-heavy hero work. But! The current material isn’t handling stress like it should. I need something more flexible but still durable - thoughts?”

Momo scanned the design quickly, pulling out her notebook as she analyzed the structure. “You need something that can compress and redistribute force without breaking under stress. Have you considered using a composite polymer with layered microstructures?”

Hatsume gasped dramatically. “Fancy Girl, you’re a genius!”

Momo flushed slightly but didn’t let it distract her. “I can help you refine the composition if you’d like.”

“Help? Oh no, no, no - you're gonna make it, Fancy Girl!” Hatsume clapped her on the shoulder, her grin wide. “You’re officially on ‘Build This Cool Thing’ duty. Welcome to Support Course madness!”

Momo sighed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. Maybe this was where she was supposed to be.

Days passed, and little by little, Momo began adjusting.

It wasn’t immediate, nor was it easy. The habits ingrained in her from childhood - the posture, the polished diction, the constant awareness of how she presented herself - didn’t just vanish overnight. But the Support Course wasn’t like the Hero Course. There was no pressure to maintain an image, no expectation to command a battlefield with presence alone.

Here, she made things. Designed things. Created solutions.

And she was good at it.

Her workstation - initially pristine - had slowly developed the organized chaos that seemed to define the Support Course. Schematics were spread across her desk, alongside various material samples and half-assembled prototypes. Not quite messy, but no longer rigidly perfect either.

Her clothes shifted, too. She still defaulted to structured outfits - blouses, tailored pants, neatly coordinated ensembles - but they were growing more practical. Sleeves were rolled up, hair pulled into a looser ponytail. And, on days when she was deep in a project, she’d forget altogether and slip into the sweatpants Hatsume had insisted she wear.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t even realized.

But Shouto had.

It was during lunch, when he - along with Kaminari, Jirou, and Sero - had stopped by the Support Course to check in on her. Momo had been in the middle of finalizing adjustments on Hatsume’s shock-absorption prototype, her hands dusted with graphite from marking specifications. When she looked up, Shouto was staring.

“What is it?” she asked, wiping her hands clean.

He blinked, slow and thoughtful. “Your clothes.”

Momo followed his gaze down to herself, only then registering the joggers and loose-fitting hoodie she had thrown on that morning without much thought. It was the first time in years she’d worn something so casually without hesitation.

“Oh,” was all she could say.

Shouto’s expression didn’t change, but there was something soft in his gaze. Something thoughtful. “It suits you.”

Momo felt her breath catch for half a second before she dismissed it. “Thank you,” she murmured, though a small part of her still felt vulnerable in ways she hadn’t expected.

Hatsume, as always, cared less about her clothes and more about progress.

“Fancy Girl!” she had called out one afternoon, waving a soldering iron in the air like a sword. “I need input - does this look stable to you?”

Momo barely had time to process what she was being shown before Hatsume shoved a half-finished propulsion module toward her.

“Stable? No. Impressive? Yes,” Momo answered flatly, scanning the components.

Hatsume cackled, spinning around in place. “Ha! I knew it! Don’t worry, it’s gonna be perfect once I add the final parts. And if it’s not - eh, explosions happen!”

Momo sighed deeply but didn’t bother arguing. At this point, she had accepted that things just blew up around Hatsume.

Still, something about her energy was refreshing. Hatsume didn’t care about presentation, didn’t measure worth by how polished or flawless someone appeared. She cared about results.

And Momo - finally - was able to focus on what she could do, instead of how she looked doing it.

Momo’s speech changed as well - subtly, but undeniably.

The perfect, rehearsed diction softened. The polished tone of careful formality eased, little by little. When she wasn’t paying attention - when she was deep in thought or frustrated - her Russian accent slipped through.

She hadn’t noticed at first.

But Power Loader had.

“You’ve got an accent,” he remarked one afternoon as she finalized calculations for a new Support Item prototype. “Didn’t hear it much before.”

Momo stiffened, fingers pausing against the blueprint.

“I-I usually mask it,” she admitted, voice quieter than usual.

Power Loader snorted. “Why?”

“My mother insisted I speak perfectly. And I-” Momo hesitated. “I was bullied for it.”

Power Loader hummed, resting a hand on his hip. “That’s stupid. You talk fine.”

Momo didn’t have a response for that. Not immediately. She simply stared down at her notes, processing the blunt simplicity of his words.

Not You should hide it. Not You should refine it. Just-

"You talk fine."

And so, Momo adjusted. Slowly. Hesitantly. But surely.

Because here, in the Support Course, she wasn’t bound by expectation.

She was free to just be.

It started small.

A quiet "да" (da) when she agreed with something. A murmured "нет" (nyet) when she rejected an idea.

Nothing dramatic, nothing intentional. Just a subtle shift - a relaxation in the way she spoke when she was focused.

Momo didn’t even realize she was doing it at first.

But Hatsume did.

“Fancy Girl!” she hollered across the workshop, holding up a prototype that looked suspiciously unstable. “Check this out- I finally fixed the rotational axis on the propulsion system!”

Momo glanced up from her workbench, adjusting her gloves as she analyzed the device from a distance. “It was never the axis, Hatsume. It was the torque balance.”

“Pfft, same difference!” Hatsume grinned. “Anyway, I need you to double-check my composition formula.”

Momo sighed, rubbing her temples. “Bozhe moi,” she muttered under her breath before crossing the room to inspect the item.

Hatsume’s head snapped up, eyes gleaming with unfiltered curiosity. “What was that? That wasn’t Japanese.”

Momo hesitated just a fraction of a second before answering. “It’s Russian.”

“Ooooh.” Hatsume leaned in, grinning wildly. “Fancy Girl is fancy fancy.”

Momo rolled her eyes. “It just means ‘Oh my God,’ Hatsume.”

Hatsume gasped. “You curse in Russian?!”

“I-It wasn’t cursing.”

“No, no, but do you curse in Russian? Do you?!”

Momo looked toward Power Loader for help, but he only shook his head, fighting back a smirk.

“…I suppose I do,” Momo admitted reluctantly.

Hatsume clapped her hands together. “You must teach me! Imagine the possibilities! Explosions and foreign curses- I could become unstoppable!”

Momo sighed deeply. “Bozhe moi.”

Hatsume cackled.

Power Loader, for his part, didn’t make a big deal about it.

“You use Russian words sometimes,” he noted casually one afternoon as Momo worked on refining a polymer compound.

She tensed slightly, unsure how to respond. “I -Yes. It happens when I’m thinking.”

Power Loader shrugged. “Makes sense. If it’s your first language, your brain probably defaults to it.”

Momo blinked at the matter-of-factness of his tone.

“…Yes,” she said slowly. “It does.”

“Then don’t fight it.” He grabbed a wrench from the nearby toolbox, barely looking up. “You talk how you talk. No one here cares.”

Momo stared at him for a long moment, then returned to her work, her grip on her pen loosening just a bit.

Shouto noticed, too.

“Your accent is stronger lately,” he observed one evening after stopping by the Support Course to check in.

Momo glanced at him from across the workbench, tilting her head slightly. “Is that… bad?”

Shouto shook his head immediately. “No. It’s-” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “It suits you.”

Momo didn’t know how to respond to that.

She looked down at her notebook, tracing a margin line absentmindedly. “…It was never fully gone,” she admitted. “I just hid it.”

Shouto studied her for a moment, then nodded. “You don’t have to anymore.”

The words settled into her like warmth.

She swallowed, nodding back. “I suppose not.”

And so, slowly, she let it slip more often.

She still caught herself masking sometimes - years of habit couldn’t be undone in a few weeks - but she wasn’t actively suppressing it anymore.

It was hers. It was part of her.

And that was okay.

Momo quickly learned that working alongside Hatsume was less like structured collaboration and more like weathering a storm. A loud, grease-stained, high-energy storm.

“Fancy Girl, pass me that screwdriver!” Hatsume yelled over the hum of machinery.

Momo sighed, reaching for the tool but pausing when she noticed the sheer disaster zone that was Hatsume’s side of the workshop. Wires tangled together like a nest of vipers, half-dismantled gadgets lay scattered across the table, and - somehow - there was a smudge of soot on Hatsume’s face.

Again.

“I’m assuming you mean the Phillips screwdriver, not the flathead,” Momo said, holding it out.

Hatsume grabbed it without looking, already fixated on the contraption in front of her. “Yeah, yeah, whatever! Oh! Actually, wait- maybe I do need the flathead- actually, no, gimme both.”

Momo huffed, placing the flathead beside her, watching as Hatsume moved at breakneck speed, twisting bolts into place without a second thought.

It was fascinating, in a way. Infuriating, but fascinating.

“Hatsume,” Momo said, watching her haphazardly adjust a joint mechanism. “You’re about to misalign the structural frame.”

“Not if I do this-” Hatsume twisted a separate bolt, grinning widely when the piece snapped into place. “Boom! Perfect fit!”

Momo blinked. “...That shouldn’t have worked.”

“It shouldn’t, but it did!” Hatsume cackled. “Science is magic!”

Momo resisted the urge to rub her temples. “Science is science, Hatsume.”

“Science is whatever I want it to be when I’m winning,” Hatsume countered, throwing a triumphant fist in the air.

Momo huffed, shaking her head in amused disbelief.

She didn’t always understand Hatsume, but she did understand her passion. That she could relate to.

Despite their differences, they fell into a strange rhythm.

Hatsume’s chaotic method of creation was counterbalanced by Momo’s meticulous calculations. Momo’s structured approach to planning was infused with Hatsume’s fearless innovation. And when they both hyperfixated, they could spend hours brainstorming without realizing time had passed.

“Okay, okay- hear me out!” Hatsume practically bounced in place, waving her latest blueprint in the air. “What if we make a flight stabilizer that adjusts mid-air depending on trajectory force?”

Momo’s eyes lit up at the idea, pulling her own notebook closer. “It would need a gyroscopic balance system. And lightweight material composition.”

“See, this is why I like you, Fancy Girl!” Hatsume cackled. “You get it!”

Momo felt the warmth of pride settle into her chest before she even realized it.

Slowly, Hatsume began recognizing when Momo needed structure, and Momo adapted to Hatsume’s energy. It wasn’t a perfect balance - not yet - but it worked.

Momo had run out of projects.

It wasn’t that there wasn’t work to do - there was always something to refine, something to improve - but nothing new was sparking inspiration. The prototypes she’d been developing were completed, and Power Loader had explicitly told her to take a break before she buried herself in another long-term design.

She had tried to rest. She had. But sitting idle felt unnatural. Her brain needed something to focus on.

Which was how she found herself carefully carving the beginnings of a small wooden figure in the quiet corner of the workshop.

The idea had come to her absently - almost an afterthought. She could have used her Quirk to shape the wood instantly, but that felt wrong. Cheap. It wasn’t about convenience; it was about creation. About precision.

And if she was going to do this, she was going to do it right.

The first figure she started on was Shouto.

Not for any particular reason. He was simply the first person who came to mind—perhaps because his distinct features made for an interesting challenge. His half-red, half-white hair, his steady posture, the way he stood with quiet certainty even when he wasn’t speaking.

She focused on every detail.

The weight distribution of the tiny figure had to be correct - balanced so it wouldn’t topple over when placed upright. The angles of his stance had to match his actual posture - the slight tilt in how he carried himself, the careful way he adjusted his shoulders when preparing to move.

Her hyperfocus locked in, and she barely noticed time passing.

The texture of the wood beneath her fingertips, the careful placement of each carved line - it was meditative. Precise.

Nothing rushed. Nothing messy.

Just methodical creation.

She didn’t register that she’d been at it for hours until a voice interrupted her concentration.

“You’re making something,” Shouto observed from behind her.

Momo startled slightly, her knife pausing mid-cut as she turned. “Oh- Shouto.”

His gaze flicked to her workstation, his eyes landing on the nearly completed figure of himself standing amidst scattered wood shavings.

He blinked. Once. Then twice.

“Is that… me?”

Momo hesitated, her fingers tightening briefly around the carving tool. “It- yes. I suppose I began with you.”

Shouto stepped closer, studying the tiny wooden replica in quiet contemplation. “It’s… incredibly detailed.”

Momo huffed a small breath, adjusting her grip on the figurine. “Of course it is. It wouldn’t be accurate otherwise.”

Shouto lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize action figures needed precision engineering.”

“They do,” Momo said, unable to stop herself from launching into explanation. “If the proportions are wrong, the stability is compromised. If the balance of weight isn’t evenly distributed, it won’t stand properly. And-” She halted, suddenly aware that she had begun rambling.

Shouto didn’t seem to mind.

His gaze was steady, listening without interruption.

“You put effort into it,” he said simply.

“Well, of course I did,” Momo muttered. “Why would I make something inaccurate?”

A small, quiet smile tugged at the corner of Shouto’s lips.

“I like it,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “It’s impressive.”

Momo stared at him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before clearing her throat. “I- thank you.”

Shouto tilted his head. “Are you making figures of everyone?”

Momo glanced at the carved wooden fragments on the table. “…Maybe.”

Shouto nodded, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “I want to see the others when you finish them.”

Momo exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“…Fine.”

Shouto hummed in approval, then stepped back, letting her return to her work.

Momo stared at the carving for a moment, then resumed shaping the fine details.

The hyperfocus continued.

She moved on to other figures. Carefully shaping each person from memory.

Every detail mattered.

Kaminari’s grin had to be perfectly lopsided. Jirou’s stance had to carry the slight slouch she always had when standing casually. Uraraka’s weight distribution had to be slightly shifted forward, as if she were always on the brink of movement.

She worked late into the evening, refining, adjusting, improving.

Nothing rushed. Nothing messy.

Just precise, methodical creation.

The first stroke of paint had to be perfect.

Momo had spent days sculpting the figures - methodically carving, refining, adjusting until each one was exact. She had accounted for everything: weight distribution, realistic proportions, even the unique way each person stood. She could visualize them so clearly that replicating them was almost second nature.

But painting was different.

Painting required absolute precision.

She carefully adjusted the microscope lens, bringing the fabric details of Izuku’s blazer into focus. The tiny blue-green stripes on the shoulders were barely visible to the naked eye, but they had to be accurate. Had to follow the real uniform design.

There was no room for error.

She dipped her finest brush - a hair-thin tool barely visible from a distance - into the paint, exhaling slowly as she applied the stroke.

The freckles had to be in perfect alignment, the scars placed exactly where they were on Izuku’s face. The black compression sleeve on his arm was tricky - she had to make sure the tone was slightly different from the uniform fabric, giving it its own texture.

Her hyperfocus locked in, and soon she was painting everything with surgical precision - the smallest scar lines, the faintest flecks of contrasting hair color, the exact parting of Shouto’s slightly messy bangs.

She studied his half-red, half-white strands carefully, making sure the flecks of mismatched colors blended the way they did at the crown of his head. His freezer burn scar had to be exact - not too dark, not too light - as it was fading with age but still deeply visible.

Nothing rushed. Nothing messy.

Just perfect, detailed creation.

Hatsume found her hours later, hunched over her workstation like a scientist dissecting some grand discovery.

“What in the- Fancy Girl, are you seriously painting action figures with a microscope?!” Hatsume gawked, wide-eyed as she took in the setup.

Momo barely looked up, adjusting the lens again. “I require accuracy, Hatsume.”

Hatsume sputtered, scanning the neatly arranged row of figures. “You could’ve just made them already colored with your Quirk!”

Momo scoffed, fixing the minuscule golden buttons on Iida’s uniform. “That would be cheating.”

Hatsume stared at her like she’d just spoken a foreign language (which, honestly, she did often these days). Then, ever so slowly, she grinned.

“You, Fancy Girl, are insane.”

Momo hummed, brushing a near-invisible stroke against Uraraka’s skirt pleats. “It’s called attention to detail.”

Hatsume cackled, throwing herself into a chair beside Momo, watching as she worked.

She observed the intricate scars on Bakugou’s cheek - the stitched lines carefully painted with precision, his lit-fuse braids sculpted just enough to keep their shape without compromising stability.

“You even did Sparky’s hair right,” Hatsume marveled, pointing at Denki’s action figure. “Golden, lightning-streaked - why does this look better than real life?!”

Momo huffed in quiet amusement, working on the prosthetic detail of Jirou’s left ear. “Because I pay attention.”

Hatsume cackled, throwing herself back dramatically in her chair. “I dunno, Fancy Girl, you might be crazier than me.”

Momo let the corner of her mouth twitch into the smallest smirk. “Impossible.”

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo adjusted the microscope lens, leaning closer to refine the final details on Setsuna's tie. The golden button had to reflect light just slightly - not a flat gold, but a textured sheen that caught the eye. She reached for a different shade of paint, the movement seamless, automatic.

Her hands knew this rhythm well.

Every brushstroke followed a precise method. Every detail served a purpose.

But the figures were almost finished now.

Which meant she’d have nothing to work on soon.

Momo frowned, pausing as the thought settled uncomfortably in her mind. Her hands twitched at the realization, fingers tightening slightly around the brush. She needed something to do.

There was always something to do.

She exhaled slowly, refocusing her attention. No need to spiral. She wasn’t done yet - she still had details to refine. Focus.

Another adjustment of the lens.

She leaned in.

The door to the workshop slammed open.

“Fancy Girl! I have news!”

Momo jerked, her brush slipping, paint streaking across Tokage's miniature blazer. Her entire body stiffened.

She inhaled sharply through her nose, exhaled, then turned.

Hatsume was standing in the doorway, grinning widely, looking as though she had either discovered a revolutionary breakthrough or set something on fire.

Momo narrowed her eyes. “Bozhe moi, Hatsume - must you always enter like an explosion?”

Hatsume cackled. “Of course I must! That’s how you know it’s important!”

Momo sighed, dabbing at the tiny paint error with practiced precision, salvaging the miniature with a level of patience she wasn’t sure Hatsume deserved right now. “What news could possibly require—”

“You are officially my new test subject!” Hatsume declared, hands on her hips, looking entirely too pleased.

Momo blinked. Slowly. “...I beg your pardon?”

“My new invention - my masterpiece!” Hatsume threw a dramatic hand forward. “It needs someone precise! Someone methodical! Someone-”

“I’m not wearing whatever unstable prototype you’ve created, Hatsume,” Momo interrupted flatly, returning her focus to her painting.

Hatsume gasped. Loudly. “Fancy Girl! I would never ask you to wear it - what do you take me for?!”

Momo shot her a sharp look, unimpressed.

Hatsume grinned. “Okay, maybe I would ask. But not this time! This time, I need your brain!”

Momo huffed, setting her brush down and crossing her arms. “Elaborate.”

Hatsume lunged forward, dropping a stack of blueprints onto Momo’s workstation with the force of someone who had never heard of restraint.

“The Stabilized Impact Force Redistribution System!” Hatsume announced proudly. “A support item for heroes who take hard hits! But! The force balance isn’t perfect yet. That’s where you come in, Fancy Girl! Your math brain! Your science brain! Your fancy brain!”

Momo resisted the urge to massage her temples. “You need assistance with the structural integrity.”

“Yes!” Hatsume flopped into a chair beside her. “You already know how it works - I barely even had to explain! Fancy Girl, we make an unstoppable duo.”

Momo sighed but reached for the blueprint regardless, scanning the designs with trained focus. “You’re attempting force redistribution through a gyroscopic system.”

Hatsume nodded rapidly. “Da!”

Momo blinked.

Hatsume grinned.

“You’ve been saying all kinds of Russian words lately, Fancy Girl - I learn fast!” Hatsume declared proudly.

Momo stared at her, then exhaled deeply. “You are unbearable.”

Hatsume cackled. “No, no, no- I am brilliant!”

Momo pressed her fingers against her forehead, collecting herself.

Then looked back at the blueprint and started making calculations.

She was frustrated that her figures were finished.

She was restless.

But at least Hatsume was always throwing something new her way.

Chapter Text

Momo adjusted the last figurine on the shelf, ensuring each one stood at precisely the right angle. The arrangement had to be symmetrical - the taller figures toward the center, the shorter ones balancing the edges. She didn’t need to place them like this, but it felt wrong to leave them haphazardly scattered.

Everything had to be right.

She took a step back, eyes scanning the row of meticulously painted wooden figures. The full set was complete: Class 2-A - including Shinsou and Setsuna - alongside a handful of Class 2-B students. Each one bore the painstaking details she had carefully replicated - the correct proportions, the individual scars, the smallest fabric folds in their uniforms.

And yet, even looking at them now, she could feel the nagging presence of an unfinished piece.

Her own figurine - missing.

She had thought about making one. Briefly. But it felt wrong. The sculptures had been a distraction - something to occupy her hands when she had nothing else to work on—but making one of herself? That wasn’t necessary. She was only meant to craft others, not replicate herself.

The thought sat uncomfortably in her mind, a question she had yet to answer.

Before she could dwell on it, a familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“You finished them.”

Momo turned, catching sight of Shouto standing at the entrance to the lab, hands tucked into the pockets of his uniform slacks. His half-red, half-white hair was pulled into the low ponytail he had started wearing recently, though his bangs still framed his face messily. His heterochromatic eyes scanned the shelf with quiet interest, his gaze flicking between the figures with an almost analytical curiosity.

“I did,” Momo confirmed, folding her arms. “They’re complete.”

Shouto stepped closer, studying the shelf with a careful intensity. He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of Denki’s figurine, his touch precise, as if afraid to disturb the placement. “They look like us,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly.

Momo huffed. “Of course they do. I made sure of it.”

Shouto nodded, his gaze shifting to different figures - Izuku’s, with the carefully painted freckles and faint scars; Bakugou’s, with his stitched cheek wound and unmistakable confidence in his stance. He lingered on Jirou’s, studying the prosthetic detail on her ear with quiet recognition.

And then, after a moment, his brow furrowed slightly.

His eyes flicked to the end of the row, scanning the set again.

Then again.

Momo watched as his frown deepened ever so slightly.

“…Where’s yours?” he asked.

Momo blinked.

She hadn’t expected him to notice.

“I didn’t make one,” she answered plainly.

Shouto turned his head slightly, considering her response. “Why not?”

Momo hesitated, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve absently before answering. “It wasn’t necessary.”

Shouto studied her, his gaze steady, unreadable. “You made everyone else.”

“Yes.”

“Then why wouldn’t you include yourself?”

Momo exhaled quietly, straightening her posture. “I didn’t see the point. I was only making them as an exercise in detail replication due to boredom. I don’t need one of myself.”

Shouto didn’t respond immediately. He simply watched her, eyes flicking over her expression with the same careful study he had given the figures. He was thinking - she could see it, the way he absorbed her words, the way his fingers curled slightly in his pocket.

Then, slowly, his expression shifted - subtle, but certain.

“Make one,” he said.

Momo blinked again. “I just explained why I didn’t.”

“Then make it for me.”

Momo stared at him, taken aback. “You- what?”

Shouto tilted his head slightly. “I want one.”

Momo opened her mouth, then closed it, then frowned. “You want… a figurine of me.”

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

Shouto didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked to the completed set again, scanning the careful arrangement of their entire class. He exhaled slowly, then looked back at her, his tone unwavering.

“You should be included,” he said simply. “If you won’t make one for yourself, then make it for me.”

Momo stared, struggling to process the request. His reasoning was logical - straightforward. And yet, something about the way he said it, the quiet certainty in his voice, made it feel off. Not in a bad way. Just… different.

Shouto was not an expressive person. He didn’t waste words on sentimentality, didn’t ask for things without thinking them through. And yet, there was something undeniably sincere in his request - something personal in the way he phrased it.

And Momo, in her structured, methodical way of thinking, couldn’t quite understand why.

But he was waiting for an answer.

So she sighed, crossing her arms again. “I’ll… consider it.”

Shouto hummed, a soft sound that almost resembled approval.

“I’d like that,” he said, his voice quiet.

Momo didn’t know what to say to that.

So she turned back to the shelf, eyes lingering on the empty space at the end of the row.

Momo didn’t consider herself sentimental.

Detail-oriented? Yes. Analytical? Certainly. But not sentimental.

And yet, as she sat in her quiet corner of the workshop, staring at the empty space at the end of the row of figurines, she felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest. Not regret. Not doubt. Just… something she couldn’t immediately categorize.

She had made each figurine with precise intent, capturing every detail exactly as they existed. Every scar, every posture, every minuscule feature that made them them. But she had never considered sculpting herself. Had never thought about what details she would even include.

What was Momo Yaoyorozu in her own eyes?

She exhaled slowly, smoothing her hands over the grain of fresh wood as she mulled over the question.

Shouto wanted her to make one.

She didn’t quite understand why, but she knew that he had meant it sincerely. He was logical, not prone to empty requests. And for some reason, he believed she should be included.

Momo sat alone in the workshop, the soft hum of dormant machinery filling the space. The air smelled of oil, metal, and varnish, remnants of her latest endeavor. Her workstation was neat - organized the way she liked it - but on the shelf beside her, a small gap remained.

The absence sat heavier than expected.

She had made everyone - replicated each of her classmates down to the most minuscule details. Izuku’s freckles, the way Shouto’s mismatched hair wasn’t a perfect divide, the scars Bakugou stubbornly bore like battle trophies. Every fold in their uniforms, every slight imperfection, crafted with unwavering precision.

But she had never made herself.

Her eyes lingered on the space where her own figurine should have stood, her fingers resting against a fresh block of wood. The knife lay beside it, waiting - sharp, steady, expectant.

She hadn’t hesitated when making the others. The process had been logical, methodical. But now, looking at the blank wood, she hesitated.

How did one carve themselves?

Momo was deliberate in everything she did. Exact. Precise. But she had never once looked at herself with the same intent. She knew her features, of course - her onyx eyes, her sharp brows, the way her raven-black hair was always tied up in its spiky ponytail. The scar along her left temple, a permanent souvenir from the Forest Training Camp ambush.

Would she include that?

Did she see it as part of herself?

Her fingers twitched slightly against the wood as she picked up the knife, pressing the blade into the grain with careful force. The shape began to take form, slow but deliberate, the figure sculpting into something familiar.

She carved herself exactly how she knew she looked. Tall - 5’11, with a presence that carried structure even when she didn’t intend it. Her uniform had to be pristine, unwrinkled. Her stance upright, poised, unyielding.

She hesitated again at the face.

For the others, she had replicated them effortlessly, but now - now, she questioned every line. Was her expression too neutral? Should she include the slight tension in her brows that always lingered? The firmness in her mouth that rarely allowed softness?

She exhaled slowly.

It didn’t matter.

She was replicating reality.

Her knife pressed carefully against the surface, tracing the faint scar along her temple, marking the places where time had left evidence of her existence.

She barely registered the footsteps approaching.

Until the door swung open.

“MOMO!”

She flinched, the knife slipping, nearly gouging into her fingertip. Her head snapped up.

Denki Kaminari burst into the workshop with the force of a hurricane, bouncing on the balls of his feet with barely contained energy. Jirou followed close behind, looking unimpressed but not remotely surprised.

“Momo, where’s my tiny me?” Denki demanded, already scanning the shelves.

Momo blinked, still adjusting to the sudden presence of people. “What- oh. Right.”

She gestured toward the set of completed figurines, barely processing the moment before Denki zoomed over, eyes gleaming.

“LOOK AT HIM!” he yelled. “I’M PERFECT!”

Jirou snorted, shaking her head. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Denki turned to respond - but paused as Jirou casually reached out and plucked his figurine from the shelf, turning it over in her hands with passive curiosity.

Momo raised an eyebrow.

Denki stared at her.

Jirou did not return it.

“…What are you doing?” Denki asked slowly.

Jirou shrugged. “Looking at it.”

“It’s mine.”

“Yeah? And?”

Denki spluttered, unable to form a coherent sentence. “And- I- wait- you-”

“You’re terrible at talking,” Jirou muttered, tossing the figurine lightly in her hand, examining its balance.

Denki narrowed his eyes. “Fine. If you’re gonna be weird about it, I’m taking yours!”

Before Jirou could react, Denki snatched her figurine off the shelf, gripping it in a petty act of revenge.

Jirou blinked.

Then shrugged.

Momo squinted.

Jirou was not fighting back.

Denki looked too satisfied.

Mina, watching from the sidelines, immediately sensed the energy. She slid up beside Momo, nudging her lightly. “KamiJirou crisis update?”

Momo sighed. “Hopeless.”

Mina giggled.

Meanwhile, Setsuna was admiring her own figurine, flipping it between her fingers. “Damn, Momo, you nailed this.”

“Obviously,” Momo replied.

The warmth of conversation filled the space, chatter spilling easily into the room.

Momo breathed in deeply, absorbing the energy - the familiarity of them all. She had spent years sculpting herself into something for others, but now, surrounded by people who accepted her exactly as she was - she felt real.

Her eyes flicked back to the unfinished figurine in her hands.

And for the first time - she looked at it and saw herself.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Shouta Aizawa had seen many students struggle.

It was inevitable - U.A. wasn’t just an ordinary school; it was a pressure cooker of expectations, responsibility, and survival. He had spent years watching bright, talented kids push themselves to their limits, some thriving, some barely holding together under the weight of everything placed upon them.

But Momo Yaoyorozu’s transfer had been different.

It hadn’t been driven by failure. Hadn’t stemmed from a lack of ability. Hadn’t even been an act of defiance.

It had been resignation.

A quiet, methodical acceptance that no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she excelled, the world had already decided her worth.

Aizawa wasn’t blind. He had known that Momo had been overlooked - sidelined in situations where she should have thrived. She was brilliant, powerful, capable. Yet, despite her undeniable skill, she had always been forced into the role of supporting others rather than leading herself.

And when she had finally made the choice to leave the Hero Course, he hadn’t argued.

Because deep down, he knew - she wasn’t wrong.

The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.

How many of his students had been disenfranchised like this?

How many had quietly accepted the limits placed upon them?

How many were still struggling under the weight of expectations they could never truly meet?

Momo had been one of the best. And yet, she had come to the conclusion that she was better suited elsewhere - not because she lacked potential, but because she had been denied the space to fulfill it.

Aizawa exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he stared down at the reports on his desk.

He wasn’t the only one thinking about it.

The rest of U.A.’s staff had begun noticing the ripple effect - questioning things they hadn’t before.

Momo’s transfer had been a wake-up call.

Aizawa sat at the far end of the faculty meeting table, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed as he listened to the discussion unfold around him. The air in the room carried a weight that hadn't been present in previous meetings - not tense, exactly, but introspective. Purposeful.

Yaoyorozu’s transfer had done more than shift the expectations of a single student. It had forced a long-overdue conversation.

How many others had been overlooked? How many had quietly accepted the limits placed upon them without protest? How many had felt like failures simply because they hadn’t fit into the mold U.A. had constructed?

“Kid had everything going for her,” Snipe murmured, adjusting his hat as he leaned back in his chair. His voice carried no judgment, only observation. “Top of her class, worked harder than half the damn Pros out there - still left.”

“She didn’t leave because she failed,” Cementoss added, his tone careful. “She left because the system failed her.”

Aizawa barely reacted outwardly, though the words settled over him with quiet finality.

It wasn’t a new thought. He had known it for some time. Had felt it when he saw the resignation in Yaoyorozu’s posture that day she turned in her Hero License. She hadn’t argued. Hadn’t fought. She had simply accepted that she wasn’t meant to thrive where she was.

And that was the problem.

“Yaoyorozu was one of the best.” All Might’s voice was quieter than usual, contemplative rather than authoritative. “But she didn’t feel seen. Not in the way she should have been.”

“She wasn’t the only one,” Present Mic added, his usual energy subdued. “How many others are still here, just going through the motions?”

Nezu, ever poised, steepled his paws together, surveying the room with sharp intellect. “That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

Silence followed.

Aizawa exhaled slowly, pressing his thumb against the edge of his sleeve.

“There are students struggling,” he said finally, his voice even, steady. “Students who should be thriving but aren’t. Some have already accepted their limits. Others haven’t even realized they’re being limited.”

More silence.

Then Nezu nodded. “So, what do we do about it?”

Aizawa didn’t hesitate.

“We pay attention.”

The meeting didn’t end with grand declarations or sweeping reform plans.

It ended with quiet resolve.

Aizawa left the faculty room with a renewed weight on his shoulders - not the kind that dragged him down, but the kind that demanded action. He had always seen his students as individuals, had always known their strengths and weaknesses better than most. But now, he wasn’t just watching. He was looking - for signs, for struggles, for the quiet acceptance that had settled into too many of them without protest.

His first stop was the training hall.

He hadn’t planned it - had simply followed the routine that had been second nature for years. But when he stepped inside, he immediately spotted the familiar sight of Shinsou, moving through combat drills alone.

Aizawa had long since stopped being surprised by his presence here. Even after earning his spot in the Hero Course, Shinsou continued to train independently, pushing himself beyond what was required. Some saw it as determination, a drive to prove himself.

Aizawa saw something deeper.

“You’re still overthinking your footwork,” he commented, watching as Shinsou adjusted his stance mid-strike.

Shinsou exhaled sharply, straightening as he turned toward him. “I know,” he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow. “I just- my reaction time isn’t where I want it.”

Aizawa nodded, stepping forward. “And if it was, would you stop training like this?”

Shinsou hesitated, then shook his head.

Aizawa wasn’t surprised.

“You’re not training because you need to,” he said. “You’re training because you still feel like you have to prove something.”

Shinsou looked away, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “It’s not like I was handed my spot.”

Aizawa studied him carefully. “No. But you shouldn’t feel like you have to keep earning it every second you’re here.”

Shinsou didn’t argue.

Didn’t confirm it.

But he didn’t deny it, either.

Aizawa sighed, crossing his arms. “You already proved yourself, Shinsou. Maybe it’s time you stop fighting ghosts.”

Shinsou huffed softly, but there was no real bite to it. Just quiet understanding.

Aizawa let the silence linger before turning toward the exit.

He had more students to check on.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The workshop was silent.

Morning light filtered through the windows, casting soft shadows across the workstations. Momo stepped through the entrance, her usual routine unfolding without thought - pulling her hair into its spiky ponytail, rolling her sleeves up just slightly, settling into the space that had long since become familiar.

And then she saw it.

Her Hero License sat on her desk.

No note. No explanation.

Just placed neatly at the center, waiting.

She stilled, her gaze locked onto the small, laminated card. The weight of it wasn’t physical, but felt tangible all the same. She had turned it in when she transferred, had left it behind as a final mark of her departure from the Hero Course.

Yet here it was.

Returned to her without ceremony.

She didn’t need to ask who had left it.

Aizawa.

It was his way - no grand gestures, no unnecessary words. Just a silent confirmation, a reminder that no door was truly closed. If she wanted to go back, she could. If she wanted to reclaim the title of Hero, it was still hers to take.

Her fingers hovered over the card, barely brushing the edge.

It wasn’t that she regretted leaving. She had made her choice for a reason. But seeing it here, placed in her space, made her stomach tighten with something she couldn’t quite name.

She wasn’t done with heroism.

She had just decided to approach it differently.

She exhaled slowly, reaching down and picking up the license with careful hands. The printed image of herself stared back at her - polished, structured, the version of her that had fit into the Hero Course’s mold for as long as she allowed it.

She could still be that person.

She was that person.

But she was also more.

Her grip tightened briefly around the card before she stepped back, sliding open the top drawer of her desk.

She placed the license inside.

Then shut it.

She knew what the world thought of her. The media had already painted her as a disappointment, a wasted potential. A child born with every advantage only to throw it away in pursuit of something lesser.

She had seen the headlines. Heard the whispers.

𝚈𝚊𝚘𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚣𝚞 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘; 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚢.

She didn’t need to invite their scrutiny again.

But still- the card was there.

A reminder.

A choice.

She exhaled once more, smoothing her hands over the surface of her desk before turning away, redirecting herself toward the work waiting for her.

She had things to build.

Momo sat at her workstation, the morning quiet settling over the workshop like a familiar presence. The hum of distant machinery buzzed faintly in the background, but her focus was elsewhere.

Her Hero License sat in the drawer.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

Or at least, that had been the intention.

Her fingers hovered absently over the handle, tracing the edge without opening it. It wasn’t that she wanted to take it out - it was just that knowing it was there made it difficult to forget. Aizawa hadn’t left a note. Hadn’t said anything. Just returned it to her silently, with the same careful neutrality he always carried.

He was giving her a choice.

And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she pulled her hand away, redirecting herself toward the materials spread across her desk. She had other things to focus on. The intricacies of her latest prototype demanded her attention - precision measurements, material durability, energy output calculations.

This was where her mind belonged.

The mechanics, the numbers, the purpose.

Not the ifs and maybes that lingered with the license in her drawer.

Still, as she picked up her pen and began sketching designs, she found herself thinking - about herself more than she had in years. About what it meant to be here, in the Support Course, after everything. About whether she missed the Hero Course.

About whether she was allowed to.

She inhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back, grounding herself.

No. She was doing what was best.

That was all that mattered.

She glanced toward her shelf, where the finished figurines stood in neat arrangement.

There, among them, was the newly completed figure of herself - the one Shouto had asked her to make.

For the first time, she saw herself standing beside them.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

Shouto sat on the edge of his bed, legs stretched out, tablet balanced loosely in his hands. The screen’s dim glow flickered against his face, illuminating sharp features, casting deeper shadows beneath his eyes. His gaze remained locked on the words before him, scanning the sentences with unnerving precision, though he barely needed to read them again. He had already absorbed the meaning.

𝚈𝙰𝙾𝚈𝙾𝚁𝙾𝚉𝚄 𝙼𝙾𝙼𝙾: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙽 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙳𝙸𝙶𝚈

The subheading was no better.

𝙰 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚄𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 - 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎?

His fingers curled ever so slightly around the edges of the device, grip tightening without conscious thought. His posture remained deceptively relaxed - shoulders even, breaths controlled - but something in his chest sat uncomfortably, an unfamiliar weight pressing against his ribs.

Disappointment. Wasted potential. Failure.

It was written as fact, framed as inevitable. The article didn’t need to be cruel to be damning. The implications cut deeper than any outright condemnation could.

She had been supposed to be great.

She hadn’t been.

Or at least, that was the story they had chosen.

Shouto exhaled slowly, dragging his thumb absently against the edge of the screen, as if trying to erase the words.

A quiet knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Shouto?”

Izuku’s voice came first, hesitant but steady. He stepped inside, his gaze flicking toward the tablet. His expression shifted almost immediately, brows pulling together, concern settling into his features.

“You look… tense,” he observed, head tilting slightly.

Shouto barely reacted, only now realizing how rigid his fingers had become. He inhaled sharply, willing himself to ease his grip before he turned the screen toward Izuku.

Izuku’s eyes scanned the headline, then the opening paragraphs.

His expression darkened.

“Oh.”

Before he could say more, another voice entered.

“What’s wrong?” Iida stood at the door now, scanning the room with quiet scrutiny. He didn’t step forward immediately, but his tone carried a familiar edge - sharp, authoritative, but layered with concern.

Izuku glanced toward Shouto before answering. “It’s about Momo.”

Shouto exhaled through his nose, keeping his gaze steady. “They’re rewriting the truth.”

Iida frowned, stepping closer to look at the screen. His usual composure held, but something in his jaw tightened as he read. “They’ve erased her victories.”

“They never saw them in the first place,” Shouto muttered, voice low but firm.

Izuku’s lips pressed together, his fingers curling subtly at his sides. “She never failed,” he murmured. “But the world decided she did.”

Shouto turned the tablet back toward himself, staring at the screen without truly seeing it anymore. The article didn’t anger him because it was cruel - it angered him because it was wrong. Because it was built on the idea that Momo had been given every opportunity and had simply failed to meet expectations, rather than the reality - that expectations had been constructed unfairly in the first place.

“They never let her lead,” Shouto said, voice quieter now. “Not really. Even when she was the most capable person in the room.”

Iida crossed his arms, his expression uncharacteristically stiff. “It was never fair.”

“No,” Shouto agreed. “It wasn’t.”

Silence hung between them, the weight of realization settling into the space with palpable gravity.

Izuku inhaled sharply, his green eyes flicking toward Shouto with something bordering on guilt. “I never questioned it,” he admitted, voice measured but tinged with something softer, almost regretful. “I should have.”

“We all should have,” Iida muttered, arms tightening across his chest.

Shouto stared at the screen for a moment longer before finally turning it off, placing the tablet beside him on the mattress. The glow faded, but the words lingered, burned into memory.

His fingers brushed absently against the edge of his knee, grounding himself.

Then he stood.

“We need to fix it,” he said, and this time, there was no hesitation.

Izuku and Iida both nodded.

And for the first time since reading the article, Shouto felt something certain settle into his chest.

Izuku sat at his desk, hunched slightly forward, brows drawn together as he reread the article for what felt like the tenth time. His fingers hovered above the touchpad, tense, uncertain, as if he could somehow will the words to change with sheer concentration.

They didn’t.

They stayed exactly the same.

𝚈𝙰𝙾𝚈𝙾𝚁𝙾𝚉𝚄 𝙼𝙾𝙼𝙾: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙽 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙳𝙸𝙶𝚈

He knew hero journalism could be harsh. He had seen how quickly public perception could shift - how easily someone’s reputation could be built up or torn down based on a single event, a single failure. But Momo hadn’t failed. She had never been inadequate. She had been one of the strongest among them.

And yet the article painted a picture of wasted potential, of a student who had been given every advantage and still chosen to walk away.

Like she had abandoned heroism.

Like she had never deserved it in the first place.

Izuku exhaled sharply, leaning back, dragging his hands through his hair. His curls shifted under his fingers, loose and slightly tangled, though he barely noticed. His mind was too busy racing - trying to piece together every moment he had overlooked, every assumption he had accepted without question.

Momo had always been brilliant - analytical, resourceful, powerful. And not just in the way others had assumed. Everyone saw her Quirk and recognized its strength, but Izuku understood it. He studied it. He had spent years analyzing quirks, comparing abilities, mapping potential applications. And he had always known,

Momo could have been unstoppable.

If she had been given the space to be.

If she hadn’t been sidelined. If she hadn’t been left in the background, pushed into supporting roles, underestimated over and over until she herself had accepted it as reality.

His stomach twisted.

Had he ever told her?

Had he ever recognized it beyond just his internal observations?

A knock sounded at his door, sharp but not urgent.

Iida.

Izuku sighed, rolling his shoulders back before calling out. “Come in.”

The door swung open smoothly, Iida stepping in with his usual composed posture, though his expression carried something heavier. He glanced toward Izuku, then toward the tablet on his desk.

“I assume you’re still thinking about it,” Iida remarked, folding his arms.

Izuku huffed a soft breath, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the screen absently. “I can’t stop.”

“I understand.” Iida’s gaze flickered, as though debating something before speaking. “What are you planning to do?”

Izuku hesitated.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he wanted to do - it was that he hadn’t figured out how yet.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I need to do something.”

Iida nodded, stepping closer, his movements measured. “Correcting it won’t be simple.” he said, voice firm.

Izuku’s chest tightened, frustration bubbling under his skin. “It shouldn’t have to be.”

“It shouldn’t,” Iida agreed. “But we both know how the industry operates.”

Izuku inhaled sharply, trying to calm the churn of emotions beneath his ribs. He had always believed that a hero’s strength should speak for itself - that effort, skill, and determination should be enough. But the hero industry was more than just power - it was perception. And Momo’s perception had been warped beyond recognition.

People didn’t see her.

Not the way he did.

Not the way they all should have.

Izuku’s hands curled into quiet fists against his desk. “I can’t just leave it like this.”

Iida studied him carefully. “Then we make sure she’s seen.”

Izuku swallowed, something fierce settling in his chest.

Yes.

They would.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo adjusted the strap of her bag as she stepped through the entrance of U.A.’s development wing, the scent of metal and polymer mixing with the faint hum of machinery in the background. The space was structured as she liked it - neat, efficient, methodical. Every workstation was accounted for, every tool in its place.

She had always found comfort in precision.

Even now, months after transferring, she still felt that same quiet sense of purpose every time she stepped into this part of the school. Here, she wasn’t just an overlooked student trying to prove herself in the shadows of others - she was valuable, she was seen, she was necessary.

She barely had time to settle at her desk before Power Loader strode in, hands on his hips, his expression carrying the usual sharpness of someone who was constantly thinking several steps ahead.

“Yaoyorozu,” he greeted, nodding as he approached. “I’ve got a project for you.”

Momo straightened automatically, shoulders squaring, her focus locking onto him with trained precision. “What kind of project?”

Power Loader gestured toward the large display screen mounted on the wall, tapping a few buttons until several schematics appeared - a set of armor-like attachments, reinforced exo-support structures built for mobility enhancement.

“The Hero Course has been pushing for better adaptability gear,” he explained. “Stuff that isn’t just reactive, but proactive - built into their movements instead of just added protection. I want you to help design a prototype.”

Momo leaned forward, eyes scanning the displayed data, the blueprint details filtering into her mind with rapid calculation. It wasn’t an unfamiliar concept - hero support items were constantly evolving - but the way Power Loader had phrased it intrigued her.

Not just defense.

Integration.

She turned toward him, thoughtful. “Are we prioritizing versatility or specialized builds per hero?”

Power Loader grinned, pleased with her immediate dive into function. “Versatility first. Then we adjust based on needs.”

Momo hummed, already considering material compatibility. “I’ll need practical field input.”

“That’s why you’re working with the Hero Course on this.”

Her fingers paused briefly against the desk.

He meant collaboration. Direct collaboration.

She hadn’t worked with 2-A like that since her transfer.

But she didn’t hesitate.

“Understood,” she said simply.

Power Loader nodded, tapping the screen again to finalize her assignment. “You’ve got free rein to research what you need. Go nuts.”

Momo allowed a small, satisfied breath to escape her lips. A project like this was ideal - something structured but innovative, something that required ingenuity alongside practicality.

And if she was going to design hero adaptability gear, she needed external inspiration.

Which is how she found herself agreeing to something completely unstructured hours later.

“A mall trip,” Momo repeated flatly.

“A girl’s day out,” Mina corrected, grinning as she looped her arm through Momo’s without permission. “For research, of course. But also because you need to get out of the lab before you start actually becoming part of the machinery.”

Momo huffed, adjusting her sleeve as Uraraka walked up beside her, smiling in that warm, steady way she always did. “Mina’s right. You barely let yourself relax - you can look for support gear inspiration and have fun at the same time.”

Jirou, standing a few steps away, snorted. “I still don’t think she knows how to do that.”

Momo shot her a sharp look. “I’m perfectly capable of having fun.”

Jirou raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Are you?”

“I am.”

“You analyzed Kaminari’s figurine proportions like it was a research paper.”

Momo huffed, crossing her arms. “That was for accuracy.”

Mina cackled, nudging her lightly. “C’mon, Yaomomo. It won’t kill you to do something unstructured for a few hours.”

Momo sighed, looking at the group - at the quiet excitement in Uraraka’s stance, at the amused smugness in Jirou’s smirk, at the relentless enthusiasm in Mina’s expression.

They wanted her to come.

And honestly… she didn’t really mind.

“…Fine,” she conceded.

Mina whooped in victory.

The mall was bustling with weekend energy, people filtering through corridors, chatting, laughing, moving in waves of shifting activity. The girls navigated their way inside with easy familiarity, moving between stores, pointing out items, exchanging commentary.

Momo found herself relaxing more than expected.

She had come for research - analyzing materials, observing mobility designs in everyday wear - but she wasn’t immune to the quiet warmth of shared conversation, of Mina’s dramatic monologues about fashion choices, of Jirou casually strumming a display ukulele while Uraraka laughed beside her.

It was comfortable, i t was real.

And then everything shifted.

A sound - sharp, sudden - broke through the noise.

A scream.

Instinct took over in seconds.

Momo’s body moved before thought, her stance locking into trained readiness as she turned sharply toward the disruption.

Across the plaza, smoke curled from shattered storefront glass.

A villain stood in the wreckage.

And all at once, the question of whether she was still part of the Hero Course ceased to matter.

Because heroism wasn’t about titles.

It was about action.

The impact shattered the storefront, sending splintered glass cascading across the polished mall floor. Smoke curled from the wreckage, thick and acrid, weaving through the air as civilians stumbled backward, panic spreading in frantic waves.

Momo took a single breath.

Then she moved.

Her stance adjusted instinctively, body shifting into calculated readiness as she scanned the scene. The villain stood amid the destruction, their posture carrying the distinct arrogance of someone who believed they had full control over the situation. Tall, broad-shouldered, their presence radiated confidence - but Momo’s focus was locked on the unnatural way the smoke twisted, curling too precisely to be ordinary.

Chemical-based Quirk.

That changed things.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Uraraka,” she instructed, voice firm, carrying above the noise, “secure the exits. Make sure no one rushes in.”

Uraraka’s expression sharpened, and without hesitation, she turned toward the civilians, lifting her arms, calling out in a steady, reassuring tone. People listened. People always listened to Uraraka when she spoke.

Momo pivoted. “Jirou - scan for structural weaknesses. If anything is unstable, we need to know now.”

Jirou pressed her fingers against the nearest support beam without argument, sending vibrations through the framework, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Mina,” Momo continued, already calculating the villain’s next move, “prepare to counter if they try to advance. Avoid direct engagement unless necessary.”

Mina’s usual grin was absent, replaced with sharp focus. She nodded once, shifting her stance.

Momo exhaled slowly, centering herself.

Then she stepped forward.

The villain’s attention snapped to her, their sharp eyes flicking between her stance, her lack of a hero costume, the steady composure in her gaze.

“You’re not a hero,” they remarked, amusement lacing their tone.

Momo’s fingers curled slightly at her side. “I don’t need a title to stop you.”

The villain’s smirk faltered.

Then they attacked.

Momo reacted instantly.

Her hand pressed against her forearm, her Quirk activating in seamless response. Metal materialized beneath her fingertips - a riot shield forming in perfect synchronization with the incoming blow. The force crashed against the reinforced structure, sending a sharp vibration through her arms, but she held firm.

Jirou’s voice cut through the chaos. “Structure’s stable for now - but if they hit it again, it won’t hold!”

Momo adjusted her stance, recalculating in seconds. Containment was the priority. She needed to end this now.

Her gaze flicked toward Mina, then Uraraka. “We need clearance for containment. Mina, disrupt their footing. Uraraka, get debris overhead.”

“On it!” Uraraka called back, already activating her Quirk.

Mina moved first, flicking her wrist, sending acid at the ground in a controlled strike. The material spread in a slick layer, forcing the villain to stagger backward, their footing compromised.

Uraraka followed immediately, her Quirk lifting shattered debris from the wreckage, manipulating it into an overhead obstruction.

Momo didn’t waste a second.

Her hands pressed against her forearm again, her Quirk activating with precise intent. This time, reinforced containment netting materialized in her grasp, launching outward with practiced accuracy.

It hit its mark.

The villain struggled, but the restraints held.

Momo exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back, posture steady.

It was over.

The civilians were safe.

And standing amid the wreckage, her pulse steady, command unquestioned - she knew.

Heroism had never been about titles.

The sound of approaching sirens cut through the lingering tension, blending with the distant murmur of civilians still whispering among themselves. Emergency personnel pushed into the scene first, weaving through the crowd, ushering people to safety, assessing injuries. And then, as expected, came the heroes.

Momo straightened as she recognized familiar figures among the arriving professionals - Endeavor, Best Jeanist - all moving with swift efficiency, eyes scanning the damage, the containment zone, the villain still restrained in reinforced netting.

She could already tell what they saw.

Not just the aftermath.

Her.

The fact that she had engaged. That she had led. That she had acted without hesitation.

Their expressions were unreadable, but she could sense the calculation behind their gazes.

One of the officers was the first to step forward, adjusting his cap, sharp-eyed and rigid. His focus landed on her with quiet scrutiny, fingers flicking toward his notepad with practiced efficiency.

"You used your Quirk in public without proper authorization," he stated, his tone firm but not yet accusatory.

Momo kept her posture neutral. "I have a provisional license."

The officer narrowed his eyes slightly. "You're no longer part of the Hero Course."

The statement settled like a weight between them. Not aggressive, but edged with quiet implication.

Mina scoffed before Momo could respond, stepping forward, crossing her arms with exaggerated confidence. "Yeah, but she has a license," she emphasized, her voice carrying a pointed sharpness. "She didn’t break any laws."

Uraraka followed suit, her expression softer but just as unwavering. "We were defending civilians. She did exactly what a hero would have done."

Jirou, standing at Momo’s other side, let out a short, unimpressed breath. "If you wanna arrest her, you might as well try arresting all of us."

The officer hesitated, glancing between them, assessing, weighing his options.

Then, from behind, came another voice - deeper, authoritative.

"You won’t be arresting her."

Endeavor stepped forward, his presence carrying the kind of weight that demanded attention. His gaze locked onto Momo, scanning her, processing the situation. Then, after a beat, he nodded once.

"She acted within her legal rights," he continued. "And she contained the threat before any further damage could occur."

The officer exhaled sharply but didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped back, scribbling something onto his notepad, murmuring something to one of the others before moving toward another section of the scene.

Momo inhaled slowly, steadying herself.

She had been this close to becoming another media scandal - a student who had overstepped, a reckless display of power. It wouldn’t have mattered that she had done everything correctly. Perception was everything.

But the girls had defended her without hesitation.

And Endeavor - despite his usual stoicism - had solidified her legitimacy.

The murmur of approaching reporters signaled another challenge altogether.

Momo barely had a moment to prepare before they descended.

The press arrived in waves, reporters pushing through the gathering crowd, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward as voices overlapped in chaotic bursts. Momo barely had a second to process before the questions came - sharp, immediate, demanding.

"Yaoyorozu, what prompted you to engage in the situation despite your transfer from the Hero Course?"

"Were you attempting to prove something by taking charge?"

"Do you regret leaving the path of a Pro Hero?"

"Was this an act of defiance against U.A.'s system?"

Momo squared her shoulders, keeping her expression carefully neutral. She had anticipated attention, but not at this scale - not with this intensity. The incident had barely settled, and yet the narrative was already being shaped.

Her fingers curled subtly at her sides.

She wasn’t naive. She knew the kind of image they had painted of her - a prodigy turned wasted potential, a student who had abandoned heroism, someone who had failed. And now, with her stepping into leadership during a crisis, they weren’t seeing capability. They were seeing controversy.

But she wouldn’t allow herself to be pulled into it.

She inhaled slowly, meeting their gazes with steady precision.

"I acted because civilians were in danger," she stated, her tone poised, deliberate. "It had nothing to do with proving myself. It was simply the right course of action."

A reporter leaned forward, adjusting their microphone. "Do you believe this incident disproves the narrative that you were never suited for heroism?"

Momo’s jaw tightened slightly.

Jirou scoffed, stepping forward before Momo could respond. "What kind of question is that?" she muttered, arms crossed.

Uraraka followed, her expression composed but firm. "Momo didn’t engage to disprove anything. She acted because it was necessary."

"Do you guys even hear yourselves? Seriously. Fallen prodigy? Wasted potential?" She gestured broadly. "She just saved people. What more do you want?"

The press murmured among themselves, shifting, recalibrating.

Momo exhaled, rolling her shoulders back before speaking again. "I don’t regret my transfer," she affirmed. "And this wasn’t an act of defiance. It was simply heroism in its most basic form—helping when needed."

Another voice entered the conversation - this time, deeper, authoritative.

"It’s clear that she acted appropriately."

Endeavor.

The reporters immediately adjusted their focus, cameras shifting toward him. His presence alone carried weight, silencing the more aggressive tones. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before continuing.

"There was no recklessness here," he stated. "Only precision."

That single confirmation shifted the energy of the crowd.

Momo felt the tension lessen - just slightly.

The questions still lingered, but they weren’t as sharp. The narrative had been disrupted, forced to adjust to a reality they hadn’t considered.

The flashing cameras continued their relentless assault, capturing every angle, every movement, every shift in posture as Yaoyorozu deftly handled the media’s scrutiny. Endeavor remained still on the outskirts, arms crossed, watching, calculating. She was sharp - unwavering beneath the weight of public perception pressing down on her - and she carried herself with a level of control that was rare among students her age.

The media had already constructed their narrative. A fallen prodigy. Wasted potential. But standing there, amidst the chaos, she looked nothing like someone who had squandered anything. If anything, she was precisely the kind of person who should have been cultivated further, refined into something greater, molded into what hero society had failed to recognize her as.

His mind moved beyond just her present capabilities.

Beyond just her quirk.

Beyond just her.

Because if there was one thing Endeavor understood better than anyone, it was the value of legacy.

Powerful quirks were not accidents. They were cultivated over generations, refined through bloodlines, strengthened through careful pairing. He had dedicated his life to ensuring his own lineage reached its peak, had sacrificed everything to craft a successor - his greatest mistake, his greatest success, all intertwined into one undeniable truth.

And now, watching Yaoyorozu, he saw another path.

Another combination.

Another future.

Her quirk alone was formidable. Creation. A power that granted her nearly limitless adaptability. But it was not a quirk meant to stand alone - not at its highest potential. Paired correctly, cultivated properly, its applications could evolve beyond anything previously imagined.

And there was only one quirk that would make that evolution perfect.

Half-Cold, Half-Hot.

Shouto’s ability commanded the extremes - fire and ice, heat and frost, the manipulation of temperature itself. And Yaoyorozu’s quirk? She could create. She could generate compounds that reacted to external conditions, could build reinforced materials designed for specific temperature regulations. If merged, if passed through to the next generation, their child’s abilities could reach heights neither had ever achieved alone.

A quirk that wielded both elemental command and material generation. A true hybrid.

Thermal-reactive creation, reinforced elemental constructs, adaptive environmental manipulation—a successor that could reshape the battlefield itself. The possibilities were endless. Armor that adjusted under heat and cold exposure. Structures that rebuilt themselves after controlled combustion. Ice that could be layered with engineered compounds to withstand direct impact without fracturing.

It would be power incarnate.

Endeavor exhaled quietly, gaze sharp, thoughts methodical.

She was valuable. Not just as a hero. Not just as wasted potential. But as legacy material. A name with status, a bloodline with strength, a quirk with limitless applications if cultivated correctly.

His fingers flexed slightly at his sides.

She had walked away from the Hero Course, had settled for less than what she was meant to be. But that didn’t mean the door was closed. That didn’t mean this future had to be wasted.

There was still time.

Time for her to recognize what she had abandoned.

Time for her to realize what she could create.

Time to ensure power was built - not lost.

The crowd hadn’t thinned.

Momo kept her shoulders squared, her posture carefully neutral, but the press continued their rapid-fire questioning, their movements sharp and relentless. The cameras flashed, their lights pressing against her vision, distorting the way she usually processed faces. The reporters spoke too quickly, their words overlapping, their tones shifting in ways that felt inconsistent, unpredictable.

She struggled with this part.

Not because she lacked confidence - she knew how to handle herself, how to frame responses with precision - but because she had never mastered the way conversations shifted in public scrutiny. She understood logic, structure, patterns. She understood strategy and articulation. But this? The ebb and flow of social maneuvering, the way people bent meanings, layered implications, twisted phrasing - it was a different battlefield entirely.

She inhaled slowly, pressing her fingers together subtly, grounding herself.

“I acted because civilians were at risk,” she repeated, keeping her tone level, controlled. “It was not a planned engagement. It was necessary.”

Someone else spoke immediately, cutting in before she could reinforce the statement. Their question twisted the meaning, implied that she had taken the opportunity to prove herself - that she had wanted the confrontation.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. That wasn’t what she had said.

This was always where she struggled.

She understood combat strategy. She understood engineering. She understood calculations and precision. But social nuance - the way people twisted words in ways that weren’t inherently logical - had always been a challenge. She could learn patterns, analyze phrasing, understand tone shifts over time, but in the moment - especially this moment - her ability to dissect intent wasn’t as sharp.

The questions continued.

She answered.

She kept her tone precise, her words direct, but she could already feel the exhaustion settling at the edges of her thoughts.

The press had started shaping the responses to fit their narrative.

It wasn’t about heroism anymore. It wasn’t even about the incident.

It was about what she represented.

And she wasn’t sure she understood what that meant in the way they did.

Before she could respond to another question, another camera flash blinded her momentarily. The sensory overload pulled her posture just a fraction tighter, her fingers pressing against the fabric of her sleeve.

Then - finally - the crowd began to dissipate.

Endeavor’s presence had redirected the attention. The emergency responders had solidified containment efforts. The chaos, the press, the relentless scrutiny - it all began to thin.

Momo exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back.

She had held her ground. She had answered what she needed to.

But as the noise faded, as the pressure eased, she recognized the weight of exhaustion settling against her mind.

It was always after moments like this that she felt it most.

Not the physical fatigue.

The mental recalibration.

And as she straightened herself fully, adjusting her posture, she knew she wouldn’t be analyzing designs tonight.

She needed quiet.

Chapter Text

The fallout began within hours.

The initial incident had been contained - the villain apprehended, the civilians secured, the property damage assessed - but the narrative surrounding Momo’s involvement had already begun spiraling beyond her control. News outlets latched onto the event, dissecting every detail with ruthless precision, crafting headlines that demanded immediate attention.

𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝙾𝚠𝚗 𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 - 𝚄𝚗𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚃𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎?

𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚈𝚊𝚘𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚣𝚞: 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝙾𝚠𝚗 𝚁𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝?

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚢 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙷𝚊𝚜 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸𝚝 𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 - 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚔?

The articles varied in tone, some praising her quick action, others subtly criticizing the legality of her involvement, questioning whether she had overstepped. The discussion wasn’t just about the incident anymore. It was about her. About her place in hero society, about whether her transfer had been a mistake, about whether she had abandoned her potential - or whether she had been forced out of it.

Opinions clashed across social media, the discourse shifting rapidly, unpredictable in its trajectory. There were those who defended her, pointing out the efficiency of her response, the clear competence she had displayed in containing the situation. Others fixated on the implications - on whether she had acted outside the boundaries of what was allowed, whether she had disregarded structure in favor of individual action, whether her decision to leave the Hero Course in the first place had proven to be a failure rather than a legitimate redirection.

And then there were the worst takes.

The ones that dissected her beyond just heroics, beyond just legality. The ones that boiled her down to nepotism, privilege, entitlement. A recommendation student who couldn’t handle the pressure. A wasted opportunity. A girl who had everything handed to her and still managed to throw it away.

Momo kept her posture composed as she sat in U.A.’s administrative office, hands folded in her lap, her expression neutral as she listened to Nezu outline the situation with his usual precise articulation.

“The media coverage has been extensive,” Nezu stated, tapping his paw lightly against the edge of his desk as he pulled up a series of compiled reports. “Your actions were justified under the provisional license guidelines, but the controversy isn’t strictly legal - it’s social, perceptual.”

Momo nodded once. She understood that. She had understood it from the moment the press had descended upon her. This wasn’t about rules. It was about image.

Aizawa sighed from his place near the window, arms crossed, his gaze flicking toward the compiled reports before settling back on her. “They’re twisting the story,” he muttered, his tone edged with irritation. “Framing it like recklessness instead of responsibility.”

Best Jeanist, who had joined the meeting in an advisory capacity, tilted his head slightly, his usual composed demeanor intact. “You conducted yourself with notable discipline, but public perception is fickle. If this conversation escalates into something larger, it may impact your ability to continue working within the Support Course without media interference.”

Momo kept her expression carefully neutral, though the statement settled uncomfortably in her chest. The last thing she wanted was for this incident to overshadow her actual work - to turn her into a figure rather than a student.

Nezu tapped another command on his monitor, pulling up a live feed of ongoing discussions, highlighting key points. “The conversation is shifting rapidly. There’s talk of whether U.A. should reevaluate its policies - whether students who leave the Hero Course should be allowed to retain their provisional licenses, whether there should be stricter regulations regarding Quirk usage outside officially sanctioned engagements.”

Momo inhaled slowly, steadying herself. The weight of the situation was clear. This wasn’t just about her anymore - it was about the system itself, about the precedent her actions might set, about whether her choice to leave had disrupted the framework of how hero students were expected to operate.

Aizawa exhaled sharply, rubbing his thumb against his sleeve. “It’ll die down eventually,” he muttered. “But not before they’ve torn the story apart from every possible angle.”

Momo nodded again, keeping her tone level as she spoke. “I understand the implications. What measures should I take to ensure this doesn’t interfere with my coursework?”

Nezu studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes assessing, calculating. Then, with his usual measured confidence, he nodded. “For now, we monitor the media trajectory. If direct engagement becomes necessary, U.A. will provide guidance.” He paused, then added, “I do not intend to allow public discourse to dictate your academic future.”

The statement carried weight. It was an assurance, but also a warning - that while U.A. would stand by her, there was still a battle to be fought in shaping the narrative.

Momo exhaled quietly, rolling her shoulders back, posture unwavering.

She had handled the incident. She had contained the threat. But this - this aftermath, this relentless speculation, this suffocating scrutiny - was an entirely different battlefield.

And if hero society was determined to challenge her place within it, she would ensure that she controlled the conversation.

The faculty meeting was heavier than usual, the air thick with conversation that carried more weight than most routine discussions. Aizawa sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed as the conversation unfolded around him. There was no outright tension - no panic - but there was frustration.

And rightfully so.

Nezu had pulled up the latest coverage, displaying highlighted headlines across the large screen mounted at the front of the conference room. The media had dissected the incident to the point of absurdity, spinning angles that ranged from genuine analysis of U.A.’s policies to unnecessary speculation about Momo’s character, motivations, and competency.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Mic muttered, tapping his fingers against the table in restless irritation. “She acted exactly how a hero should have acted.”

“She’s not technically a hero,” Vlad pointed out, though his tone wasn’t dismissive - it was an acknowledgment of the bureaucratic reality. “She left the course.”

“And yet, she handled the situation better than some pros I’ve seen,” Snipe remarked, adjusting his hat slightly, his voice carrying quiet observation. “Girl’s got instinct.”

Aizawa exhaled slowly, tilting his head toward Nezu. “You said there’s discussion about changing regulations regarding provisional licenses?”

Nezu nodded, steepling his paws together as he surveyed the room. “There’s no formal movement yet, but certain industry figures are questioning whether students who leave the Hero Course should retain active status.” His gaze flicked toward Aizawa specifically. “There is also discussion about whether faculty should have intervened sooner in her trajectory.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained unreadable. He knew what that meant. They were scrutinizing the system, not just her choice. They were asking whether U.A. had failed her, whether she had slipped through cracks that should have been addressed long before her transfer.

“She wasn’t failing,” All Might remarked, his voice quieter than usual, contemplative rather than authoritative. “She was being failed.”

Mic inhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the furrow of his brow. “It’s like no one ever noticed what she was dealing with. Like no one ever thought twice about how she was sidelined in every major moment.”

“She was overlooked,” Vlad admitted, his fingers curling slightly at the edge of his chair. “Even when she was capable.”

“Especially because she was capable,” Nezu corrected, ever analytical, ever perceptive. His gaze flickered across the gathered faculty, sharp and unwavering. “The hero industry often operates under flawed assumptions. Yaoyorozu was consistently perceived as supportive, but not directive. Her intelligence was noted, but her leadership was neglected. And now, this incident has forced a reassessment.”

Ectoplasm, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “If this controversy escalates, it won’t just be about her. It’ll be about all of them.”

Silence followed, settling over the room with undeniable weight.

Because he was right.

This wasn’t just about Momo anymore. It was about how many other students had been underestimated, how many others had been quietly nudged into the background of hero society, denied opportunities not because they lacked skill, but because the system had deemed them secondary.

Aizawa inhaled deeply, pressing his thumb against the edge of his sleeve.

“What’s our move?”

Nezu exhaled slowly, tapping his paw against the surface of the table in steady rhythm. “We monitor the media trajectory, ensure stability within the school environment, and - most importantly - we pay attention moving forward.”

Aizawa nodded once, his mind already shifting toward the adjustments that needed to be made.

Momo had been failed. That was undeniable.

But failure wasn’t irreversible.

And if hero society was finally starting to ask the right questions, U.A. had a responsibility to ensure the answers weren’t ignored.

Shouto sat in the common room, his back pressed against the couch, arms resting loosely at his sides as the voices of his classmates wove together in overlapping frustration. The television mounted on the far wall flickered with another news segment - another analysis, another debate, another dissection of an event that should have been straightforward but had somehow become a tangled mess of speculation and scrutiny.

Momo’s name was everywhere.

The fallout wasn’t contained to hero circles - it had spread into mainstream discussions, igniting arguments on social media, prompting opinion pieces from industry professionals, forcing U.A. into the center of yet another controversy. Some defended her actions, highlighting her leadership and tactical precision, citing her competence as undeniable proof that she should never have been overlooked in the first place. Others questioned her motives, implying recklessness, arrogance, an inability to accept her own shortcomings.

And then there were the worst narratives - the ones that painted her as a privileged failure, a girl who had been given every advantage and still managed to fall short. A recommendation student who never truly earned her place. A prodigy who never lived up to the title. A student who couldn’t handle pressure and retreated into obscurity.

Shouto exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his knee as the discussion around him grew louder.

“This is bullshit,” Mina muttered, her usual lighthearted energy replaced with frustration as she gestured broadly toward the television screen. “She saved people. She handled the situation better than pros. Why is this even a conversation?”

“It’s not about the incident anymore,” Iida pointed out, his expression tight, his usual composed demeanor carrying a sharp edge. “It’s about perception. About what she represents.”

“What she represents?” Jirou scoffed, crossing her arms. “She represents competence. The fact that people are pretending she doesn’t is beyond stupid.”

Uraraka inhaled slowly, her hands curled in quiet fists at her sides. “They’re rewriting everything,” she murmured. “They’re acting like she was always destined to fail.”

Shouto’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze flicking toward the television again.

They were right.

This wasn’t just criticism. It was erasure. It was the media reconstructing her history, retroactively defining her as less than she had always been, twisting her trajectory into something that suited their narrative. Her victories, her strategic brilliance, her quiet but undeniable strength - it was all being dismissed, ignored in favor of a version of her that had never truly existed.

Izuku was standing near the window, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he absorbed the coverage in silence. Then - finally - he spoke, voice measured but carrying quiet weight. “This isn’t just about her.”

Shouto turned toward him, watching.

Izuku’s gaze flicked toward the group, scanning their expressions, ensuring understanding. “This is about all of us,” he continued. “About how hero society sees students who don’t fit their ideal. About how easily someone can be pushed aside if they don’t fit the narrative they want.”

The words settled in the room with undeniable gravity.

Because he was right.

This wasn’t just about Momo anymore. This was about every student who had been overlooked, underestimated, disregarded not because of lack of skill, but because of assumption - because hero society decided their value before they had even been given the chance to prove it.

Shouto inhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back, steadying himself.

“We need to fix it.”

The statement was simple, but it carried weight. It wasn’t just an observation - it was a decision.

And none of them hesitated to agree.

The controversy refused to fade.

Instead of dying down, as most media frenzies did, it escalated. More outlets picked up the discourse, expanding the conversation beyond just Momo’s actions, beyond just the legality of her intervention. It was no longer about a single incident - it was about U.A., about hero society, about who was allowed to be considered valuable.

The fractures within the system had been ignored for years, dismissed as unimportant, too inconvenient to discuss. But now, with Momo at the center, the fault lines were being exposed in ways that couldn’t be ignored.

It started with public opinion battles - social media threads dissecting hero education, debates on recommendation students, analysis of how certain quirks were elevated while others were sidelined. Then industry figures began weighing in, though their responses varied. Some dismissed the discussion as unnecessary, insisting that hero society functioned exactly as it should - that only the strongest, the most resilient, the most suited deserved a place within it. Others took a more cautious stance, acknowledging flaws without committing to solutions, recognizing bias while offering no actual critique.

But then the real problems surfaced.

Reports emerged - data compiled, statistics analyzed, patterns that had existed for years suddenly brought into focus.

Recommendation students were disproportionately scrutinized compared to those who entered through standard exams.

Female students were consistently relegated to support roles more often than their male counterparts, even when their quirks were equally suited for combat.

Quirks perceived as strategic or technical were often underutilized in favor of purely offensive abilities, regardless of practicality.

And Momo? Momo was suddenly the perfect example of everything wrong.

Her Sports Festival performance had been weaponized against her, framed as the defining moment of her career rather than the learning experience it had been. Her internship under Uwabami had been twisted into a story of vanity instead of necessity, ignoring the reality that she had been offered nothing better at the time. Her role in the war had been erased entirely, disregarded in favor of flashier victories.

She had been underestimated from the beginning.

And now, instead of acknowledging that reality, hero society was doubling down - insisting that she had been the failure, not the system that refused to recognize her worth.

The discussions weren’t confined to hero circles anymore. Politicians started weighing in - some pushing for more regulation over hero education, others defending the current structure with staunch resistance. Pro heroes were pulled into interviews, forced to offer their own perspectives, their statements scrutinized for implicit bias, for outdated views, for evidence that they had contributed to the environment that had allowed Momo to be discarded.

Even U.A. was under pressure.

The school had been positioned as the pinnacle of hero education, but now its methods were being questioned - its leadership, its policies, its handling of students who didn’t fit the predefined mold.

Aizawa, Nezu, the entire faculty - they were facing more criticism than ever before.

And Momo?

Momo remained silent.

She didn’t engage with the discourse. Didn’t offer statements. Didn’t try to correct the narratives being spun around her.

She had always known how hero society operated.

And she had never expected them to truly see her.

Momo sat at her desk, fingers lightly pressed against the surface, the glow of her tablet casting sharp reflections across the polished wood. The screen was open to another article - another dissection, another twisted interpretation of her actions, another debate about whether she had ever deserved her place in the Hero Course to begin with.

The words blurred slightly, but the meaning remained painfully clear.

She had been reduced to a case study.

A controversy. A headline. An example.

Her name wasn’t just attached to the incident anymore - it was attached to a larger debate, one that had spun so far beyond her control that she barely recognized the discussions surrounding her. She had become a point of contention in political arguments, in industry analysis, in hero society’s reckoning with its own failures.

They weren’t talking about her.

Not really.

They were talking about what she represented.

And no matter how much she tried to tell herself that this wasn’t personal, that this was about the system as a whole, the weight of it still sat heavily against her ribs.

The criticisms were expected. She had anticipated backlash, had known the media would latch onto any opportunity to undermine her credibility. But the sheer volume of speculation, the constant stream of articles, the way people spoke about her as if she were nothing more than an abstract problem - it was suffocating.

Her Sports Festival loss was being cited as proof of her inadequacy, despite how long ago it had been, despite how much she had grown since. Her internship was being painted as shallow vanity, as if she had chosen it out of arrogance rather than necessity. Her role in the war - her plan, the strategy she had led against Gigantomachia - had been erased entirely, dismissed as irrelevant because the battle hadn’t ended in the kind of victory hero society deemed worthy of recognition.

And worst of all, she could see the patterns repeating.

She wasn’t the first student to be underestimated, to be dismissed despite her capability. She wasn’t the first to be sidelined, to be pushed toward a supporting role even when she had every ability to lead. And now, as the conversations continued to spiral, she knew she wouldn’t be the last.

The hero industry wasn’t built to nurture students like her.

It was built to choose its leaders.

And it had chosen against her from the start.

She inhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. She had always understood logic, calculations, structure. She had always analyzed outcomes, predicted results, adjusted her strategies accordingly.

But no amount of analysis could shift the way people chose to see her.

This wasn’t about facts. It wasn’t about truth. It was about perception.

And perception had already been set in stone.

She turned the tablet off, closing her eyes briefly, steadying herself.

She had work to do. A project to complete.

The controversy would continue with or without her input.

And hero society had already decided her worth.

The frustration within Class 2-A had reached a boiling point.

Days had passed since the incident at the mall, but the controversy surrounding Momo had only worsened, spiraling into discussions so far removed from reality that even Izuku - who always sought reason amidst chaos - had started openly expressing his exasperation. The common room had become their unofficial debate chamber, the television serving as an endless reminder of how hero society had chosen to distort the truth.

Shouto listened as his classmates voiced their frustrations, their anger sharpening with every new twist in the media coverage. Mina had stopped sugarcoating her reactions altogether, throwing her hands up every time another ridiculous opinion piece aired. Iida, normally composed even in the face of adversity, had taken to meticulously debunking misinformation with a meticulousness bordering on obsessive. Jirou had gone from quiet irritation to outright scoffing at reporters who clearly had no idea what they were talking about.

“She saved people,” Mina muttered, pacing the length of the room, her movements restless. “She led us through that fight, called the shots, handled everything perfectly, and somehow they still found a way to make her the bad guy?”

“It’s revisionism,” Iida said tightly, his jaw set, fingers curled into a quiet fist at his side. “They’re deliberately reframing her actions because admitting the truth would mean acknowledging the flaws in hero society’s structure.”

Izuku inhaled deeply, arms crossed, his green eyes sharp with thought. “And because it’s Momo, they think they can get away with it,” he murmured. “She’s not the type to fight against perception. She’s not going to lash out publicly or demand recognition. So they’re controlling the narrative for her.”

Shouto shifted slightly in his seat, pressing his palm against his knee as the discussion continued. Izuku was right. Momo wasn’t one to argue her own worth - not because she believed herself undeserving, but because she had always operated under the assumption that competence spoke for itself. That if she did her work efficiently, if she proved her skill through action, it would be enough.

But in hero society, it was never enough.

And despite how logical she was, despite how analytical her mind worked, she had never truly accounted for that variable.

Shouto exhaled slowly, pushing himself up from the couch, his movements measured. He knew where she would be. Knew how she processed tension, how she sought solitude instead of argument, how she preferred quiet resolution over drawn-out confrontation.

The faculty office had been her usual retreat, but tonight - after an exhausting day of managing questions, expectations, pressure - she would have defaulted to something even quieter.

He headed toward the school library.

And, as expected, she was there.

The library was dimly lit, the overhead fixtures casting muted pools of light between the rows of shelves. Momo sat at one of the private study tables near the back, her posture controlled but subtly tense, fingers resting against the edge of a closed book as she stared at nothing in particular.

She didn’t react immediately when he approached.

But she knew he was there.

Shouto slid into the seat across from her, arms resting loosely on the table, his expression calm but intentional. The silence stretched between them - not awkward, not heavy, just existing in quiet equilibrium.

Then, finally, she exhaled.

“I assume the others are still discussing it.”

Shouto nodded once. “They’re frustrated.”

Her lips pressed together slightly, her grip adjusting against the spine of her book. “It’s not necessary,” she murmured, though there was no real certainty in the statement.

Shouto studied her, watching the way she composed herself - controlled, structured, methodical, as always. He had always admired that precision, always respected her ability to manage even the most complex situations with efficiency.

But this wasn’t something she could process with logic alone.

“You know this isn’t just about the incident anymore,” he said, voice steady but edged with something quieter.

Momo sighed, rolling her shoulders back. “I know.”

“They’re rewriting your history.”

She didn’t respond.

Shouto leaned forward slightly, ensuring she understood. “And you’re letting them.”

Momo’s eyes flicked toward him, her expression momentarily unreadable. There was no anger in her gaze, no irritation - just something settled, something resigned.

“What would you have me do?” she asked, voice controlled, deliberate.

Shouto inhaled slowly, considering his words before speaking. “Remind them who you actually are.”

Momo blinked, just briefly, before turning her gaze toward the window. The evening light filtered through the glass, reflecting against the polished table surface, casting subtle illumination across her hands.

“I don’t know if it would change anything,” she admitted after a moment.

Shouto tilted his head slightly, holding her gaze when she finally looked back at him. “That’s not the point.”

The words settled between them, unspoken meaning layered beneath them.

It wasn’t about changing hero society overnight. It wasn’t about forcing the media to rewrite their narrative in a single moment. It was about ensuring that she didn’t let them define her.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingertips together lightly against the table surface.

Shouto didn’t push further.

He had said what needed to be said.

And Momo, for the first time in days, looked like she was considering it.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo had always believed in rationality.

In careful decision-making, in structured thought, in weighing options with deliberate precision before committing to any course of action. She had never been impulsive, never allowed herself to make choices based purely on emotion. Every step in her academic career had been calculated, considered, reviewed thoroughly to ensure she was positioning herself correctly, efficiently, in a way that maximized her strengths and minimized potential missteps.

Her transfer to the Support Course had been one of those decisions.

At the time, she had believed it to be necessary. The Hero Course had restricted her in ways she hadn’t anticipated when she first entered U.A. - not physically, not in terms of combat ability, but structurally. She had been pushed aside, forced into a role that prioritized assistance over leadership, expected to provide support rather than command. And after months of watching opportunity after opportunity slip through her fingers, she had finally accepted the reality that hero society had no interest in letting her be what she had once dreamed of becoming.

She had adapted.

She had found purpose in engineering, in innovation, in designing solutions rather than executing them herself. She had thrown herself fully into her work, ensuring that her contributions would matter, even if they weren’t recognized in the way a hero’s efforts were. She had convinced herself that stepping back from heroics had been the right decision - that she had chosen a path more suited to her strengths, one that allowed her to operate in a way that was both practical and productive.

And yet - sitting in the quiet of the library, the echoes of the media’s distorted narratives still lingering in her mind, Shouto’s words pressing against the edges of her thoughts - she found herself questioning the certainty she had once relied upon.

Remind them who you actually are.

The statement was simple. Direct.

But its implications were anything but.

Had she allowed herself to be rewritten? Had she surrendered her own narrative simply because it had been easier than fighting back against the expectations placed upon her? Had she, in her determination to make a logical choice, overlooked the possibility that hero society could change - that she could be the one to force that change?

She inhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against the table in a steadying motion.

Transferring back this year wasn’t feasible. That much was certain. She wouldn’t disrupt her coursework, wouldn’t make a rushed decision, wouldn’t risk destabilizing the structure she had already built within the Support Course. She had responsibilities here, obligations she wasn’t willing to abandon simply because the controversy had shifted her perspective.

But Third Year was different.

Third Year was preparation. The final step before entering professional hero work. The moment where decisions were made that would shape careers rather than just academic paths.

And if U.A. was starting to reevaluate its system - if hero society itself was finally beginning to acknowledge the flaws that had pushed her into the background - then maybe, maybe, there was still room for her to carve her own space within it.

She had never been indecisive.

But now, for the first time since she had left the Hero Course, she allowed herself to entertain the thought - allowed herself to consider what it would mean to return, to reclaim the title she had once discarded, to prove that the narrative they had shaped around her had never been hers to begin with.

She exhaled quietly, rolling her shoulders back, posture firm.

This wasn’t a conclusion. Not yet.

But the simple act of considering it - of truly allowing herself to weigh the possibility - was enough to shift something deep within her.

She wasn’t making a decision today.

But she wasn’t closing the door, either.

And that, she realized, was enough to change everything.

Chapter Text

Momo had always been careful with her words. She had learned early that precision mattered - not just in speech, but in tone, in inflection, in the way each syllable sat neatly within the expectations placed upon her. It was second nature now, ingrained so deeply that she rarely thought about it. She spoke as she had been taught to speak, with calculated articulation, the slight natural variations in her voice meticulously refined through years of quiet correction.

She had been five years old the first time her mother had scolded her for letting her Russian accent slip. She hadn't understood what she had done wrong - only that her mother’s expression had tightened, that her tone had been clipped when she told Momo to "speak properly". At the time, Momo had thought it was about pronunciation, about clarity, about ensuring she communicated effectively. But as she got older, as she attended her private academy for middle school, as her classmates picked up on the faint traces of her accent and turned it into something worth mocking, she realized it was about perception. About refinement. About control.

She had adapted quickly. She had learned to smooth the edges of her speech, to adjust the rhythm of her sentences, to train herself into perfect fluency that erased any indication of where her father had come from. It wasn’t difficult - she was naturally adept at language, had been fluent in Russian, Japanese, and English since childhood - but masking was different. Masking was constant. It wasn’t just about knowledge; it was about instinct, about rewriting the way she spoke before she had even fully processed what she wanted to say.

She rarely thought about it now. It was automatic. A reflex.

Until she slipped.

The conversation had been standard - discussing support item refinement with one of the U.A. technicians, outlining an adjustment to alloy density that would reinforce thermal resistance without compromising weight. She was explaining the calculations, listing material compositions, detailing stress test results. Her words were precise, her cadence steady.

Then, mid-sentence, she heard it.

The faint rounding of a vowel. The subtle rhythm shift in her phrasing. The almost imperceptible intonation that had not belonged in her mother’s house, had not belonged in her private academy, had never been acceptable in the meticulously curated image she was expected to maintain.

She corrected herself immediately. Adjusted her tone before she had even finished speaking, realigning her speech pattern with practiced ease. The technician didn’t react, didn’t notice - but she did. She felt the mistake settle against the edges of her composure, a reminder that no matter how much she refined herself, no matter how much she shaped her presentation, it had never truly disappeared.

Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, forcing her focus back to her work.

Then her phone vibrated.

The moment she saw the sender, she knew exactly what the message would say.

Hidoi Yaoyorozu.

Her mother never called. A call meant something was wrong, and in the world her mother lived in, nothing was ever wrong - not publicly, not visibly. So instead, she sent messages. Clean. Direct. A simple method of issuing instructions without needing to waste time on unnecessary conversation.

Momo unlocked her phone with practiced indifference, scanning the text.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚡. 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍.

No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just a directive.

Her jaw tightened.

Her mother wasn’t asking her to attend. She was telling her. Because that was the expectation. Because Momo had always been expected to be exactly where she was told to be, to conform exactly as she was supposed to, to present herself exactly as the daughter of Hidoi and Zankoku Yaoyorozu was required to.

She should have been used to it by now.

She wasn’t.

The muscles in her shoulders tensed slightly before she rolled them back, pushing the reaction down, swallowing it before it could settle too deeply. She locked her phone, set it aside, and refocused on the document in front of her.

She had no choice but to attend. That had never been in question.

But as she forced her mind back to the structured precision of her calculations, she couldn't quite shake the way the command had lingered in her chest - nor the way her own voice had betrayed her before she had even read it.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo had always found solace in creation.

Not just in support work, not just in engineering, but in the quiet, methodical act of shaping something tangible with her own hands. In the rare moments she wasn’t buried in prototypes or technical analysis, she let herself work on something else - something that required patience but not precision, craftsmanship but not calculation. Wooden figures had become her retreat, her steady ritual, something entirely her own.

She had started with simple forms - basic carvings of her classmates, refining details gradually, shaping expressions with subtle strokes of the blade. But as the weeks passed, she had expanded beyond familiar faces, crafting animals with meticulous attention, studying species structure, adjusting scale. Her latest collection sat neatly arranged on her desk - miniature renditions of cats with distinct fur patterns, dogs posed mid-motion, birds frozen in flight.

But today, despite the usual comfort of the process, she found herself struggling.

Her grip on the carving tool was tense, her movements sharper than intended, edges splintering in ways that disrupted the natural flow of the wood. Her thoughts were too loud, too heavy, pressing against her mind with the weight of everything happening around her - her parents, the controversy, the expectations she had never asked to carry.

She exhaled sharply, adjusting her grip, forcing herself to concentrate.

Then her dorm door opened.

“Yaomomo, we’re invading your space,” Mina announced without preamble, stepping into the room with her usual energy, followed immediately by the rest of Class 2-A filtering in behind her.

Momo straightened instinctively, slipping the carving tool onto the desk as she turned to face them. She knew they had noticed her stress - not because she had openly expressed it, but because they paid attention. And when they paid attention, they did things like this - showing up without warning, offering their presence without needing an excuse.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t check in on you?” Jirou remarked, raising an eyebrow as she slid into the space beside Mina, arms crossed loosely.

“We figured a break was necessary,” Iida added, adjusting his glasses in habitual formality, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed the concern beneath it.

“We also wanted to see how many of us you’ve actually carved,” Kaminari chimed in, peering toward the figures arranged across the desk. “Because if you made a life-sized statue of Bakugou and didn’t tell us, I feel like that’s an immediate betrayal.”

Momo exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back, allowing herself a moment to ease into their presence before responding. “I haven’t made anything life-sized.” She paused, catching the way Kaminari immediately looked at Bakugou with faux disappointment. “Yet.”

That was enough to shift the mood - enough to break the lingering tension as the group settled further into the room, some taking seats, others leaning against furniture. Shouto stood near the window, quiet but attentive, his gaze flicking across her workspace with careful interest.

Momo inhaled, grounding herself. It wasn’t difficult to be around them - it wasn’t suffocating like the events her parents forced her into, wasn’t exhausting like the media scrutiny pressing against her every movement. This was normal. This was hers.

But the stress - everything weighing against her - hadn’t fully left.

She knew they saw it.

“I’m fine,” she said, answering the concern they hadn’t voiced outright.

“You say that,” Mina drawled, leaning against the edge of the desk, “but you’re gripping that carving tool like it personally insulted you.”

Momo blinked, looking down, realizing she was holding it too tightly.

She sighed, setting it aside properly. “I’m-”

The words caught. She adjusted.

“I am fine.”

Except - she had slipped again. Not in phrasing, but in tone, in rhythm, in the faint traces of accent buried beneath the control she had upheld for years.

She realized it immediately.

So did they.

There was a beat - too short to be called silence but just long enough for recognition to settle - and then Kaminari spoke.

“…Wait. Hold up. Am I imagining things, or-”

Momo stiffened. She already knew what he was going to say.

“-Yaomomo, did your voice just change?”

Her posture tightened before she forced it back to neutral. “It didn’t.”

“It did,” Jirou said, her brow furrowing slightly. “Not a lot, but - was that an accent?”

“It’s nothing,” Momo replied, too quickly, too structured, too controlled.

Which, naturally, made them more suspicious.

“Okay, but why was it nothing?” Mina pressed, her curiosity immediate, her tone edged with actual concern rather than teasing. “You never talk like that.”

Shouto had been silent until now. But when Momo’s eyes flickered toward him, she saw the quiet understanding in his expression - the recognition, not of the accent itself, but of what it meant for her to be hiding it.

Momo exhaled slowly, fingers curling slightly against her palm. She had been too frustrated, too tense, too mentally occupied to catch herself before the mistake had settled into the open air.

It wasn’t just the accent slipping.

It was her control slipping.

She had spent years smoothing the edges of her voice, erasing traces of inflection, ensuring that no remnants of her father’s language bled into the speech her mother had crafted for her.

And now - now, amid everything else falling apart around her - it had resurfaced.

She forced herself upright, posture steady, refusing to let the moment linger. “It was nothing. A minor lapse in phrasing.”

Shouto’s gaze remained unmoving, sharp, perceptive in a way that made her uneasy.

“…Is it something your mother told you to hide?”

The question was quiet. Direct.

And in that single sentence, she knew he understood.

Momo inhaled sharply, forcing her fingers to press flat against the desk, grounding herself in structured movement, practiced control. She could feel the attention lingering on her, the curiosity, the surprise, but the worst part - the part that settled too deeply against her ribs - was that Shouto knew.

He had heard her accent before. She had spoken freely with him in moments of quiet comfort, when she wasn’t exhausted, when she wasn’t calculating every word that left her mouth. He had never commented on it, had never questioned why she let herself speak differently when she was alone with him.

But now, with the others watching - waiting - he had asked the question she had never wanted to answer.

Her posture remained still, too controlled, too tense. “It is-” She paused, adjusting immediately, forcing her words into the form they were supposed to take. “It’s nothing.”

Shouto didn’t look away. His expression remained calm, thoughtful in the way that meant he was already piecing things together. His voice didn’t sharpen when he spoke, didn’t press, didn’t demand - he just stated it with quiet certainty.

“She made you hide it.”

Momo’s throat tightened. The words weren’t accusatory. They weren’t cruel. But they hit - buried themselves beneath everything she had spent years suppressing.

The others were still watching, still processing, still attempting to connect the dots between the mistake and her refusal to acknowledge it.

Jirou leaned forward slightly, expression shifting. “Wait - so this isn’t just, like, a casual thing? You actively avoid speaking with an accent?”

Momo inhaled again, adjusting her shoulders, forcing control into the movement. “I do not-” Another slip, another correction. “I don’t.”

Kaminari blinked, turning his gaze toward Shouto briefly, then back to her. “Wait, but Todoroki already knew-”

Shouto answered before she could deflect. “She’s comfortable speaking with me.”

Momo’s jaw tightened.

There was another beat - another pause, another flicker of awareness settling between them - and then Mina, perceptive in ways most underestimated, softened her tone.

“…Yaomomo, how long have you been doing that?”

Momo hesitated.

Too long.

Since childhood. Since the first correction. Since the first understanding that there were parts of herself her mother would never allow.

But she didn’t say that.

Instead, she forced a careful breath, steadied her voice, refined her speech back into the structure that was expected. “It doesn't matter.”

Shouto exhaled quietly, gaze steady. “It does.”

Momo exhaled sharply, finally turning her attention fully toward him, frustration pressing against the edges of her control. The accent pushed forward again, no longer slipping - breaking through, stronger than before. “It does not. It is-” She clenched her jaw. “It is just habit, eto vsyo, nothing more.”

Silence followed.

Then Kaminari, slow to process but quick to react, stared slightly before muttering, “Okay but that was definitely Russian-”

Momo groaned, pressing her fingers against her forehead, exhaustion creeping into her frustration.

Shouto didn’t smirk - didn’t tease - but the quiet familiarity in his voice was unmistakable. “It suits you.”

Momo’s hand lowered slightly, her gaze flickering toward him, searching for any trace of insincerity.

She found none.

Just quiet acknowledgment.

Just understanding.

And for the first time since the conversation started - since her mistake had spiraled into something heavier - she didn’t force a correction.

The moment the realization settled, it was like flipping a switch.

Momo barely had time to brace herself before her classmates launched into full excitement, their curiosity igniting in waves, voices overlapping, energy surging through the room with an enthusiasm that was both overwhelming and undeniably warm.

“You’ve had an accent this whole time?” Mina practically demanded, eyes bright with fascinated joy, leaning forward like she was on the verge of shaking Momo by the shoulders. “And you just hid it from us? I feel so betrayed.”

Jirou nudged her shoulder lightly, smirking. “Honestly, yeah, why would you hide it? You sound incredible - like, effortlessly cool. You could’ve been intimidating us with this years ago.”

Uraraka clapped her hands together, bouncing slightly in place. “You have to tell us more! How strong is it when you’re not actively suppressing it? Do you only slip up when you’re super frustrated or does it happen at random?”

Sero grinned, crossing his arms as he took in the scene with growing amusement. “I feel like I should’ve known this, considering the whole cousin thing, but honestly? I didn’t realize it was a thing you were actively hiding.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Was it just something you got used to doing, or were you always really conscious of it?”

Momo inhaled, shaking her head slightly, already regretting everything about this conversation. “It is- it was-” She paused, frustration bubbling in ways that made her posture tighten, her accent pushing forward again despite herself. “It is just habit, nothing more.”

Kaminari gasped, pointing at her wildly. “Okay, but you just did it again- holy crap, this is so cool.”

“Say more,” Mina insisted eagerly. “Like, just talk - we need to hear what you actually sound like when you’re not actively controlling it.”

Momo groaned, pressing her fingers against her temple. “You are all impossible.”

There was an immediate wave of reactions - grinning faces, fascinated laughter, overlapping exclamations of “That sounds amazing!” and “Say something else!” and “How have you never let this slip around us before?!”

Shouto, who had remained more subdued in his reaction, simply watched - thoughtful, assessing, as though absorbing every note in her voice, every shift, every cadence that had been buried beneath years of suppression.

Jirou tilted her head slightly, still watching Momo closely, curiosity lingering in her expression. “Wait, what does it sound like when you really don’t hold back?”

Momo blinked, straightening slightly. “I-” She hesitated. “It is=” She inhaled, steadying herself, and let the next words slip freely. “It is stronger, depending on context.”

Uraraka lit up. “That was a good one - do more!”

Kaminari was practically vibrating with enthusiasm at this point, his grin wide, voice full of delight. “Okay, what if we do, like, phrases? What’s something you say normally that would sound completely different with the accent?”

Mina nodded eagerly. “Yeah, like something basic, something you say all the time. Maybe something strategic?”

Momo let out a quiet breath, shaking her head slightly, but - despite her exasperation - she could feel her defenses weakening, the warmth in their excitement settling into something that wasn’t invasive, wasn’t demanding, wasn’t a forceful extraction of a part of her she wasn’t ready to share.

They wanted to know her.

Not the version of her that had been carefully polished into perfect articulation.

Not the version her mother had dictated into refinement.

Just her.

She inhaled slowly, held the breath for a moment, then exhaled with steadied resolution.

"You do not need to be so enthusiastic."

There was immediate laughter, scattered excitement, Mina clapping her hands together, Kaminari all but cheering, Jirou shaking her head fondly.

Shouto, meanwhile, simply listened.

His gaze steady, his expression unreadable—but beneath it, beneath the quiet intensity, beneath the quiet assessment, there was recognition.

And more than that - there was something soft.

Something entirely undone.

Because for the first time, Momo was speaking in full authenticity.

And it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

Momo had barely finished exhaling before Kaminari launched into his next brilliant idea, which meant she was already exhausted before he even spoke.

"Okay, new plan," he announced, clapping his hands together as if preparing some grand revelation. "You have to come to the next movie night. No exceptions."

Momo blinked, immediately suspicious. "Why?"

Mina grinned, eyes bright with mischief. "Because we’re watching a movie with a Russian lead, obviously."

Uraraka beamed. "And we need you to say some of the lines! With the accent!"

Momo groaned, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose. "Absolutely not."

"Oh come on," Jirou drawled, crossing her arms. "You already agreed to say dramatic phrases - you might as well go full theatrical."

Sero smirked, leaning against Kaminari’s shoulder. "Think about it this way. We’re offering you an opportunity to control the chaos instead of being dragged into it against your will."

Momo shot him an unamused look. "That is not what is happening right now."

Kaminari waved a hand dramatically. "Details! Irrelevant! What matters is that this is necessary for the cultural experience. For education. For the good of humanity!"

Momo sighed, shaking her head slightly, already regretting everything about this conversation. "I do not see how this is educational in any capacity."

Uraraka nudged her lightly, eyes bright with warmth. "It’s fun, Momo! Just come to movie night, enjoy yourself, and, if we ask really nicely, say a few lines. No pressure."

Kaminari pointed at her instantly. "Except I will absolutely pressure you."

Momo groaned, tilting her head back slightly. "You are all insufferable."

Mina grinned. "And yet, you love us."

Momo inhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against the edge of the desk, grounding herself in composure - but despite her lingering exasperation, despite everything happening around her, she couldn't quite suppress the small, reluctant smile that settled against her lips.

Shouto, standing near the window, remained quiet - but his expression, though subtle, carried the same warmth as the others.

And when Momo glanced at him, caught the steady way his gaze remained only on her, she realized - maybe she really would go to movie night after all.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo had always understood the nature of these events.

She had attended them since childhood, had been dressed in perfect ensembles and primed for controlled conversation, had memorized the etiquette, the expectations, the unspoken rules dictating every movement, every glance, every interaction. She had learned that her presence wasn’t about her, wasn’t about genuine engagement or familial bonding - it was about the Yaoyorozu name, about reinforcing status, about ensuring the right people saw her, acknowledged her, recognized her as part of the legacy her parents were meticulously crafting.

She had never belonged in these rooms.

And yet - here she was, standing among them, poised and refined, her posture impeccable despite the discomfort pressing against her ribs.

The ballroom was extravagant, adorned with gold detailing, intricate chandeliers reflecting polished surfaces in elegant glows. Servers moved effortlessly between clusters of attendees, balancing glasses of champagne, silver trays of delicacies, murmuring polite greetings between exchanges. Conversations weaved through the air, overlapping in controlled cadence, business dealings disguised as casual interactions, negotiations masked beneath social pleasantries.

Momo remained still, standing near the edge of the main hall, perfectly positioned but intentionally distant - close enough to be visible, far enough to avoid unnecessary entanglements.

It didn’t matter.

She was being watched anyway.

Not by family - they ignored her, dismissed her, acknowledged her only as an extension of her father’s wealth and her mother’s control.

It was everyone else.

Business associates. Industry investors. Political figures masquerading as entrepreneurs.

Men in pristine suits, executives with wealth dripping from their presence, potential partners surveying corporate opportunity, all lingering just slightly too long when their eyes passed over her.

It wasn’t new.

She had been stared at before - had felt the weight of interest, had learned quickly that admiration and possession could overlap in ways that weren’t spoken aloud but were always understood.

But tonight - it was worse.

She was older now, no longer a child, no longer untouchable beneath her father’s authority or her mother’s expectations. She was an opportunity, a potential deal, an investment in legacy, in power, in control over something they had no right to claim but would attempt anyway.

The gazes weren’t just appraising.

They were suggestive.

A lingering glance as one man swirled champagne between his fingers, speaking to her father but flicking his gaze toward her, assessing. A casual smirk exchanged between executives standing near the bar, brief murmurs following, considering. A quiet hum from an older investor, expression thoughtful, speculative, deciding.

Momo didn’t react.

She had learned early that reaction could be interpreted as invitation.

She remained poised, untouched, controlled despite the suffocating pressure pressing against her skin.

Shouto had offered to come.

She had declined.

Not because she didn’t want his presence - she did, desperately - but because his name, his father’s legacy, his family’s reputation would never allow it. Her parents had tolerated U.A. because it was necessary. They had tolerated her divergence toward hero work because fighting it publicly would have damaged their brand.

But Shouto? Todoroki?

He was a scandal wrapped in tragedy, a name tainted despite his innocence, a force her mother would never allow near the carefully curated image she had spent years constructing.

Momo had gone alone because there had never been another option.

And now - standing beneath the weight of unwelcome attention, surrounded by conversations she wanted no part of, balancing between expectation and suffocation - she regretted it.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, breath steady but controlled, forcing composure she had perfected over years of obligation.

She had survived this before.

She would survive it again.

But despite everything - despite her mastery of poise, despite her understanding of structure, despite her awareness of control - she still felt the pressure against her ribs.

She still felt trapped beneath their scrutiny.

And worst of all - she still felt alone.

Momo moved carefully through the event space, posture controlled, expression composed despite the discomfort pressing against her. The evening had stretched longer than expected, conversation flowing through the ballroom with the kind of polished ease that came only from decades of refinement - business associates exchanging pleasantries while subtly negotiating partnerships, corporate figures weaving between discussions that dictated future industry shifts.

She had been approached multiple times - brief exchanges, inquiries into her current endeavors, the inevitable question of her inheritance hanging just beneath the surface.

“You must be preparing for a leadership role, no?”

“The transition into business must have been natural for you.”

“A mind like yours is wasted anywhere else.”

She had given them the expected responses - calculated, appropriate, never allowing herself to slip into actual honesty.

“Yes, I’m focused on ensuring the future of our work remains innovative.”

“My studies at U.A. have been invaluable in refining industry efficiency.”

“I am committed to progress, regardless of the field.”

None of them had actually been listening. They didn’t care about her words, only about what they meant for their own interests - whether she was malleable, whether she could be negotiated into their vision, whether her intelligence would serve them rather than herself.

She hated this.

Not visibly - never visibly - but internally, beneath the structured poise, beneath the perfect responses, beneath the etiquette she had never been given the option to refuse.

She inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower, pressing her fingers briefly against the stem of a champagne flute before setting it back on the silver tray passing by. She never drank at these events.

Drinking meant vulnerability.

And vulnerability meant opportunity.

For them - not for her.

A subtle shift in conversation redirected her attention. She caught the slight narrowing of her mother’s eyes across the room, the faint tilt of her father’s head as he spoke with an investor, the way Hidoi seemed irritated about something.

It wasn’t new.

Her mother was always irritated.

The source didn’t matter.

Momo turned her focus forward again, adjusting her stance, ensuring she remained positioned correctly within the social landscape. She didn’t want attention - not the kind she had already been suffocating beneath - but absence would be noticed.

She scanned the room again, calculated the clusters of conversation.

The men near the bar - three executives, one mid-forties, the others younger, all wealthy in ways that encouraged entitlement - were still watching her.

One of them, the eldest, had spoken to her father earlier. His name wasn’t relevant enough for Momo to remember immediately, but his presence was.

He had been surveying her since the event began, assessing, lingering just long enough for his interest to be clear without ever crossing the threshold into explicit impropriety.

Calculated.

Intentional.

Another lesson Momo had learned early.

She forced herself into quiet observation - unassuming but aware, poised but prepared, ensuring she understood the unspoken negotiation happening around her.

Then, with the kind of confidence that belonged only to men who had never known consequences, the executive finally approached her.

The moment he stepped into her space, she had already catalogued the situation.

His posture - relaxed but direct.

His tone - friendly but not casual.

His expression - polite but edged with something behind his eyes.

Momo had seen it before.

She straightened. Not stiffly - never stiffly - but precisely, poised with the kind of control that mirrored the authority she was expected to display.

He smiled, practiced, effortless in the way powerful men always were. “Momo Yaoyorozu. It’s been some time since I last saw you at one of these events.”

She remembered him now. Not distinctly - not in conversation - but enough to recognize that she had been introduced to him years ago.

She nodded, expression polite. “It has.”

A pause. Calculated.

He tilted his head slightly, swirling the champagne flute between his fingers. “I hear you’ve taken an interest in restructuring your family’s industry. Quite the shift, considering your previous path.”

Her jaw remained relaxed, her response immediate but measured. “I’ve taken an interest in innovation, above all else.”

He hummed, amused. “A diplomatic answer.”

She inhaled carefully, prepared to deflect, prepared to shift the discussion before it deepened into territory she wasn’t interested in engaging-

Then he leaned forward slightly. Not intrusively - never intrusively - but just enough for his presence to settle beneath her skin, for his words to lower into something edged with familiarity rather than professionalism.

“I must admit,” he murmured, “I was surprised to hear about your transition. The Hero Course suited you.”

Momo’s composure remained intact. “I ensure my work suits me regardless of the field.”

A slow nod. A practiced smile.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he said, “Your intelligence has always been admirable. But I must say-”

The pause was deliberate.

“The confidence you carry now is… striking.”

Momo’s breath remained steady, her posture remained impeccable, her expression remained composed.

But internally - internally - her mind had already shifted into calculation.

His words weren’t inappropriate.

Not outright.

Not explicitly.

But she had spent enough time in these rooms to recognize what wasn’t said just as much as what was.

She understood his intent.

And, more importantly,

She understood exactly what he thought he was negotiating.

Chapter Text

The evening had stretched far longer than Momo would have preferred, the carefully curated refinement of the event pressing down on her like a weight she had never asked to carry. Conversations layered over each other in fluid cadence, business figures weaving through the ballroom with polished smiles and veiled intentions, negotiations disguised as pleasantries, every interaction calculated in ways that never felt genuine. It was a cycle she had lived through too many times to count, a pattern she understood intimately, one she could navigate with practiced ease - but never with any real enjoyment.

She moved through the space carefully, posture impeccable, expression composed, ensuring her presence remained visible without being too inviting. It was a balance she had learned early, ensuring she existed within the framework of expectation without becoming an opportunity for unwanted engagement. And yet, despite her effort, she felt the weight of lingering attention following her, settling against her skin with the kind of scrutiny she had long since learned to ignore but never quite escape.

She was being watched.

Not by family - they barely acknowledged her unless necessity dictated it—but by the guests, by the investors, by the men who saw her not as a person but as a prospect. Their gazes weren’t casual, weren’t incidental, weren’t simple acknowledgment. They were assessing, appraising, considering, calculating. It wasn’t new. She had been aware of it her entire life. But tonight, there was something different about it - something heavier, something decided. Tonight, they weren’t just observing her as an heir, as an extension of the Yaoyorozu name. They were evaluating her as a future deal, as something to be secured, as an investment waiting to be claimed.

She straightened slightly, shifting toward the side of the hall, positioning herself in a way that reduced unnecessary visibility. It wouldn’t fully prevent it - attention had already settled - but it would minimize proximity, ensuring distance without appearing dismissive. She exhaled carefully, surveying the clusters of conversation, ensuring she understood the social landscape before direct engagement could occur.

And then - without warning, without even the slightest shift in atmosphere - the explosion tore through the hall.

The force of it was instantaneous, rupturing the carefully maintained space with devastating intensity. Glass shattered, chandeliers cracked, tables overturned, structural integrity failing beneath the impact. Flames ignited where damage was sharpest, smoke surged in thick waves, oxygen thinning beneath the disruption. Panic erupted, screams slicing through the air, movement turning frantic, instinct overtaking calculation in desperate attempts to flee.

Momo did not freeze.

Her body moved before thought could fully settle, training overriding everything else. Her Quirk activated immediately, heat flooding her system as barriers materialized in structured precision, angled to block falling debris, positioned to redirect movement toward clear exits. She assessed the room rapidly, scanning for injuries, cataloging stability, prioritizing evacuation.

She called out with sharp authority, voice cutting through the chaos as she took control. “Move toward the east exit! Help those who cannot walk! Do not push - stay low to avoid smoke inhalation!” Some listened instantly, some hesitated before following orders, some remained frozen in shock, unable to process beyond the initial blast. She didn’t wait for compliance - there was no time.

Her parents.

She turned sharply, gaze landing on them - Hidoi, near the collapsed archway, gripping a chair for balance, unsteady, stunned into silence. Zankoku, standing rigid near the banquet tables, entirely motionless. Neither of them were moving.

She pushed forward, closing the distance between them, hands steady but firm as she reached for her mother first. “Hidoi!” Her mother barely reacted, her gaze flickering toward her, distant, disconnected, but Momo refused to let hesitation slow her.

“Zankoku!”

Her father’s stare snapped toward her - not toward the destruction, not toward the failing structure, but toward her words, toward the use of his name, toward the shift in dynamic he had never seen before. Momo didn’t care.

She kept her tone sharp, commanding, refusing negotiation. “Move - now! The east exit is clear! You cannot stay here!”

Hidoi inhaled sharply, steadied herself, but didn’t move quickly enough. Zankoku remained rigid, fingers twitching against the table in quiet paralysis. There was no time for this.

Momo forced action, gripping her mother’s arm firmly, ensuring stability, ensuring acceleration, ensuring there was no space for resistance. “We need to go.” Hidoi exhaled sharply, realization settling in too late, but she moved.

Zankoku remained unmoving.

Momo turned toward him fully, gaze hardening as she refused hesitation. “Zankoku - move.”

For the first time, he stared at her as if seeing her for exactly who she was. Not as a daughter, not as an heir, not as an obligation - but as a force beyond what he had ever acknowledged.

She refused to falter.

Her grip tightened, her fingers curling around his wrist with controlled strength, ensuring there was no space for refusal. “You are not staying here.”

And he listened.

Rigidly, stiffly, he moved - finally pulling himself forward, finally stepping away from the space he had remained trapped in.

Momo exhaled sharply, leading them without hesitation, ensuring they followed her. Not the other way around.

And for the first time in her life, neither of them argued.

Momo barely registered the shift in atmosphere as they crossed into open air, the night pressing cold against her skin despite the lingering heat of destruction curling behind them. The evacuation had been frantic, hurried movements tangled with confusion and scattered panic, but she had ensured order as best she could - had reinforced direction, had secured pathways, had guided bodies toward the east exit without hesitation.

Her mother and father stood near the far edge of the lawn now, rigid with shock, their expressions unreadable beneath the flickering remnants of firelight behind them. They were out. The guests were out. The worst of the panic had settled into breathless exhaustion.

But she wasn't done.

Momo turned sharply, eyes scanning the damaged structure, assessing stability, cataloging possibility. She counted the evacuees, cross-referenced the earlier crowd, calculated numbers too quickly for casual estimation. Something pressed against her ribs, an instinct she refused to ignore.

Someone was still inside.

She moved before anyone could stop her.

The air shifted the moment she crossed the threshold back into the damaged hall. Smoke curled against broken walls, heat pressing against her skin, debris scattered in ways that obscured visibility. She kept her movements precise, controlled, navigating the remnants of collapse with deliberate care.

Her voice cut through the wreckage as she scanned the space, unwavering in strength. "Is anyone still here?"

Silence. Then- a cough.

Sharp, strained, weighted beneath dust and smoke.

Momo's attention snapped toward the far side of the ballroom, eyes narrowing as she caught the faintest movement beneath a fallen beam. She moved immediately, pace calculated but urgent, assessing structure, categorizing risk. The beam had collapsed at an angle, the stability questionable but not impossible to shift. She inhaled sharply, engaging her Quirk, reinforcing the weakened edges before exerting force.

She pressed forward, ensuring movement, ensuring safe extraction.

And then - relief.

The figure - an older man, likely a financial contributor, his suit torn, his breathing uneven - stumbled forward, dazed but intact. Momo steadied him, ensured he could walk, ensured his movement toward the exit remained uninterrupted.

She followed closely, supporting where necessary, refusing to slow until they reached open air.

The moment they stepped beyond the collapsed frame, the pressure in her chest lifted.

The evacuation was complete.

She didn't hesitate before shifting focus.

The wounded needed attention.

Momo pressed forward, moving immediately into assessment, prioritizing severity, calculating aid distribution. She knelt beside an injured guest, examining a gash along his arm, her Quirk activating without hesitation - gauze materializing, reinforcement securing, controlled technique overriding exhaustion.

She worked efficiently, moving between injuries, ensuring stabilization, ensuring conscious awareness, ensuring everything that could be done was being done before first responders arrived.

And then - finally, flashing lights cut through the smoke-laden air, the arrival of structured reinforcements pressing against the edges of the crisis.

The pros were here.

The first responders were here.

And Momo was already leading them.

The flashing lights cut through the smoke-laden air, flickering against the fractured remains of the ballroom like a chaotic symphony of urgency. Sirens overlapped in discordant waves, the distinct hum of emergency personnel blending into rapid commands, structured movements shaping the aftermath into controlled response. Firefighters pressed forward first, securing structural integrity, ensuring the weakened framework did not collapse further. Paramedics followed immediately, weaving through the scattered evacuees, scanning injuries, stabilizing wounds. The entire scene hummed with efficiency, a carefully coordinated dance of rescue and reinforcement.

Momo had already cataloged the motions.

She had been operating within this framework before it had arrived, had assessed damage, had led evacuation, had prioritized medical aid before paramedics could step in. Even now, even as professionals took their positions, she remained active - ensuring completion, confirming effectiveness, bridging the gap between first response and sustained aid.

Her hands were stained with dust, remnants of the ballroom’s destruction clinging to her gown, a stark contrast against the pristine elegance she had been forced into at the start of the evening. The sequence of events had stripped away formality, had abandoned etiquette in favor of immediate action, had removed her from the place her parents had always positioned her - and yet, she remained standing. She remained commanding.

And then- the press arrived.

Cameras surged into the space with calculated urgency, journalists moving with practiced expertise, navigating through the wreckage with all the efficiency of those who had been trained to chase disaster. Voices layered over one another in rapid succession, inquiries shaping themselves into demands, urgency shifting from rescue to narrative control.

The first microphone angled toward her before she had even registered its presence.

“Yaoyorozu, can you confirm what happened here tonight?”

Momo inhaled, adjusting her stance, ensuring her posture remained impeccable despite the exhaustion pressing against her ribs. The dust in the air clung to her skin, the remnants of firelight cast uneven shadows, the weight of it all settled against her shoulders like an afterthought.

But she was composed.

She was grounded.

She was capable.

“The incident was an intentional attack,” she responded, ensuring her tone remained steady, ensuring authority did not waver beneath the pressure of public scrutiny. “The explosion was not an accident. The evacuation was executed immediately, prioritizing safety before structural compromise could escalate.”

Another voice cut through the pause.

“Reports say you led the evacuation before professional response arrived. Can you confirm your role in the rescue efforts?”

Momo did not falter.

“I ensured movement,” she answered, calculating phrasing before execution, ensuring clarity without embellishment. “I reinforced exit strategy, stabilized injuries where necessary, secured visibility before response units arrived. Evacuation was prioritized.”

Another flash - another microphone - another question angled directly toward her.

“Did anyone perish in the explosion?”

The inquiry pressed against her ribs, forced a breath into structured placement. She catalogued the answer before it could shake her.

“No casualties,” she confirmed, ensuring the words landed with absolute certainty. “Injuries are present, medical aid is actively engaged, but there have been no fatalities.”

The murmurs shifted - the crowd adjusted - attention redirected.

The weight of awareness settled, the recognition shaping itself into acknowledgment.

She was at the center of the response.

She was at the center of the narrative.

And for the first time - perhaps in her entire life - she was seen.

The press encroached upon the scene like a tide, their presence woven seamlessly into the chaotic aftermath. Cameras flickered in bursts of artificial light, cutting through the smoke-laden air, capturing every angle of destruction, every scattered remnant of the once-pristine ballroom. Voices layered over one another, rapid and insistent, the structured urgency of journalists navigating between emergency personnel and survivors.

Momo barely had a moment to breathe before the questions started.

“Yaoyorozu! Can you confirm how many injuries occurred in the explosion?”

“Were you aware of any threats before the event began?”

“You led the evacuation before first responders arrived - how did you assess the situation so quickly?”

The weight of their attention pressed against her, sharp and deliberate, expectation tangled within urgency. She had known this would happen - had understood the moment cameras arrived that she would be at the center of the narrative. But the intensity of it, the sheer force of speculation threading through media conversation, felt heavier than anticipated.

She straightened, ensuring her posture remained impeccable despite the exhaustion creeping against the edges of her frame. Her gown was stained with dust, remnants of the wreckage clinging to the delicate fabric, her hair disheveled from movement, her pulse still thrumming beneath the adrenaline. But she was composed, grounded, undeterred.

“The number of injuries is still being evaluated,” she answered, keeping her tone measured, ensuring clarity without embellishment. “First responders are actively assessing the situation, and medical aid is being provided where necessary.”

Another journalist stepped forward, microphone angled directly toward her. “You organized the evacuation before authorities arrived - did you feel prepared to take command?”

Momo inhaled, adjusted her stance, ensured confidence carried through her response. “I acted within the parameters of my Provisional Hero License,” she stated plainly. “My priority was ensuring movement toward exits, stabilizing injuries, and preventing further casualties before professional aid could be administered.”

The murmurs between journalists shifted, speculation stirring beneath documented fact.

“You were transferred from the Hero Course earlier this year,” another voice interjected, camera lens trained sharply on her expression. “And yet, tonight, you operated entirely as a professional hero. Do you believe this incident challenges the decision to remove you from frontline hero training?”

There it was.

The controversy.

The discussion that had already existed, that had woven itself into hero society months prior, tangled within debates of U.A.'s structure, of hero education, of who was allowed to be recognized as capable despite overwhelming evidence of skill.

And now—now, the argument had been strengthened in ways no discourse had predicted.

Momo held herself firm, ensured her words landed without hesitation.

“My transfer was a structured decision based on academic realignment,” she answered evenly, carefully. “Tonight’s incident does not change my career trajectory - it reinforces my ability to act when necessary.”

The subtle shift in phrasing did not go unnoticed.

It wasn’t a justification.

It wasn’t a defense.

It was a declaration.

It was proof.

And hero society - the press, the Commission, the Pros who had overlooked her potential in favor of industry status - could no longer deny what had happened here tonight.

Momo Yaoyorozu had acted as a hero.

And she had done it flawlessly.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The aftermath had been relentless.

Even after the fires had been extinguished, after the dust had settled, after the wounded had been stabilized and the investigation into the explosion had begun in earnest, the world did not stop talking.

Momo had expected the media attention - it was inevitable, unavoidable, a natural consequence of leading an evacuation before the official response had arrived - but she had underestimated the sheer weight of the discourse surrounding it. Reports dissected her leadership, interviews analyzed her decision-making, speculations wove themselves into structured debates surrounding hero licensing, education, and the reality of preparedness beyond formal training.

Her success had become a statement.

A challenge to the system that had decided she didn’t belong in frontline heroism.

And U.A. had taken notice.

Class 2-A had taken notice.

Aizawa had taken notice.

Nezu had taken notice.

And now- now, they were not letting her rest.

Momo had barely managed a few days of quiet before the pressure to return to the Hero Course became overwhelming.

It was everywhere - subtle but insistent, a presence she could neither escape nor ignore.

Her classmates were relentless.

Kaminari had called her five times in a row before appearing in person, dramatically sprawling across her dorm couch, arms spread wide in mock devastation. “So,” he had begun, eyes sharp despite the dramatics, “have you accepted that support is not your future or do we have to start making signs and staging a protest?”

Mina had bombarded her with texts, each more exaggerated than the last.

𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝙰𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚘

𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝?

𝙾𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝- 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝?

𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝙰𝙽 𝙴𝚅𝙰𝙲𝚄𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝚁𝙾 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙾.

Uraraka had cornered her between Support Department meetings, arms crossed, gaze unwavering. “You’re seriously not thinking about transferring back? After everything?”

Sero, more casual but no less direct, had casually leaned against her desk in the workshop, expression amused but knowing. “Seems kinda weird to be designing support items for heroes when you are one, don’t you think?”

And Shouto - silent, steady, watching - had offered nothing except quiet certainty whenever she hesitated, whenever she stalled, whenever she let uncertainty linger just a little too long.

Aizawa had been blunt - unsurprisingly so. Arms crossed, gaze unwavering, tone dry but heavy with conviction. “You led a civilian rescue operation better than some pros. What, exactly, are you still doing in the Support Department?”

Nezu, ever the strategist, had been far less direct but no less purposeful.

“The Hero Course has always been designed to adapt to student needs,” he had remarked during a structured discussion, sipping tea with practiced ease, eyes bright with knowing intent. “And we do, of course, reassess placements based on evolving circumstances.”

The encouragement was not explicit.

But it was persistent.

It was everywhere.

And, for the first time - perhaps the first time since she had left the Hero Course - Momo was beginning to wonder if she had made the wrong decision after all.

The call came sooner than expected.

Momo had anticipated some form of contact - had known, from the moment the press began dissecting every movement she had made during the evacuation, that the Hero Commission would not remain silent. But she had expected subtlety, careful maneuvering, an attempt to frame her success as part of a broader initiative, rather than what it truly was.

An indictment against their system.

A proof of their failure.

She had led the evacuation without their oversight, had acted before the professionals arrived, had executed hero work flawlessly despite their dismissal of her abilities months prior. They had designed their framework to control hero society - to dictate the paths of those deemed worthy enough for their ranks. And yet, she had succeeded outside of it. She had thrived despite their rejection.

And now- now, they wanted her back.

The meeting was scheduled within the week, structured through official channels, presented as a debriefing and evaluation, but Momo understood exactly what it was. They were negotiating.

Not asking. Not inviting. Negotiating.

The building itself was as imposing as she remembered - grand, polished, decorated with carefully curated art designed to invoke admiration rather than warmth. The Hero Commission operated under absolute control, their influence weaving through every corner of hero society with the precision of architects who never intended for their work to be questioned.

Momo sat across from the board members, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture perfect despite the weight of expectation pressing against her ribs.

A director, a man well into his fifties, expression sharp with calculated intent, leaned forward slightly, fingers curling against the surface of his desk. “Yaoyorozu, allow me to begin by commending your actions during the attack. Your ability to assess the situation and act accordingly was nothing short of exemplary.”

She inclined her head slightly, measured but polite. “Thank you.”

Another board member - a woman with the kind of composed presence that suggested a history in hero regulation - picked up where the director left off. “Your leadership during the incident has raised important discussions within the Commission regarding your placement in U.A. You have demonstrated exceptional capability, and we would like to ensure your talents are utilized appropriately.”

There it was.

The opportunity.

The attempt to bring her back under their control.

Momo kept her expression steady. “I am currently enrolled in U.A.’s Support Department, working within industry innovation. I am utilizing my skillset effectively.”

A pause. A calculated shift in conversation.

The director smiled, the kind of practice-perfect expression that carried intent rather than genuine approval. “Your talents are wasted in support work, Yaoyorozu. You have proven yourself capable of frontline heroics - exceptionally so. We believe a transition back to the Hero Course would be in the best interest of both yourself and hero society.”

Momo already knew the offer was coming, but hearing it stated with such certainty, with such expectation, made the weight of it settle differently.

Aizawa and Nezu had encouraged her.

Class 2-A had relentlessly insisted she reconsider.

But the Hero Commission was not asking - they were presenting it as a decision already made, as a path already secured, as a future they could shape if she simply stepped back into the framework they had designed.

She inhaled slowly, ensuring her voice carried no hesitation. “I appreciate the Commission’s consideration. However, my current trajectory has been carefully chosen based on my long-term goals.”

Another pause. Another shift.

The board members were too polished for outright dismissal, too accustomed to structured conversation to allow rejection to stand uncontested.

The director’s expression remained pleasant, but his tone carried expectation beneath civility. “Your long-term goals must account for your potential. Your presence in hero society would strengthen public trust, reinforce the next generation of professionals, and ensure an optimized framework for hero collaboration. The Commission is prepared to provide direct mentorship and guidance should you accept the transition.”

Momo understood exactly what they were offering.

Resources. Opportunities. Reinforcement of status within the industry.

But above all - control.

She met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the pressure of his words dictate her response. “I do not require mentorship beyond U.A.’s faculty. My placement in the Support Department has already been established. If there are concerns regarding my ability to act effectively in crisis situations, they should be directed toward the structure of hero education rather than my personal trajectory.”

A beat - brief but heavy.

The director’s smile did not falter, but the atmosphere within the boardroom shifted just slightly, just enough for Momo to recognize the moment they realized she would not concede easily.

The Hero Commission had shaped hero society into an unquestionable framework, had dictated futures with the understanding that no one walked away from their oversight without consequence.

And yet - she had succeeded despite them.

And now, they would have to contend with the fact that she would not be easily reclaimed.

The question had followed her for weeks.

At first, it had been easy to dismiss - an afterthought buried beneath more immediate concerns, something fleeting, something she barely acknowledged. But then it kept appearing, kept pressing against the edges of her mind, kept returning to her in stolen moments of silence when she had no distractions to push it away.

Did she actually want to return to the Hero Course?

It had been unavoidable from the moment the evacuation ended, woven into conversations with relentless persistence, layered into every interaction, every expectation, every encouragement.

Her classmates had assumed she would come back.

Her teachers had implied she belonged there.

The Commission had outright demanded it.

And yet- she hesitated.

She hesitated because stepping away had been a decision.

A structured, deliberate choice, one she had committed to with full intention, one she had justified with logic and planning and clear reasoning. She had told herself that support work suited her, that innovation needed her expertise, that she could redefine heroism through technological advancement rather than physical engagement. She had believed in her choice - and maybe, just maybe, she still did.

But then - then, the explosion happened.

And now, the evidence stood against her.

Because when crisis struck, when lives were on the line, when immediate action was required - she had not hesitated.

She had taken command before the professionals arrived.

She had executed hero work before authorization was given.

She had stepped into the exact role she had walked away from - without question, without restraint, without fear.

So, did that mean she had made a mistake?

Had she abandoned something she had never truly wanted to leave?

Momo pressed her fingers against the edge of the workbench in her dorm, exhaling slowly, grounding herself in the familiar weight of structured thought.

There was no easy answer.

Because she still believed in her work.

She still believed in her designs, in her ability to advance heroics through innovation, in the necessity of reinforcing the foundation heroes stood on before they stepped into the field.

But what if - what if the mistake wasn’t leaving the Hero Course?

What if the mistake was believing she had to choose?

What if - she could do both?

She straightened, inhaling deeply, letting the thought settle fully into her mind.

Could she continue designing technology and return to frontline heroics? Could she integrate both aspects of hero work, refuse limitation, refuse being forced into one mold when she had already proven she could excel in multiple fields?

The question was not just about whether she wanted to return.

It was about what kind of hero she wanted to be.

And maybe - just maybe - she wasn’t ready to answer that yet.

But she was ready to find out.

Chapter Text

Momo had always understood structure.

It had been ingrained in her from childhood, woven into every lesson, every expectation, every carefully curated directive shaping who she was meant to be. She had carried herself with purpose, had sharpened her abilities with discipline, had molded herself into someone who could not be questioned. Not out of arrogance, but out of necessity. Because that was what had been required. Because that was what would secure her place among the best. Because that was what hero society had demanded of her.

And yet - despite everything, despite years of proving herself, despite mastery and control and unshakable precision - she had been dismissed. Not for failure, not for incompetence, but for circumstances beyond her control. For oversight. For assumptions. For decisions made by people who had never truly taken the time to see her.

She had worked harder than anyone else, had carried expectations with ease, had never once faltered in ensuring that her ability could never be doubted. But when the time had come - when hero society had dictated the future she had earned - they had cast her aside anyway.

And now, after everything, after the disaster, after the evacuation, after the undeniable proof of her capability had unfolded before them in clear, indisputable clarity - they wanted her back.

As if it had never happened.

As if their rejection had been nothing more than a temporary error, a miscalculation they could now correct. As if she was supposed to simply accept their apology, step back into the role they had once denied her, and let them reclaim what they had chosen to discard.

But that wasn’t how this worked.

She wasn’t returning.

She wasn’t going to be their convenient redemption, their proof that second chances could undo consequences. Hero society had made their choice. And now, they would live with it.

Momo had always been the epitome of discipline and calculated composure, a fact that had defined her from the earliest days of her training. Yet now, as she sat alone in the quiet of her room after the chaos and subsequent media frenzy, she could no longer ignore the bitter truth that had slowly seeped into her every thought. The system that had once promised to mold her into a paragon of heroism had repeatedly failed to honor her capabilities and, worse still, had discarded her achievements as if they were nothing more than errors to be corrected. The very institutions that were meant to champion excellence had shown no regard for the dedication and sacrifice required to earn her place among the best. In that silent hour, she found herself questioning not only the fairness of a society built on rigid protocols but also the validity of the title 'hero' when bestowed by those who had already rendered her efforts insignificant.

In the wake of the catastrophe, when every life had hung in the balance and every second had mattered, Momo had acted without hesitation. While the official heroes hesitated behind layers of bureaucracy and strict protocol, she had taken charge, orchestrating the evacuation with a resolve that spoke of uncompromising efficiency and clarity. That night had not been a mere test of her physical prowess; it had been the unveiling of a truth that had always lurked beneath the surface of hero society - a truth that rendered waiting for permission an intolerable luxury in the face of impending disaster. Her decisive actions were a stark indictment of a system driven by regulation rather than by genuine ability, and as the accolades and criticisms flowed in the days that followed, she began to see the insidious patterns that had long defined her world.

Slowly, the idea began to germinate in her mind: perhaps she no longer needed to play by the established rules. The hero license she possessed was a legal acknowledgment of her capabilities, a mark of her hard-earned credentials that, paradoxically, also boxed her in. There was a peculiar freedom in recognizing that the very framework designed to control her actions had become a shackle - one that had long obscured the potential of her ingenuity and the force of her resolve. Even as she continued her work in the Support Course, refining technology and strategies meant to empower heroes, an alternate path emerged from the shadows of her doubts - a path where her services would be offered not to an ungrateful system but directly to those in need, unmediated by layers of protocol and oversight.

As the days turned to nights filled with restless contemplation, Momo envisioned a new kind of heroism, one that transcended the conventional confines of red tape. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself operating outside the official channels, unburdened by the need for validation from a system that had repeatedly underestimated her worth. She imagined intervening when the official heroes were too slow, her precise actions saving lives with a clarity that the bureaucratic process could never match. This was not rebellion for the sake of defiance; it was a calculated decision to leverage her strengths in a realm where efficiency and compassion were not held hostage by regulations and political agendas.

In that moment of quiet reckoning, Momo resolved that hero society did not deserve her services. The system had misjudged her and, in doing so, had diminished the very idea of heroism. She would continue her work in the Support Course, perfecting the technologies and strategies that could serve as the backbone of true heroics, but she would no longer be content with merely proving her ability within the established corridors of power. Instead, she would forge her own path - a path where she could act on her own terms, where the measure of her worth would be determined by the lives she touched rather than the accolades system administrators bestowed. In the stillness of that night, as the weight of disappointment mingled with the fire of determination, Momo understood that her future lay not in regaining the acceptance of a flawed society, but in redefining heroism on her own uncompromised terms.

Late into the night, when the bustle of the academy had quieted and even the most persistent whispers of bureaucratic pressure had faded into the background, Momo retreated to the solitude of her private workshop. In the dim glow of a single desk lamp, surrounded by meticulously organized sketches and swatches of fabric, she began to craft the new identity that would define her next chapter - a persona unburdened by society’s preconceived notions of what a hero should be. For too long, she had borne the weight of expectations and the sting of being misunderstood, and now, driven by a quiet fury and a resolute determination, she set about designing a costume that was as much a statement of defiance as it was a tool for effective hero work.

Her vision emerged on paper first: an open-back, high-collared, sleeveless deep burgundy leotard that would hug her form perfectly, its surface adorned with precisely placed gold lines accentuating her waist and arms. The garment would cover her entire torso while incorporating a subtle opening - a tasteful boob window that hinted at both strength and femininity without compromising the elegance she had always embodied. Momo’s drawings were as exacting as her standards; every line, every curve, had to not only capture the ideal aesthetics but also offer maximum functionality.

Over the leotard, she envisioned a high-collared cape in the same deep burgundy hue, its fabric modified to be comfortable in all weather conditions - a transformation of the material she had once reserved for her winter costume. This cape, now an everyday emblem of her new resolve, would drape gracefully over her shoulders, secured by a refined ring at the neck and punctuated by a large black gemstone at the throat. The gemstone, once a seasonal accessory, was reinvented as a constant reminder of her power and the darkness she had overcome.

Below that, she designed equally remarkable lower wear: deep burgundy leggings that adhered to her form, but with one distinctive twist - the side of the thigh would be left open, outlined in a thin line of gold. This cut was not merely for style; it was a practical necessity, ensuring that when she activated her Quirk, the affected skin would remain unobstructed and free, allowing her to channel her abilities with optimal efficiency. Around her waist, a sleek silver utility belt was to secure various devices and tools - a subtle nod to her past life in support work, now seamlessly integrated into the new design. In place of the bulky book formerly known as the Yaoyorictionary, her calculations and compositions were condensed into a compact watch, a transformation that made it both functional and discreet.

Her assembly was completed with a pair of sports calf-length boots in deep burgundy, designed with both agility and style in mind. The boots dipped sharply in the center, a deliberate design choice that balanced elegance with the necessary edge for rapid movement. The collar of each boot was lined with silver, and along the back of the shaft, a gold hexagonal outline stretched from just below the collar down to the ankle - a detail that added an element of regality to every step. The soles, made solid black, ensured traction in any circumstance. Matching gloves, tailored to maximize grip on her self-fashioned metal bō staffs, were constructed with the same deep burgundy fabric and accented by gold, completing a uniform that was both a visual masterpiece and an embodiment of her technical prowess.

Every stitch, every carefully chosen element had a dual purpose: to enhance her physical abilities and to signal a clear break from a system that had once sought to confine her. As Momo surveyed her creation, she felt a stir of satisfaction that was as intellectual as it was emotional. This costume was more than fabric and design; it was the physical manifestation of her autonomy, a secret promise to herself that she would no longer serve a society that had repeatedly misjudged her worth. In the hush of that night, as the final adjustments were made and the pieces of her new persona fell perfectly into place, Momo understood that her future laid not in the corridors of hero bureaucracy but in a path defined solely by her own unyielding standards.

With deliberate grace, she set aside her tools, her mind already racing ahead to the days when she would slip into this new guise - a vigilante form that, though legal under her hero license, would allow her to operate on her own terms, to save lives without the constraints of protocol, and to show a world that true heroism was defined not by titles or accolades, but by the courage to forge one’s own destiny.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

In the soft light of early morning at U.A., Class 2-A gathered in quiet clusters within the dorm’s common area, their voices low with concern and admiration as they discussed the events of the past few days. Shouto stood slightly apart yet clearly present - a silent observer whose thoughtful eyes conveyed more than words ever could. The conversation naturally turned to Momo, whose decisive leadership during the crisis had set a new benchmark for heroism. She had taken control when even the official heroes hesitated, and her actions had ignited both praise and anxiety among her peers. Many of her classmates recalled that night with a mix of pride and worry, knowing that the recognition she earned came at a steep personal cost, one that the rigid hierarchy of hero society might never fully understand or appreciate.

Amid the murmurs of her classmates, there was an undercurrent of tension that none could ignore. The Hero Commission, along with faculty figures like Aizawa and even snippets of hushed administrative conversations, had begun pushing for her return to the Hero Course. They spoke of her potential in terms that belied the system which had once dismissed her, suggesting that her talents were, in fact, indispensable to the established order. Yet, within Class 2-A, there was an unspoken hope that Momo might choose her own path rather than succumb to a system that had repeatedly undervalued her. Shouto, ever the steady presence, seemed to reflect this sentiment in his quiet gaze. His thoughts, as always measured and profound, hinted at the recognition that talent need not be confined to the corridors of authority - a truth he believed Momo understood in her own unique way.

In a small break between classes later that morning, the conversation deepened. Some students spoke fervently about the importance of defying expectations; others worried that without the structural support of the Hero Course, Momo’s abilities might be misdirected, even if she possessed every tool necessary under the seal of her Hero License. Yet, most agreed that her character - demonstrated first on that fateful night - transcended the limitations of any single system. The air was thick with unspoken agreement: Momo’s ingenuity and resolve were not to be reined in by bureaucratic mandates or by a society that had once chosen to overlook her. Her classmate’s debates were passionate but measured, a testament to their deep respect for her, and an acknowledgment of the difficult choice that lay before her.

The staff, too, had been drawn into these discussions. Aizawa, known for his terse yet piercing insights, had expressed his concern privately with a few students, remarking that while the system might have its way in courting necessary public opinion, the true measure of a hero’s worth lay in their actions rather than in any formal title. He understood the delicate balance between structure and freedom—a balance that Momo had so masterfully disrupted with her unorthodox approach. In hushed conversations in the corridors of U.A., whispers of potential restructuring and reassessment of training methods surfaced, all focused on how best to support a student whose capabilities clearly outstripped the boundaries imposed on her.

As the day wore on, the weight of the Hero Commission’s demands and the hopeful murmurs of her friends and mentors mingled in a complex symphony of expectation. Shouto’s quiet presence offered a reassuring solidity against the uncertain churn of ideas. In his thoughtful silence lay a promise that, regardless of the pressure from above, Momo would not be forced into a mold that did not fit her. Even as plans were drawn up and councils convened among the staff, the hope that she might one day choose not to be confined by their rules flickered like a secret beacon among the students.

In those moments, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and shadows lengthened across the training grounds, Class 2-A’s discussions turned reflective. They wondered what path she would choose, and privately resolved that, if Momo were to stand against a system that had once failed her, they would offer their unwavering support. Behind the quiet intensity of Shouto’s gaze and in the earnest words of his peers lay a collective understanding: a true hero is defined not by the uniform they wear or the courses they attend, but by the choices they make when confronted with the harsh truths of the world. And for Momo, that choice - whatever it might eventually unfold into - was theirs to honor, even if it meant leaving behind everything they had once believed was certain.

After a grueling training session, under the faded light of an autumn afternoon at U.A., a quiet stillness settled over the common area where students gathered to recuperate. In one corner, Izuku Midoriya sat alone by a window that overlooked the training grounds, his gaze distant as he replayed the past few days in his mind. He remembered every moment, every decision made in the heat of crisis, particularly those moments when Momo had been forced into the background even though her actions had spoken volumes. A pang of regret tugged at him as he considered how the very ideals they aspired to - courage, determination, and sacrifice - had been entangled with a system that, at times, prioritized protocol and hierarchy over true merit. Izuku wondered whether his own unquestioned adherence to the structured path had contributed to that imbalance, allowing a leader like Momo to be sidelined even when her strength had shone unmistakably through every challenge.

Across the room, Tenya Iida moved methodically from one conversation that involved strategy to another, his steps measured and his mind uncharacteristically pensive. The crisp efficiency that usually defined his every action seemed to falter for a moment as he recalled the opportunities Momo had lost simply because the established order dictated that he and others would always be in the lead. He remembered times when he had accepted instructions without probing deeper, moments when he had deferred to conventions that had ultimately prevented an even greater display of leadership from someone as capable as her. In each recollection, the conviction with which he had once embraced every rule gave way to a nagging uncertainty that perhaps adherence to order had its own costs - a cost measured in lost potential and missed chances for progress.

The discussions that had echoed through the halls of U.A. in recent days now whispered back to them. Classmates had spoken with admiration of Momo’s unwavering competence, yet there was also an undercurrent of unspoken remorse among those who had inadvertently contributed to a system that favored the conventional over the extraordinary. For Izuku, it was the realization that he had, in his unrelenting pursuit of validation from heroes like All Might, sometimes forgotten that true heroism was not solely defined by public accolades or by the titles bestowed by tradition. It was defined by action - decisive, unyielding, and, above all, independent of the constraints imposed by a rigid hierarchy. In that quiet moment, he questioned whether his own journey had become too entangled with the expectations of others, a journey where he seldom challenged the status quo even when he knew better in his heart.

Tenya’s thoughts wandered down a similar path of introspection. He recalled the countless hours spent refining his technique, meticulously following every rule and regulation that had been etched into the annals of U.A.’s legacy. Yet, as he considered Momo’s contributions - the way she had stepped forward during moments when hesitation had cost precious time - he couldn’t help but feel that a part of him had been complicit in a system that inadvertently throttled true leadership. A part of him believed that the emphasis on precision and protocol, while undoubtedly important, could sometimes obscure the raw effectiveness of someone who was not afraid to act outside the confines of expectation. In that moment, the ideals of duty and honor that had always guided him felt deeply intertwined with a responsibility - to ensure that every capable voice, regardless of whether it fit neatly into established roles, was recognized and given the chance to lead.

Even Shouto, whose stoic demeanor often rendered his thoughts inscrutable, seemed to carry the weight of that realization in the quiet intensity of his gaze. His eyes, usually calm and resolute, had held a flicker of something more - a silent acknowledgment of the times when the system had favored technical compliance over the intuitive spark that Momo had so clearly embodied. Though he rarely spoke of such matters, his occasional, measured nods in private conversations spoke volumes. In the calm aftermath of crisis and in the reflective moments shared among classmates, there was an unspoken agreement that sometimes the measures of heroism could not be accurately captured by rigid performance standards alone.

As the afternoon light waned, casting long shadows over the courtyard, Izuku and Tenya found themselves briefly walking side by side along a quiet pathway lined with trees that bore the marks of early autumn. They exchanged few words, yet the silence between them was filled with an earnest acknowledgment of their past choices and responsibilities. Izuku’s voice, soft and introspective, broke the quiet as he said, “I can’t help but feel that we let the system lead us more than we ever challenged it. Momo… she always had a way of cutting through that noise, and yet we never quite let her take the lead.”

Tenya’s response was measured, infused with the regimental cadence that so defined him. “Our adherence to the rules, our respect for order - they have advantages, yes, but sometimes they also blind us to greatness that doesn't fit the mold we expect. We must reflect on our own actions. If we continue to follow the prescribed path without questioning its limitations, we'll only ever serve to undermine the very principles we claim to uphold.”

Their words, though few, resonated deeply, stirring a sense of resolve and uncertainty in equal measure. Both young heroes understood that the system they were part of was not infallible; it was subject to the biases and structures that sometimes left the most capable heroes unrecognized. In that quiet moment of shared introspection, they silently pledged to learn from their missteps - to ensure that in the future, every act of brilliance, every moment of true leadership, was given its due recognition, irrespective of where it fell in the hierarchy of hero society.

For Izuku and Tenya, that conversation marked the beginning of a personal reckoning. They realized that to honor true heroism, they would have to adapt, to question conventional wisdom and perhaps even challenge the very system they served. And while they could not change what had already occurred - her contributions now rendered part of the collective memory of U.A. - they resolved not to let the same oversight happen again. The responsibility to foster a culture of genuine recognition, where the strength to lead was measured by results rather than titles, was a burden that they were now prepared, if reluctant, to bear.

In that reflective aftermath, as the light faded from the world outside and the corridors of U.A. grew quiet, both Izuku and Tenya knew that the lessons they had garnered from Momo’s experience would shape their actions in the days to come, guiding them to honor the true spirit of heroism, even if it meant questioning long-held assumptions and rewriting the very playbook they once followed without question.

Shouto found himself lingering in the quiet space behind the training grounds after everyone had dispersed - a momentary refuge from the constant clamor of expectations and unspoken comparisons. In those rare, solitary minutes, he allowed himself the luxury of reflection. The events of recent days weighed heavily on him, a steady undercurrent to the discipline that usually defined his every action. There was Momo, who had effortlessly stepped out of the confines of rigid protocol into a role that demanded intuitive, decisive action. Her contributions were undeniable, and yet, the system still had its own way of compartmentalizing talent. Shouto’s mind wandered to the moments when he had observed her lead; not with fanfare or clamorous applause, but with the quiet assurance of someone who knew exactly what needed to be done even as everyone else hesitated.

He recalled the way the chaos of that fateful night had unfolded - the critical seconds in which her commands had cut through panic as if she had always belonged in the forefront. Shouto had been there, as always, serving his role with unwavering reliability. Yet even as he maintained a calm exterior, he recognized a disquiet stirring within him. There was a subtle frustration at the persistent ordering of the world, a frustration that stemmed from expectations not just imposed on Momo, but on himself as well. He had adhered to every rule, followed every directive with measured precision, and yet there lingered a nagging sense of missed opportunities - a sense that true brilliance was being overlooked in favor of protocol and hierarchy.

In the quiet, his memories unfolded like a sequence of delicate images: Momo’s unhesitating leadership during the crisis, the respectful nods of her classmates, the hushed whispers of admiration that mingled with regret. He recalled the unspoken recognition in the eyes of his peers, the very same eyes that now, in this solitude, invited him to question the path he had followed. There was no accusation in his heart about Momo’s abilities, only a dawning realization that the current system, with its unwavering commitment to order, had in some ways stifled the innovative spirit that she embodied. The rigid structures that had defined hero society seemed ill-suited for moments that demanded not only adherence but a bold rejection of convention.

Shouto’s thoughts drifted further into the realm of self-doubt. Had he, in his own quiet acceptance of the rules, contributed to a culture that regularly sidelined talent that did not fit neatly within its preordained channels? It was a question he rarely, if ever, allowed to linger in conversation, yet now it hovered on the edges of his consciousness. He had always believed in the merit of disciplined precision, that order was the backbone of a successful operation. But as he recalled the urgency in Momo’s actions - her willingness to act decisively when hesitation could have proved disastrous - he began to wonder if there might be moments when defiance of expectation was not a liability but a necessity.

As he sat there, the gentle sounds of a distant training drill and the soft murmur of the wind among the trees served as quiet punctuation to his introspection. Shouto considered how his role had largely been one of measured restraint. He was the calm in the storm, the silent observer who rarely allowed his feelings to disrupt the flow of duty. Yet now, encouraged by his own inner voice, he acknowledged that the very qualities he prized might sometimes be a double-edged sword. The consistent, controlled approach that had defined his career left no space for the kind of impassioned spontaneity that Momo had displayed. And while discipline was undeniably a virtue, he could not shake the thought that perhaps there were times when a single moment of uncontrolled brilliance - not guided by the usual restraints - might have been what was truly necessary.

In this rare moment of vulnerability, Shouto allowed himself to dwell on the lessons that the recent events had taught him. He understood that heroism was not solely about maintaining composure or following instructions; it was also about responding with an authenticity that could challenge the very structure of authority. The sacrifices made by the heroes in that chaotic night had been vast, but the cost of clinging too tightly to a conventional path had become equally apparent. Through his own silent self-reckoning, he resolved that while he would continue to honor the legacy of discipline that U.A. had instilled in him, he would also strive to recognize brilliance wherever it emerged - even if that brilliance took a form that defied established norms.

The resolve that settled in him was not a rejection of his ideals, but rather an expansion of them. In accepting the complexity of heroism, Shouto silently resolved to support any act of leadership that truly served the greater good, even if it came from someone who did not fit the traditional mold. He vowed that he would be more vigilant in acknowledging moments of spontaneous initiative, in ensuring that the very system he was a part of did not inadvertently silence the spark of innovation. In the reflective stillness of that twilight hour, as shadows melded with fading light, Shouto recognized that true strength lay not solely in quiet obedience but in the readiness to grow and to challenge outdated paradigms - an understanding he would carry with him as the days ahead unfolded.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Late one evening, as the corridors of U.A. fell into a quiet lull long after the bustle of the day had faded, a discreet conversation began to circulate among the staff. In a small, dimly lit meeting room near the administrative offices, Aizawa and several senior faculty members gathered around a battered conference table. Their voices, measured and low, spoke of a series of unsettling reports that had reached their ears over the past few weeks. Eyewitnesses described a mysterious figure - an individual clad in a distinctive burgundy suit, whose presence was as striking as it was fleeting. This vigilante was noted not only for the vivid hue of their attire but also for an unexpected detail: the person’s voice carried a distinctly Russian accent, lending an air of exotic mystery to the rumors. As Aizawa listened attentively, his expression remained inscrutable, yet the furrow in his brow betrayed a deep-seated concern. The faculty debated quietly whether this enigmatic figure might be operating outside the established channels of hero work, and if so, what implications such unsanctioned actions might have for both public safety and the carefully maintained order of hero society.

Elsewhere on campus, within the close-knit confines of Class 2-A’s dormitory, the atmosphere was charged with a mix of curiosity and cautious excitement. In a corner of a common room, clusters of students exchanged hushed whispers during a brief respite between study sessions. Their conversation, interlaced with fragments of speculation and tentative excitement, centered on the same elusive vigilante. They recalled snippets of overheard conversations, flickering images from grainy security footage, and unconfirmed word-of-mouth - each detail reinforcing the eerie familiarity of the burgundy suit and the incongruous tint of a foreign accent that punctuated the reports. Some of the younger students, their eyes wide with wonder, debated whether the figure’s actions might be justified in moments of crisis, while others expressed concern about the potential chaos that could arise from someone operating completely on their own terms. Yet, beneath the surface of their discussion lay an unspoken admiration for the kind of decisive, unorthodox action that had once broken through the rigid confines of hero society - a quiet acknowledgment that, perhaps, true heroism sometimes had to defy convention.

Amid these swirling rumors and whispered theories, Shouto found himself quietly reflecting on the turbulent currents of change this vigilante represented. During a rare lull in his own rigorous training routine, he recalled the nights of crisis when certain heroes hesitated and decisive actions had come from unexpected quarters. The reports of the burgundy figure - a person who moved with purpose, unseen yet unmistakably present in the moments that truly mattered - resonated with him in a profoundly personal way. His steady gaze wandered over the empty training grounds as he mulled over the implications: Was this vigilante simply filling a void that the structured system had long ignored? Or, perhaps more unsettlingly, was this a sign that the very ideals upon which U.A. and hero society were built were no longer sufficient to address the complexities of a changing world? Though Shouto maintained his characteristic reserve, there was a spark of reluctant intrigue in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment that the emergence of such a figure might force everyone - staff and students alike - to reconsider the true meaning of heroism.

In that quiet convergence of official concern and grassroots fascination, the legend of the vigilante began to take on a life of its own. The burgundy suit, the hint of a foreign accent, and the palpable aura of defiance all coalesced into a symbol of both hope and rebellion - a symbol that, unbeknownst to most, might very well be the product of the very hero society that had once stifled its greatest potential. Without anyone yet knowing the true identity behind the rumors, the emergence of this enigmatic figure promised to reshape conversations, challenge long-held assumptions, and spark debates that would echo through the hallowed halls of U.A. in the days to come.

Momo moved through the darkened streets with the fluid grace of a dancer, every step measured and deliberate. The night was quiet except for the soft patter of rain on pavement - a sound that mingled with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Clad in her new costume - a deep burgundy leotard with gold accents, a cape draped elegantly over her shoulders, leggings revealing a carefully designed opening along the thigh, and boots that combined style with function - she embodied a silent declaration of independence. With the transformation complete, every stitch of her attire spoke of not only defiance but also a purpose refined through years of precision and sacrifice.

The target had been identified through discreet channels - a low-level criminal syndicate threatening to disrupt the fragile peace in a neglected district. Although the threat was not on the scale of calamity, it was enough to force the hand of those trained in heroics. Momo had studied the patterns of these incidents meticulously, and now, in the solitude of the night, her resolve solidified. Her mind flickered over the details of the operation: intercept the group before they could inflict further harm, do so with minimal collateral damage, and vanish without leaving a trace that could be tied to an official hero. This was her chance to prove, yet again, that she could act with unmatched efficacy - placing lives above bureaucratic praise.

Within a deserted warehouse on the outskirts of town, the criminals were in the midst of their illicit exchange. Taking advantage of shadows and the natural cover provided by broken walls, Momo slipped inside, her senses tuned to every sound and movement. In a seamless blend of strategy and elegant combat, she neutralized the guards one by one. Each calculated move was executed with the precision of a master tactician; her metal bō staffs spun in graceful arcs as she parried and countered with fluid determination. The confrontation was swift - more a ballet of disciplined force than a chaotic skirmish. As the last adversary collapsed, a soft echo of her decisive actions reverberated in the silence left behind.

Before the sirens or backup heroes could converge on the scene, Momo vanished into the night as silently as she had emerged. In the moments following her departure, a single flash of burgundy in a shadowed alleyway was all that remained - a fleeting vision that quickly dissolved into urban legend. Her calculated precision had not only saved the situation but also set the stage for whispers to ripple through the official channels.

Back at the headquarters of the Hero Commission, panic began to stir in carefully controlled circles as reports of an unidentified vigilante reached their ears. In a spacious, modern conference room, illuminated by the harsh glare of fluorescent lights and the soft hum of electronic communications, a group of high-ranking officials and seasoned pros gathered. Their voices, usually measured and assured, were edged with concern and barely concealed frustration. Amid transcripts and digital footage, snippets of evidence described a mysterious figure who moved with the assured elegance of someone born to lead—someone dressed entirely in deep burgundy, with an unmistakable presence accentuated by hints of a Russian accent when captured on patrol communications.

The officials debated the implications in subdued tones that belied their growing unease. They questioned how an unsanctioned operative could execute hero work with such effectiveness, outperforming even their best efforts on numerous occasions. Anxiety rippled through their discussions as theories emerged about the vigilante’s identity - they wondered if this shadowy figure was a rogue dissenter, a renegade with an agenda that could upset the delicate balance of hero society. Some clung to the notion that such unregulated heroics, despite their apparent success, were a dangerous precedent, one that undermined the structure of their carefully maintained order. Others, however, could not ignore the stark reality that lives were being saved by this enigmatic intervention, forcing them to confront the uncomfortable possibility that the system they represented had grown obsolete.

As the meeting progressed, the tension in the room was palpable. There were calls for increased surveillance, for tighter control over hero operations, yet these measures promised little against the unpredictable nature of a vigilante who operated without constraint. In their anxious deliberations, the Hero Commission officials and senior pros expressed a blend of admiration and exasperation; the very qualities they prided themselves on - a strict adherence to protocol, a reliance on chain-of-command - seemed to crumble when faced with the raw effectiveness of someone operating free of their restrictions. Though none could pinpoint the answer, they each recognized that the emergence of this burgundy-clad figure signaled a shift in the paradigm of hero work, one that threatened to redefine the boundaries between sanctioned heroism and the acme of actual capability.

In that charged moment of administrative panic and whispered conjecture, the tranquil night outside belied the storm brewing within the halls of authority. Unbeknownst to them, the vigilante they feared and admired in equal measure was someone they had long underestimated - a presence that had quietly been redefining heroism from within the very shadows of the system that now quailed under its own rigid expectations.

Chapter Text

It was a cherished Friday evening at U.A., when classes set aside the weight of training for a few hours of laughter and lightness. In the cozy common room of Class 2-A, a spirited game of Truth or Dare was in full swing - snacks spread out on the low table, a movie flickering on the screen in the background, and the warmth of camaraderie filling every corner of the room.

Shouto Todoroki sat quietly among his classmates, his usual calm demeanor momentarily softened by the easy banter and playful teasing that defined these gatherings. He leaned back in his chair, arms resting lightly on the table as he observed the antics of his friends with a gentle, inward amusement. The game progressed, each round revealing more secret corners of their personalities, until at last, the question came that stirred something deep within him.

Izuku, with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a tone that bordered on teasing urgency, addressed Shouto directly. “Hey, Todoroki, have you ever had a crush on someone?” His words hung in the air, drawing the attention of everyone in the circle.

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to lean in closer, the question turning the casual chatter into an expectant hush. Shouto’s usually impassive face showed the tiniest hint of surprise before he carefully folded his hands together. “A crush?” he repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of that word aloud. “I suppose I might say I have felt… admiration for someone.” His voice, still measured and composed, carried a softer tone than he intended.

Uraraka, never one to miss an opportunity for honest conversation, leaned forward with a warm smile. “Admiration? That sounds awfully vague, Todoroki. We know you - there’s got to be more to it than that!” She nudged him playfully, the gentle ribbing coming from a place of care and genuine curiosity.

Shouto’s eyes wandered, and for a moment, memories flickered unbidden into his mind - images of Momo during training, the subtle strength in her gaze, the quiet way she commanded respect without even trying. His heart, usually so measured, gave a small, unintentional beat out of step with his thoughts. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “when I see someone who is not only exceptionally capable but also carries themselves with a grace and determination that feels...different, it makes me think of how many things there are to admire, things that aren’t just about power or protocols.”

A few of their classmates exchanged knowing smiles as their teasing gave way to more sincere conversation. “Is it, like, more than admiration?” asked Kaminari, a hint of mischief mingled with genuine interest.

“I...” Shouto hesitated, his voice faltering momentarily under the weight of a feeling he had kept buried for too long. His ordinarily reserved eyes flickered with an emotion that was both new and achingly familiar. “Maybe it’s something more. I mean, some people say that sometimes you don’t notice what’s right in front of you until a moment like this,” he admitted quietly, as if confessing a secret he hadn’t truly allowed himself to acknowledge before.

The air grew thick with the implications of his words, and even as laughter slowly resumed around them, Shouto felt a quiet stirring inside - a slow, warming realization that the connection he had always valued in Momo might be evolving into something far more significant.

Kirishima clapped him on the back, his smile wide and encouraging. “That’s awesome, man! Sometimes the best feelings are the ones we don’t even realize we have at first.” The words, simple but sincere, reverberated in the small circle of friends, cutting through the lingering awkwardness.

Shouto’s gaze fell to his hands, then slowly lifted again as he searched the faces around him. “I’m only starting to understand it,” he confessed. “For the longest time, I thought what I felt was just respect—a natural part of working together. But maybe... maybe it’s something more.”

As the game continued with more dares and confessions, the conversation took on a light-hearted tone. Yet for Shouto Todoroki, every word, every shared laugh, was now measured against the backdrop of a newfound sensitivity. Behind his composed exterior, a storm of uncharted emotions had been quietly building - a gentle hope that perhaps this rare vulnerability could lead him to explore a connection deeper than what he’d ever allowed himself to imagine.

That night, amid the clamor of friendly teasing and whispered confessions, Shouto realized with a mixture of trepidation and healing optimism that his feelings for Momo transcended mere platonic admiration. As the movie credits rolled and the room gradually emptied, his heart, usually so controlled, beat with the uncertain promise of something real, something tender, and something worth pursuing.

After the game had ended and the last echoes of laughter faded into the gentle hum of the dormitory at night, Shouto remained alone in the quiet of his room. The soft illumination from his desk lamp revealed a study filled with neatly arranged notes and schematic drawings - a stark contrast to the turmoil stirring quietly in his mind. There, in the solitude that followed the evening’s playful confessions, he found himself revisiting every moment of the night. The question posed by Izuku continued to echo in his thoughts, and with it, the realization that his long-held admiration for Momo had deepened into something he had never expected.

He recalled the subtle way Momo’s eyes had lit up when she laughed at a well-timed remark, the unspoken strength in her steady gaze during practice, and the graceful authority that had always set her apart in his eyes. In the controlled environment of training, he had seen her command respect through quiet determination; now, on that night filled with honest revelations, every detail of her presence seemed amplified, each gesture an affirmation of the qualities he so admired. A warmth, previously dismissed as the respectful glow of camaraderie, had now taken on the hue of something more personal - a tender, almost fragile longing that left him uncertain yet hopeful.

As he sat at his desk, Shouto ran his fingers slowly over a battle strategy he had been working on, an effort that usually kept his mind focused on precise details. But tonight, his concentration wavered. His thoughts wandered instead to a scene from earlier during a training session when he had caught Momo offering a quiet word of encouragement to a struggling classmate. In that fleeting moment, the gentle assurance in her voice had softened the hard edges of the day, and he had felt something stir within him - a sense of connection that went beyond duty or mutual respect.

He spoke softly to himself, not out of a need to share his secret with anyone else, but as a means to clarify the tangled emotions laying claim to his heart. “Is it possible that I’ve been blind to this for so long because it didn’t fit the strict order I believed in?” he murmured in a voice barely louder than the rustling of papers. The idea was both unsettling and invigorating. His mind, always methodical, began to trace the contours of this new feeling, trying to reconcile it with the longstanding image of Momo he had so carefully maintained. It was as if he were discovering a hidden layer in a familiar landscape - a soft, unexpected glow amid the measured guarantees of friendship and respect.

In that quiet hour, Shouto acknowledged the possibility that what he felt might be more than a simple admiration derived from shared duty and mutual understanding. The realization was fragile, like a first bloom in early spring, emerging in the midst of a long winter of unspoken restraint. He felt a cautious optimism stirring within him - an acceptance that emotions, though unpredictable and often inconvenient, were an inseparable part of being human. And in that acceptance came the quiet hope that perhaps, in time, he might find the courage to share this new understanding with Momo, to let her know that her presence had ignited something deep and sincere within him.

For now, he allowed himself the luxury of hope and introspection. The room, bathed in the soft glow of his solitary light, bore silent witness to his inner transformation - a subtle shift in a heart once ruled solely by duty, now learning to cherish the promise of something tender and real. As he closed his notebook and turned off the lamp, Shouto Todoroki carried with him not only the precise plans of his academic life but also the fragile blueprint of an uncharted future, one that might, someday, intertwine with the very essence of Momo.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

After her mission, Momo slipped onto a quieter rooftop overlooking the city - a familiar place where the chaos of the night receded into soft patches of blue and silver light. The adrenaline had subsided into a steady hum beneath her skin, leaving behind both satisfaction and a lingering uncertainty about the path she had chosen. Dressed in her deep burgundy vigilante suit, every line and accent speaking of defiance and resolve, she sought a moment of solitude. Yet even in her solitude, thoughts of the day's events mingled with memories of past disappointments and quiet rejections by a system that never truly understood her worth.

Her reverie was gently interrupted by a swift, light knock at the door of the rooftop balcony. In bounded Mei - her closest confidant in the Support Course - whose chaotic energy was as unpredictable as it was infectious. Bright eyes danced behind a warm, cartoonish smile as she bounded over, hands already busy with something in her satchel. "Fancy Girl! You won't believe what I just found!" Mei exclaimed in a voice that was half a laugh, half a gasp, as she thrust a crumpled newspaper article at Momo. The headline was as flamboyant as it was absurd, proclaiming: "Crimson Crusader? New Vigilante in Town Stuns Pros!" The print was slightly crinkled from where Mei had been fidgeting with it, her ADHD-fueled energy barely contained by the excitement of the find.

Momo took a moment to study the article, her eyes flicking over the exaggerated descriptors and the ludicrous details that transformed her careful work into a tabloid spectacle. "They want to give me a name," she murmured, a mixture of amusement and resignation in her tone. "The Crimson Crusader? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?" Her voice was steady, but the edges of it betrayed a small, private laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Mei plopped down beside her, nearly knocking over a small box of trinkets in her excitement. "It’s just a headline, Fancy Girl! But it does show - they notice you. Even if they can’t see the real you behind the suit." Her words, delivered in her rapid-fire cadence, were punctuated by the occasional flurry as she searched for the right thing to say. "I mean, look at it! They’re actually talking about someone who makes a difference when the professionals are nowhere in sight. Doesn’t that just make you feel like a rebel superhero?" Mei’s eyes shone with a blend of admiration and mischief—the kind of admiration reserved for someone unafraid to defy convention.

Momo leaned back against the cool metal railing, letting the sound of distant traffic mix with the quiet murmur of the city's heartbeat. "I’m not doing this for the fame or for some grand title," she said softly, more to herself than to Mei. "I’m doing this because waiting for permission has cost too many lives before. But sometimes I wonder, do I lose a piece of who I am every time I step into that role... even if it’s for the greater good?" Her gaze wandered over the darkened streets below, a thoughtful line etching itself across her expression.

Mei, ever the whirlwind of energy tempered by heartfelt sincerity, rested a hand on Momo’s shoulder. "Fancy Girl, you’re more than a name in some stupid headline. You’re proof that sometimes the system fails and that real heroism doesn’t always wear a badge. I trust you - not just because you’re the best at what you do, but because you see the truth in ways the rest of us sometimes miss." Her words were earnest, punctuated by a lopsided grin that made the absurdity of the vigilante name seem even more endearing.

For a long moment, they sat together in companionable silence, the cool night air wrapping around them like a shared secret. Momo’s mind drifted back to the mission earlier - how every precise strike and every calculated move had been a response not just to danger, but to years of neglect by a system that never took her seriously until forced to. The weight of that dismissal, of being minimized while she strived in the shadows, mingled with a quiet, unyielding resolve. Yet here - with Mei, with a silly newspaper and the quiet understanding of a friend - those burdens felt a little lighter.

"I suppose that in some strange way," Momo said quietly, almost to herself, "this might be the only way I can truly make a difference. Not because I want to be seen, but because someone has to step in when the system hesitates." Her eyes met Mei’s, and in that gaze, a silent pact was forged - a mutual understanding that what mattered most was not the accolades or the names thrust upon them, but the lives that could be saved when one was brave enough to defy convention.

Mei’s laugh was soft but genuine as she adjusted her ever-fidgeting hands. "And if they want to call you the Crimson Crusader, then let them. It’s a name for the history books, even if it sounds ridiculous. I’m just glad I get to stand by your side through it all."

In that small exchange, on a rooftop lit by the quiet glow of the city, Momo felt a spark of validation - not from the system she had long rejected, but from the honest support of someone who truly saw her, someone who recognized that sometimes, breaking the rules was the only way to do what was right. And as the night deepened and the city below breathed in steady pulses of light, Momo silently vowed to continue her path, to step out into the darkness for the sake of those who relied on a hero unbound by convention, knowing that along with Mei and those few who understood, she was not alone in her resolve.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

At the start of a late afternoon in the Support Course workshop, Momo was absorbed in recalibrating a delicate piece of experimental equipment. The room was softly lit by the filtered sunlight through high windows, and around her, the hum of machinery underscored the measured rhythm of precise work. Schematics lay neatly spread out on a workbench, and tools were arranged methodically beside each project. In that careful sanctuary of technical precision, her mind was entirely on the task at hand - optimizing a feedback circuit that had proven stubborn in previous trials.

The door creaked open gently, and Shouto stepped in, his footsteps quiet on the linoleum floor. He paused at the threshold, watching her with a mixture of professional admiration and something deeper, unspoken. Slowly, he approached her workstation until he stood just behind her. His eyes traced the subtle movements of her steady hands as she guided a fine-tipped soldering iron along a copper trace.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Shouto said softly, letting his voice carry a gentle warmth. His tone was careful, almost as if he were testing the air for a response that might reveal more than he intended.

Momo glanced up, bright eyes momentarily reflecting the spark of concentration before returning to her circuitry. “Shouto, hi. I’m just working on these circuits - they’re giving me more trouble than I’d like today.” Her tone was breezy and determined, a familiar cadence that betrayed nothing of the undercurrents shifting between them.

Stepping closer, Shouto leaned over to peer at the schematic spread out before her. “You know,” he began, his voice low but earnest, “every time I see you work, it reminds me why I think technical ingenuity can matter more than following the old rules.” His gaze lingered on her precise movements, as if every adjustment she made was a testament to something that words could hardly capture.

Momo smiled, a slight twitch at the corner of her lips, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear - a gesture that had become almost habitual. “I’m not doing it for recognition, Shouto. It’s about finding a solution. Efficiency isn’t just theoretical - it saves lives.” Her eyes brighened as she spoke, completely immersed in her passion for the work.

Shouto’s heart stirred at her words and the way her focus radiated such quiet determination. In the pause that followed, he tried again, this time more softly, “You have a way of making challenging problems seem... almost effortless.” His comment, laced with both genuine compliment and a hint of something personal, hung delicately between them.

For a moment, Momo’s attention flickered between the circuitry and his face. “Thank you,” she said, her tone pleasantly distracted. “It’s nice to have a colleague who understands the pressure. We all get caught up in the details sometimes, don’t we?” She returned to her work without further elaboration, leaving Shouto with a bittersweet pang that his words had not delved deeper, that his meaning had remained shrouded in the technical banter and steady focus that so defined their daily interactions.

Standing beside her for a while longer, Shouto watched as she delicately rechecked her models and made meticulous adjustments. Every so often, he offered a quiet observation - an offhand remark about a new idea inspired by her methods, a suggestion meant to streamline a process. Yet, with each exchange, his inner thoughts grew heavier with a silent confession that he could care for her in ways that went far beyond shared technical problem-solving. Momo, driven by precision and the relentless pursuit of improvement, remained blissfully unaware of the growing closeness that each word, every gentle smile shared in passing, hinted at.

As dusk began to settle outside, casting elongated shadows across the workbench, Shouto lingered near her side. His feelings, carefully guarded as ever, swelled quietly with every subtle laugh and every concentrated frown that crossed her face as she scrutinized a complex reading on the oscilloscope. In that dimming light, the intimacy of the shared space spoke volumes - more than any explicit declaration could. For him, every silent moment spent by her side carried the promise of something unspoken, a hope that one day she might notice that the admiration he felt was not solely for her technical brilliance but for the person she was when no one else was watching.

And so, as the day’s work gradually merged into evening, Shouto remained, caught between the comfortable familiarity of routine and the delicate, trembling possibility of a connection that had long been hidden. His subtle pining was embodied in each careful word and each quiet pause - a silent narrative of affection that Momo, focused on her craft and impervious to the subtext, could not yet read.

Late in the afternoon after training, in a cozy corner of the Hero Course dorm common room, Shouto found himself hesitating near a cluster of worn couches. The room, abuzz with the gentle murmur of fellow second years—formerly Class 1-A, now proudly 2-A - seemed to hold its breath as he approached Denki and Sero. They were huddled together over a casually scattered pile of schematics and half-drunk beverages.

"Hey, Shouto, what's on your mind?" Denki asked, his tone light and teasing, though there was genuine warmth in his eyes. As always, his approach was direct, his curiosity unfiltered.

Shouto shifted, his normally measured gaze betraying a swirl of uncertainty. "I… I was wondering if I could ask you two for some advice," he began, his voice quiet as if weighing each word. "It's about Momo."

Sero, who had been idly sketching on a notepad - an occasional diversion from studying - looked up with a knowing smirk. "Momo, huh? That’s a loaded question. What are you trying to say, Shouto?" His tone mixed playful ribbing with sincere curiosity; after all, as Momo’s cousin, he knew all too well the spark behind her determined eyes and the quiet elegance in how she approached every challenge.

Denki leaned forward, his expression softening. "Yeah, what is it exactly? You know, Momo isn't exactly the type to fall for clichéd compliments. She appreciates honesty - straight from the heart and tied to who she is and what she does."

Shouto fiddled with the edge of his notebook, his mind sifting through countless encounters with Momo: the moments when she had effortlessly solved the unsolvable or the quiet times when her laughter filled a long-forgotten space of warmth. "I-I think I’ve come to admire more than just her technical brilliance," he admitted, his voice low and tremulous with vulnerability. "Every time I see her working, the way she approaches problems like they're puzzles with hidden beauty, I feel… something more. But I don't know how to express that. I don’t want to just say 'you’re amazing' or something empty like that."

Sero exchanged a glance with Denki before replying. "You need to be genuine, Shouto. Talk about the little things. Tell her you appreciate how she sees the world through a different lens." His tone was gentle, practical—a reminder that sincerity outshined any rehearsed line.

Denki nodded, his grin softening into a more earnest smile. "And don't overthink it. You know Momo likes thoughtful gestures. Maybe drop a comment about how her insights help reshape the way you think about problems, or mention how her sense of humor lights up even the toughest sessions. Just be yourself, Shouto. That's who she really wants to know."

Shouto sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips as he absorbed their advice. "So you’re saying I should just be authentic and comment on the way she makes me see things differently, rather than trying to be 'clever'?" His question was half-rhetorical, half-seeking confirmation.

"Exactly," Denki replied. "Momo's not dazzled by fancy lines. She's smart, serious about her work - and yet she has this spark of mischief and warmth that not many people get to see." He gave Shouto a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Just let her know how she inspires you. And maybe a small gesture - a handwritten note or a subtle remark during your next lab session - can speak louder than any rehearsed compliment."

Sero added, with a slight chuckle, "And don’t worry if it feels awkward at first. Sometimes, the best words are the ones that catch you off guard. Trust yourself - she’ll appreciate the real you."

Shouto’s eyes softened with gratitude, the internal tumult easing into a tentative hope. "Thank you, both. I’ve never really been good at… well, all this flirting stuff, but if I think about something real - the way she sees the beauty in every challenge - maybe I can find a way to let her know without embarrassing myself."

The trio fell into a comfortable silence then, the low hum of the dorm a quiet backdrop to Shouto’s swirling thoughts. In that moment, buoyed by Denki's lively sincerity and Sero's earthy wisdom, Shouto resolved to try. He would find a way to express the admiration and deeper affection that had blossomed quietly within him - one thoughtful comment, one genuine moment at a time.

And as the afternoon mellowness deepened into evening, Shouto clutched that promise of authenticity close, hoping that one day his careful words might finally bridge the gap between his quiet heart and the brilliant world that was Momo.

Later that evening, during one of those cozy dorm common room gatherings where the air mixed the soft glow of lamplight with low, playful chatter, Class 2-A had finally hatched a plan. At a long table scattered with snacks and half-finished board games, the conversation drifted toward one topic they all secretly enjoyed: the unlikely pairing of Shouto and Momo.

Izuku, ever the enthusiastic instigator, nudged Uraraka as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Honestly, don’t you think it’s time Shouto really told Momo how he feels? She’s practically glowing when she’s deep in her work, but she never notices anything beyond her projects.”

Uraraka giggled and replied, “She’s so focused on solving those puzzles that she barely sees the rest of us. And Shouto? You’ve been pining so hard, it’s almost painful to watch!” The gentle teasing was laced with genuine admiration for both of them and, more importantly, an earnest desire to see their brilliant friend find happiness.

Across the table, Denki and Sero, who’d already offered Shouto some advice earlier, exchanged a grin at the perfect timing. “I say we intervene,” Sero declared in a low voice, his eyes dancing with mischief. “If Shouto can’t find the courage by his own accord, maybe a little setup from us might light the fire!”

Shouto, sitting a few seats away, listened quietly. His thoughts, hidden beneath an impassive exterior, churned with every whispered reference to Momo. His heart pounded with a warmth that terrified and thrilled him at once - the kind of affection that he’d long fought to keep at bay, now bubbling just beneath the surface. Yet even as his classmates schemed about playful coincidences and group projects that might pair him more closely with the resolute Momo, he remained lost in his own introspection.

Unbeknownst to Momo, who was in the next room meticulously reviewing design schematics and rechecking minute details of a challenging circuit, the entire class was quietly orchestrating a plan. They had decided that during the next lab session, when everyone gathered to discuss improvements on the Support Course projects, they’d position Shouto and Momo next to each other on purpose. Even a seemingly trivial excuse - a suggestion to review the latest blueprint collaboratively - was all they needed.

Later that day in the lab, the gentle hum of equipment mixed with intermittent laughter as students milled about their workstations. “Hey, Momo,” Izuku called as he approached her desk with a bright smile, “we’re organizing a mini-review session of all our recent designs. You should come sit with Shouto; he’s been working on some amazing ideas that you might find inspiring.”

Although Momo was accustomed to being absorbed in her work, she looked up from a schematic with a polite, if absent-minded, smile. “Now isn’t that convenient?” she murmured, not really registering the underlying intent behind the suggestion. With her customary focus on problem-solving, she simply nodded and began to pack away a stack of papers, unaware that this innocent invitation was yet another arrow in the quiver of her classmates’ matchmaking endeavor.

Shouto’s heart sank and soared simultaneously as he was nudged from behind by Uraraka. “Come on, Shouto, just say something!” she urged softly, her eyes twinkling with encouragement. His mind raced with the advice he’d received that afternoon from Denki and Sero. Every carefully rehearsed word, every poignant memory of Momo’s warm laughter and gentle brilliance, seemed to beckon him forward. Yet, as he finally mustered a small greeting - a quiet “Hi, Momo” - his voice barely above a whisper, Momo simply glanced at him, offering a warm but uncomprehending smile before returning immediately to the circuit layout strewn before her.

For Shouto, that moment stretched into an aching eternity. His subtle pining, layered in every measured compliment and every internally rehearsed line, went unnoticed again. His colleagues exchanged sympathetic looks, as if sharing the secret agony of watching a masterpiece remain unappreciated by its very muse. Their plan to set him up had been lovingly contrived, but Momo’s obliviousness - so natural to her single-minded dedication - was, in its own way, both endearing and exasperating.

Later, as the day faded into the quiet of evening and the lab began to empty, Shouto lingered near Momo’s station. The soft hum of his thoughts intermingled with the residual clatter of equipment being tidied up, and he silently vowed again that one day he would brave the vulnerability of sharing his true feelings. Meanwhile, Momo packed up her belongings with the familiar focus that defined her, unaware of the tender storm brewing silently in Shouto’s heart.

In that space between their disparate worlds - where calculated brilliance met unintentional obliviousness - the rest of Class 2-A continued to exchange knowing smiles. Their gentle matchmaking would persist, even if every attempt left Shouto more wistful and Momo blissfully unacquainted with the affection that was, quite literally, pained by her unawareness. And so, under the quiet twilight of another long day in the Hero Course, the promise of change lingered in the air - a promise that someday, all these delicate feelings might finally converge in an honest conversation or a spontaneous moment of shared laughter that neither of them could ignore.

Later that evening, after the lab had emptied and the hum of conversation in the dorm had dimmed to a comfortable lull, Class 2-A reconvened in the common room. The soft lighting and scattered cushions created a relaxed atmosphere, one in which whispered plans and gentle teasing mixed with the quiet murmur of idle chatter. Shouto sat on one of the sofas, still lingering near the edge of his earlier attempt to greet Momo - which, as always, had been met with her customary focus on her work and a polite, fleeting smile. Now, his heart ached with the weight of unspoken words as he replayed that brief moment in his mind.

Izuku, ever perceptive and ever eager to stir up a bit of mischief for what he believed was a noble cause, leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, “Shouto, you looked absolutely rattled during that lab session. You’ve been keeping all this inside - do you really just want to watch her work her magic and never notice you at all?” He paused for effect, looking sideways at Uraraka and a quiet grin on his face. “I mean, seriously - you deserve to hear more than just a ‘hi’ from her.”

Uraraka tilted her head, her tone both teasing and sincere. “Come on, Shouto. You’re one of the most thoughtful people we know. It’s time you let your guard down a bit. Momo needs to see the person behind that quiet dedication of yours.” Her eyes sparkled as she nudged his shoulder, a motion full of gentle encouragement.

Denki, who had been quietly munching on a cookie at the table, added with a warm chuckle, “You know, sometimes the best things come out when you make a little move. Besides, Momo won’t mind if you show that you care. Just, you know, talk to her about the little details. Tell her how her excitement for a new project lights up even the dullest day.”

Sero, leaning back with his characteristic half-smirk, joined in, “And if you need any pointers on flirting, consider me your informal tutor. Just take a moment to say, ‘I noticed the care you put into your design today. It made me see things a different way.’ Not too much, not too little - but honest, straightforward admiration.”

Shouto’s gaze drifted away from the circle, focusing on the patterned rug beneath him as he tried to summon the courage within. In his mind, he replayed each instance - a shared glance across the workshop, the gentle hum of her laughter during late-night study sessions, the focused tilt of her head while she solved design challenges - that all had quietly pushed his heart into dangerous, unfamiliar terrain. He struggled to reconcile the fierce logic that had always governed him with the tender affection he now felt so acutely for Momo.

Despite their teasing and the earnest suggestions of his friends, Shouto knew that Momo, as ever, was enveloped in her own world of schematics and problem-solving. It was as if every time he attempted a simple greeting, she would be pulled back into a vortex of technical puzzles and circuits. Her obliviousness to his quietly nurtured feelings was both infuriating and heart-wrenching - a painful reminder that even the most delicate emotions could be lost in the endless routine of duty.

Later that night, as the others dispersed and the common room grew quiet, Shouto lingered near a window, gazing out at a city bathed in the glow of streetlights. His thoughts were a steady, reflective current. “I want to tell her,” he murmured softly to himself, “but every time I try, it’s like my words vanish into thin air.” The cool night air offered little comfort against the pang of longing that had become all too familiar.

Unbeknownst to him, the class’s matchmaking efforts were far from over. Back in the support corner of the dorm, with whispered group chats and careful planning, the students were scheduling a small, informal group outing for the weekend - an opportunity they hoped would coax Momo out of her habitual solitude. They envisioned a relaxed setting where she might catch a break from her relentless focus, perhaps laughing a little louder, talking a little more freely - and maybe, just maybe, noticing the genuine, unfiltered admiration that Shouto held for her.

But for now, as Shouto watched the quiet silhouettes of trees sway in the gentle breeze outside, he resolved to take that small step the next time their paths crossed. Even if it were just a small compliment or a fleeting moment of vulnerability, it would be his first honest attempt at bridging the gap between his affection and her unawareness. And as the night deepened around him, the promise of a future where his feelings might no longer be invisible to her shone like a fragile beacon in his heart.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The weekend finally arrived with a promise of fresh air and a break from the usual routine. Class 2-A had organized an outing to a quiet botanical garden nestled on the outskirts of the city—a serene haven that balanced both nature and gentle curiosity. The group met near the entrance, buzzing with an expectant energy that contrasted with the soft, deliberate pace of the garden paths.

Shouto trailed behind the others for a few moments, his heart fluttering with both anticipation and a familiar pang of quiet longing. He watched as his classmates laughed and teased each other about their tentative matchmaking efforts. All the while, his gaze often strayed toward Momo, who had wandered a few steps ahead, absorbed in the intricate details of a particularly unusual flower.

“Momo, wait up!” Denki called playfully as he caught up with her, already chattering about the vibrant colors around them. Momo paused for a fraction of a second before turning, her expression one of mild surprise that quickly shifted into polite curiosity. When Denki patted her arm teasingly, she offered a small, measured smile - a gesture that seemed both automatic and deeply sincere.

As the group strolled along the winding paths, their conversation meandered from playful banter to more thoughtful observations about nature and their shared experiences. Amid the easy chatter, Momo’s attention occasionally veered into the minutiae of a dewdrop on a petal or the precise way sunlight danced over a leaf’s edge. Her voice, when she spoke up, was calm and unembellished, detailing scientific observations with a clarity that both informed and quietly mesmerized her peers.

At a secluded bench beneath a spreading oak, the group paused for a break. Shouto took a seat on the edge of the bench, his eyes never leaving Momo, who was now crouched near a cluster of wildflowers, carefully noting the subtle differences in their structures. The sight of her so intently focused made him ache with a mixture of admiration and unspoken yearning. His mind replayed the gentle nudges and whispered encouragements he had received earlier, the advice from Denki and Sero echoing in his thoughts.

Izuku leaned in beside him, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial grin. “You know, Shouto, sometimes the best moments come when you let yourself be vulnerable. I think Yaomomo is amazing, and I’d say she’d love to hear it if you just told her how you feel.” Izuku’s tone was warm yet teasing, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity that had defined Shouto's inner monologue since the outing’s inception.

Shouto managed a small, tight smile in response, glancing briefly in Momo’s direction before returning his eyes to the garden’s pathway. “Perhaps someday,” he murmured, the words heavy with both hope and hesitation.

Meanwhile, Momo - oblivious to the delicate dance unfolding around her - continued to examine a cluster of irises with an intensity that surprised even herself. She ran her fingers lightly over their petals, then spoke in a soft, precise tone, “Notice how the gradients of color shift almost imperceptibly. It’s as if each flower holds its own unique equation for beauty.” Her observation drew appreciative nods from a couple of classmates, and even though her tone was factual, those who truly cared could sense a depth that was uniquely her own - a depth that made every detail count.

Her undiagnosed traits lent her a singular perspective: while she found social nuances and flirtatious banter confusing, she was remarkably attuned to detail and precision in the world around her. Small disruptions—changes in routine or unexpected chatter - sometimes unsettled her, prompting soft frowns of concentration. Yet in these moments, her focus on natural patterns offered both comfort and refuge.

After a while, the group reassembled near an overlook, where the garden opened to a panoramic view of the distant city skyline. Laughter and gentle teasing filled the air, and Shouto found himself walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Denki and Izuku as they continued overall plans to encourage a connection between him and Momo. Sero chimed in with a dry remark, “Maybe you’ll pick up something from her next time she describes the mechanics behind a petal’s structure. Who knew the secret to a girl’s heart could be hidden in chlorophyll analysis?”

The banter sent a ripple of laughter through the group, though Shouto’s expression remained thoughtful. As they settled on the benches with cooling drinks, Shouto finally gathered a bit of courage. In a gentle, quiet voice that barely rose above the hum of conversation, he murmured to himself, “One day, I’ll tell her how her way of seeing the world changes the way I see it.” Yet, even as the words formed silently within him, he knew that each day it would take further small moments - a compliment here, a shared glance there - to bridge the distance between his heart and her unobservant yet wondrous mind.

For Momo, the day rolled on in its own measured rhythm. The arithmetic of nature held her captive more than any potential romance, and while her bright intellect caught every nuance of the environment, it left little room for decoding the subtleties of human affection swirling around her. And so, as Class 2-A continued their joyful outing - part orchestrated matchmaking, part genuine celebration of youthful camaraderie - the gentle hope of a budding revelation for Shouto hovered in the air, delicate and poignant as the dewdrops on the wildflowers.

In that shared space beneath the open sky, even if Momo remained unaware of the affection that Shouto harbored, the promise of a future where their paths might finally converge grew steadily, rooted as deeply as the old oak under which they had rested, and slowly, imperceptibly, as surely as the shifting light across a petal.

Chapter Text

Izuku sat by the window in the quiet hours of the evening, the bustling corridors of U.A. now reduced to a gentle murmur behind the closed door of his dorm room. In that stillness, memories unfurled like old, tattered scrolls - memories of a day that had long since faded into the background of his hero training, yet which still burned with the intensity of a regret too deep to ignore.

He recalled the decisive moment when he had stepped down as Class Representative - a role that, in his mind at the time, had been synonymous with stability and order. The decision to pass the mantle on to Tenya had seemed entirely logical, a natural progression in a world governed by discipline and expected protocol. Yet now, as the world’s quiet hum enveloped him, that decision inched backward from logic into remorse. In his recollection, every measured word he had left unspoken echoed as an indictment of the system that had systematically sidelined Momo. He had never explained his choice. Instead, he had allowed silence and the rigid expectations of hero society to mute the brilliance of a friend whose potential for leadership deserved to be heralded.

The memory of the Sports Festival that very day was indelibly imprinted on his consciousness. Izuku had watched as the opportunity to champion her talents slipped away into the noise of applause and cheers. In choosing the familiar cadence of ordered leadership, he had unwittingly endorsed the blind spots of a system that, again and again, undervalued the subtleties of true heroism.

Now, as he stared out into the twilight, Izuku’s thoughts wove a tapestry of what-ifs and could-have-beens. He remembered how Momo had offered quiet suggestions - remarkable insights that balanced both her meticulous research and an innate creative spark. Those moments, which to the unobservant might have seemed trivial, were the very essence of innovation. He realized with a heavy heart that his inaction, his tacit compliance with an outdated hierarchy, had paved a path by which her potential was continuously overlooked. The burden of this realization pressed on him, saturating his thoughts with a remorse that was as bitter as it was inevitable.

In the silent dialogue of memory and regret, Izuku found himself asking the unanswerable questions: Had he, by clinging too tightly to the established norms of leadership, inadvertently contributed to an environment where Momo’s talents were stifled? Could the spark of possibility that she carried so effortlessly never be allowed to flourish under the weight of convention and his own misplaced choices? The realization was a quiet, persistent ache - a reminder that every decision, no matter how small it seemed at the moment, could tip the scales between glory and obscurity.

Yet beneath the layers of introspection lay a resolve tempered by this bitter lesson. Izuku vowed, silently and with a determination that belied the gentle cadence of his thoughts, that he would honor Momo’s brilliance in all future endeavors. He would strive to dismantle the old paradigms and champion every nuance of her perspective, even if it meant challenging the very structure he had once helped perpetuate. For in that solitary moment, with the fading light casting long shadows of regret, he understood that true heroism was about more than following the rules - it was about recognizing and nurturing the unique spirit within every brilliant mind, even if it meant rewriting the narrative of his own past.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

A crisp autumn morning had settled over U.A. as the campus slowly stirred to life, the early light revealing sharp angles and long shadows along the corridors. It was on this day, in the quiet prelude to bustling classes and training sessions, that news of Momo’s return to the Hero Course rippled through the halls like a whispered secret finally allowed to emerge into the open.

In the main atrium, where banners celebrated past glories and the legacy of heroes still in the making, students paused in mid-conversation as Momo crossed the threshold. She moved with a measured grace that belied years spent on the fringes of official hero work - a presence now backed by the confidence of a woman who had forged her own path despite being underestimated for far too long. Her uniform was impeccably tailored, a subtle blend of the classic and the modern, hinting at both the discipline of tradition and the individual spark that had always distinguished her.

For many, her return was more than a routine administrative update - it was a quiet revolution in itself. Shouto watched from near the stairwell, his heart both heavy and uplifted. In Momo’s determined stride and the careful set of her jaw, he read the unspoken words of resilience and vindication. For him, every hesitation of the past - the missed chances, the silent regrets - suddenly converged into this single, breathtaking moment. He recalled, with a bittersweet clarity, how he had once turned a blind eye to her potential by clinging to outdated hierarchies. Now, as he observed her confident return, a new resolve stirred within him to ensure that never again would her brilliance be shrouded by neglect.

In the crowded corridors, murmurs of astonishment rippled among the students. Even Tenya, known for his adherence to order and duty, offered a rare, approving smile as he nodded discreetly in her direction. “It’s about time,” someone whispered, the words laden with both relief and admiration for a talent that had long been sidelined. Others exchanged glances, their expressions flickering between joy and a touch of guilt, as they recalled all too well the systemic failure that had once denied Momo her rightful influence.

In the midst of the soft buzz of excitement, a small group gathered near the entrance of the lecture hall. Izuku lingered at the edge of the circle, recalling his own silent misgivings from years past - moments when he had allowed tradition and expectation to override the clear brilliance of a friend who deserved so much more. His inner voice, persistent and introspective, resonated with quiet apology. Each step Momo took reminded him of the countless opportunities he had let slip by, of the mornings when her insightful comments had gone unanswered, and of the Sports Festival - a watershed moment, a sign of things to come, when her potential had been reduced to a lamentable footnote in the narrative of leadership.

As classes commenced and the first lecture of the day began, Momo took her seat among her peers with a composed dignity. The familiar hum of academic ambition wrapped around the room, but there was an unspoken shift in the atmosphere - a renewed sense of possibility. To some, her return was a gesture of reconciliation with the system that had once abandoned her, and to others, it was a quiet accusation of past oversights and unspoken regrets. Even the teachers carried a note of tempered optimism, aware that her unique perspective was now an essential counterbalance to the sometimes rigid doctrine of hero training.

Outside, the campus thrummed with life as students moved to their next classes. Yet in every corner - from the library’s hushed alcoves to the bustling cafeteria - the conversation invariably turned to Momo’s reentry into the Hero Course. It was as if her presence served as a subtle reminder that true leadership was not measured solely by titles or positions, but by the courage to redefine them. And in that redefinition lay the hope that one day, every hero’s unique spark would receive the recognition it deserved.

In that transformative morning light, as Momo forged ahead on her familiar path now laced with newfound authority, the legacy of past missteps began to offer a promise of atonement - a promise that, with time, the wounds inflicted by neglect and underestimation might finally find healing. For those who had once silently overlooked her brilliance, her return was a poignant lesson in humility, a call to honor every radiant mind that walked the halls of U.A. with unyielding determination.

During her third year at U.A., Momo’s days began to take on the cadence of quiet revolution - a steady unfolding of responsibility, innovation, and an inner strength refined by years of neglect and misunderstanding. Every morning, as she strode through the academy’s ancient corridors, the soft rays of dawn seemed to fall exclusively upon her. In the lecture halls, where the buzz of discussions typically swirled around established theory, she spoke with a newfound authority. Her words, measured and thoughtful, carried echoes of all those years spent proving her worth in silence. To the untrained eye, she was merely sharing her insights on strategy or heroics; yet inside, each syllable was a triumphant declaration over the past missteps of an institution that had long overlooked her.

In team meetings, as her peers gathered to map out training sessions, Momo’s quiet suggestions emerged like flashes of brilliance amid a sea of conventional tactics. Even as Tenya and others dutifully followed the well-worn paths of discipline, her ideas burst forth—innovative, daring, and immensely practical. Yet, despite this clarity of purpose, her focus remained fixed on the work at hand. Momo would often glance toward the window, her mind meticulously dissecting problems, oblivious to the soft murmurs of praise - or the furtive glances that accompanied them. Few noticed the detail as keenly as Shouto, who, from a distance, cultivated an ever-deepening admiration for her resilience. In quiet moments in the hallway, he would watch her, his eyes tracing the determined set of her jaw, the graceful tilt of her head as she explained a complex design to a group of classmates. His unspoken longing, hidden behind a veneer of professional camaraderie, was a silent testament to a connection he believed was as rare as it was profound.

One crisp afternoon, the class embarked on a field mission designed to test not just their combat skills but, more importantly, their ability to lead under pressure. Momo found herself at the center of the operation - a natural strategist whose calm demeanor in the face of chaos became the rallying point for her team. While shouts and rapid orders filled the air, her every instruction was precise and unhurried, like a soft hymn composed in the midst of battle. In the charged moments between conflict and calm, Shouto lingered on the sidelines, his heart aching with admiration as he discreetly observed her unwavering poise. He registered every fleeting smile she offered to a teammate, every measured gesture that soothed the frazzled nerves of those around her. And yet, as the mission concluded in resounding success, Momo’s gaze swept over her team with a seasoned, almost imperceptible humility - never once registering the silent intimacy of Shouto’s pining glances or the private gratitude of those who finally recognized her as more than just a background force.

Later that night, in the quiet refuge of her dormitory room, Momo allowed herself a rare moment of introspection. She sat by a window overlooking the academy’s darkened grounds, her thoughts drifting like distant stars across space. Here, her mind wandered back to the missed opportunities in her earlier years, to the bureaucratic decisions that had pushed aside her potential without a second thought. In the solitude of that temperate darkness, she felt both the sting of past disregard and the slow healing offered by her current reintegration into a system that, while flawed, now seemed to have rediscovered its faith in her. Unaware of the soft echo of longing that trailed her every step, she simply reflected on the interconnectedness of her work - the delicate balance between duty and innovation that had always defined her inner world.

Outside, under the gentle gaze of the midnight sky, Shouto sat in his own room - a quiet vigil fueled by hope and regret intertwined. His thoughts drifted unbidden to Momo, replaying in his memory the brilliance of her leadership during the day. Every time she smiled as she directed her team, his heart swelled with a secret admiration that deepened with each encounter. Yet, he knew her focus was singular, dedicated to the work and the mission rather than to the nuances of personal affection. And so, his pining remained a silent echo within him, a private symphony of longing that he never dared to share for fear of disrupting the fragile balance that had finally begun to favor her light.

As months passed and the academic year unfolded with its blend of trials and triumphs, Momo’s presence became a clarion call for those who had once underestimated her. Stories circulated around the academy of how her calm resolve not only saved lives on the field but also reshaped the very fabric of hero training. In class discussions, her pointed observations and innovative strategies inspired a new wave of critical thinking among her peers. Even as her brilliance repeatedly shone through on the battlefield and in the boardroom of ideas, she remained, in her own way, blissfully unaware of the tender undercurrents swirling around her - especially those emanating from Shouto, whose silent vigil in the corridors and quiet smiles in the back of lecture halls spoke volumes of a lavish affection that might one day bridge the gap between unspoken admiration and shared destiny.

In these unfolding chapters of third year, each passing day accentuated the dichotomy between a woman focused on redefining heroism and the unvoiced devotion of a man who had finally learned the cost of silence. Momo’s journey, etched with the imperceptible beats of daily victories and the soft weight of past regrets, promised not only a future where she would lead with unparalleled brilliance but also a dream of connection that, if nurtured well, might warm two hearts equally determined to shape the world in their image.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

On the day of graduation, the atmosphere in the grand auditorium was a mix of anticipation and quiet unease. Today, Momo Yaoyorozu, who had carried her Hero License from her first year - all the way through her sojourn in the Support Course and back to the Hero Course - stepped forward to make a final, irrevocable statement. Unlike the routine ceremonies of the past, this day had morphed into something more complex - a moment of reckoning and silent triumph over years of being undervalued.

When her name was finally called - "Momo Yaoyorozu" - the usual swell of applause and celebration did not follow. Instead, the room fell into a perplexing hush. As she walked slowly toward the podium, her every step was measured, imbued with the weight of unsaid truths. The same license that had once been a proud symbol of potential now lay in her hand like a relic of a system that had once dismissed her quietly, unceremoniously.

Standing at the microphone, Momo took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the row upon row of familiar faces - mentors, classmates, and administrators, all expecting a traditional address. When she began to speak, her tone was poised and natural, as if she were having a thoughtful conversation with each person present.

"Today," she began, "I stand before you not only as a graduate of U.A., but as someone who has journeyed through myriad phases of what it means to be recognized." Her gaze lingered, and for a heartbeat, the words seemed to hang in the air, charged with meanings hidden just below the surface of ordinary speech.

"I accepted this Hero License in my first year as a symbol of my commitment - a promise I believed was made with both hope and integrity. I carried it with me through every challenge, even when I made the difficult decision to step away for a time. And now, as I return to this institution, I choose to hand it over once again."

A ripple of quiet murmurs swept through the audience. Momo’s cadence was deliberate, each sentence a careful blend of reminiscence and subtle critique. "There were many moments when my capabilities were sidelined, when the value of my contributions was reduced to nothing more than an afterthought. The very system that proclaimed to nurture us all often forgot that brilliance can appear in forms that defy expectations. I have come to understand that true heroism is not measured by a certificate or the applause of those who govern our destiny."

Her eyes, steady and reflective, met several in the audience, silently conveying the unspoken history of every time she had been passed over. "I now turn in this license," she continued, her voice firm yet soft, "not as an act of acquiescence, but as a declaration that authenticity stands above hollow accolades. It is a reminder that if those given the responsibility to recognize heroism are quick to dismiss its true bearers when they deviate from the expected, then perhaps they do not deserve it, either."

For a suspended moment, the silence deepened. There was no thunderous ovation - only a scattered confusion, as if every listener were trying to unravel the layers of meaning beneath her words. Some exchanged glances that spoke of astonishment, others shifted uncomfortably, while a few whose eyes had once seen her potential now felt the stirrings of remorse.

Momo paused, a slight, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips - the calm assurance of one who has evolved beyond the need for public approval.

"I accept the honor bestowed upon me in the past, and I relinquish it today as a commitment to reshape what it means to be a hero. Let this act be a quiet testament that no matter how deeply one may be overlooked, the demand for genuine recognition can never be stifled." Her final words resonated in the charged silence of the auditorium. As she stepped down, hero license - a symbol now redefined - whispers followed her like shadows. Among the students and faculty, although confusion reigned, there was an undeniable spark: a budding hope that from this act, real change might finally take root.

Backstage, in a quiet corridor, Shouto watched the scene with mixed emotions. His silent pining, a constant companion through years of unnoticed admiration, stirred deeply as he considered every word Momo had spoken. Even though she remained, as ever, focused on the mission of heroism rather than the politics of recognition, her message had cut through the facade of tradition. For him, her speech was a poignant reminder that sometimes the most profound truths are those that unravel slowly - and that every act of defiance, even when cloaked in subtlety, holds the power to reshape the future.

In that moment, as the graduation ceremony closed in a perplexing, introspective silence, Momo Yaoyorozu had not only reclaimed her narrative but had also left an indelible mark - a quiet, transformational challenge to an outdated system, whispered into the very fabric of hero society.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Nearly a decade had passed since that fateful graduation - a decade in which the corridors of U.A. had been replaced by boardrooms, assembly lines of innovation, and the relentless hum of a modern metropolis. Now, at twenty-three, the members of Class A had spread out like constellations of possibility, charting paths that were both familiar and wildly unexpected. Among them, Momo Yaoyorozu had transformed in subtle, defiant ways. No longer was she simply the overlooked genius of her youth; today, she was the formidable force behind Aegis Innovations, a Hero Support Item Manufacturing Company she had spearheaded by repurposing her parents’ business.

At the sleek, glass-walled headquarters of Aegis Innovations—its name emblazoned in minimalist silver across the facade - Momo moved through corridors with a deliberation born of experience and quiet resolve. The company’s products, ranging from state-of-the-art support gear to specialized equipment custom-tailored for hero operations, had become an essential part of the fabric supporting modern heroism. Yet, behind the polished veneer of corporate success, Momo carried a secret duality. Off the clock, and sometimes even in the midst of long workdays, she maintained her clandestine vigilante operations—a persona that had stirred headlines for weeks. Despite glowing reports exalting an enigmatic figure disrupting the corruption endemic to the hero system, detectives and journalists alike had failed to find any connection to Momo Yaoyorozu, whose daytime rigor and nocturnal exploits were as irreconcilable as they were brilliant.

This delicate double-life granted her an intimacy with truth that few could claim. Each morning, as she reviewed production targets and strategic partnerships with the same meticulous care she’d once reserved for combat simulations, Momo’s thoughts danced between two worlds - the measured calm of corporate responsibility and the raw, unfiltered justice she pursued under the cover of darkness. In moments of solitude in her spacious, well-appointed office, she would catch herself pondering over the headlines praising a mysterious vigilante - headlines that, to those with a keen eye, carried a subtle signature of defiance and a hint of a name that only echoed in her quieter hours.

Her company’s close working relationship with Endeavor’s Agency added another layer of complexity to her life. Endeavor, once a man defined by his ferocious ambition and tarnished reputation—now aged 49, his once-proud ranking plummeting steadily into the thirties - remained entwined in the machinery of hero society despite public outcry over his troubled past. His tough demeanor and uncompromising methods had earned him a reputation that few cared to challenge. Yet beneath his stern exterior, he harbored a subtle hope for legacy - and it was this hope that drove him, perhaps unconsciously, to orchestrate the smallest of matches between Momo and one of his most promising protégés.

In a sunlit conference room at Aegis Innovations, Momo found herself seated at a long, polished table alongside a select group of high-ranking executives and agency representatives. The meeting was ostensibly about an upcoming collaboration between Aegis Innovations and Endeavor’s Agency - a project to develop next-generation support gear intended for field heroes. The atmosphere was cool, professional, and charged with the steady pulse of progress.

Between clear, confident statements about fabrication yields and prototype testing, Endeavor - his presence unmistakably imposing despite the years and the controversies that clung to him like a second skin - leaned forward, his gaze resting briefly on Momo. In a moment of rare informality, he remarked with a gruff lilt, “Yaoyorozu, you’ve got a mind that can do wonders, and I’m thinking, if you ever had the chance to support our best - and I’m not saying you intend to - maybe you’d consider letting one of our top heroes take a bit more of an interest in your work. Shouto, perhaps you might learn a creative trick or two from her?”

A ripple of tension passed over the table. Momo’s dark eyes met his with a measured calm - a response that was neither derisive nor accepting, but simply acknowledging. “Our business - and what it stands for—thrives on innovation and precision. I believe I should decide whom I work with, and when. Collaboration, in any form, must happen on equal terms,” she replied softly, her voice carrying both the weight of her convictions and the subtle defiance of someone who’d learned to never again let her brilliance be dictated by the system.

From across the room, Shouto - now ranked #3 and ever the embodiment of quiet strength - listened intently. Even as his father’s agency began hinting at matchups and legacies, he couldn’t help but dwell on the irony of it all. His silent admiration for Momo, cultivated in the years since their days at U.A. when unspoken sentiments had lurked behind shared glances, now rippled through him in a mix of professional respect and private longing. He had come to understand that Momo’s self-assurance and drive were not in need of validation by the likes of institutional matchmaking. Yet every time Endeavor’s subtle suggestions reached his ears, his heart pricked with a familiar ache, a reminder of all the years he had silently hoped for something more.

That evening, after the meeting had drawn to a close and the bright corporate halls settled into a muted calm, Momo retreated to her private office. There, amidst floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the vibrant cityscape, she allowed herself a quiet moment of reflection. Her mind wandered back to the early days - when she had been an overlooked genius, her ideas dismissed without a word, her potential reduced to a footnote in someone else’s narrative. It was a painful memory, yet one that had fueled her transformation. In that reflection lay a hidden acknowledgement: the system that had once rejected her deserved no part of her future success. And while she now steered the course of an enterprise that supported heroism at its very core, she also continued, in the shadows of night, to correct those wrongs on her own terms. For every product manufactured, every innovation birthed at Aegis Innovations, was a testament to her enduring belief that true heroism - whether achieved by boardroom decisions or secret midnight deeds - must be measured by the courage to forge one’s destiny.

Elsewhere, as Shouto made his routine rounds at the agency, his mind was equally occupied. The quiet glances exchanged in corridors, the unspoken hopes that danced at the edges of business meetings - a world where heroism was as much a personal journey as a public duty - ensured that every day, the distance between unexpressed admiration and a potential future connection remained as charged and complicated as ever.

In this complex tapestry of corporate ambition, secret justice, and familial legacies, every character played a part. Momo’s relentless drive at Aegis Innovations, her hidden crusade by night, the cautious encouragement from a weathered Endeavor, and Shouto’s silent yearning together charted the course for a future that promised to redefine what it meant to be a hero. It was a future built not solely on the recognition of official accolades, but on the transformative power of a will that refused to be confined by a system that had once so gravely underestimated them all.

Late one crisp autumn night, after a long day of steering Aegis Innovations through its endless board meetings and production deadlines, Momo slipped away from the corporate bustle. In a discreet, rarely visited back office behind the main headquarters, she entered her private transformation space - a sanctuary where she could finally shed the CEO facade. Here, under the quiet hum of overhead lights, she laid out her vigilante costume with deliberate care.

The costume was a masterpiece of design and function: an open-back, high-collared, sleeveless deep burgundy leotard accentuated by gold trim along her waist and arms, featuring a subtle window just enough to reveal a hint of vulnerability. Draped over it was a regal deep burgundy cape, its high collar encircling her neck and holding a large, inky black gemstone at the throat - a symbol that once belonged solely to her winter ensemble, but which now had become her signature accessory for every night out on patrol. She donned burgundy leggings with an open side, outlined in gold to allow her Quirk to manifest freely, a sleek silver utility belt, and her custom-made sports boots with their signature gold hexagonal detail and silver accents. Finally, as always, her gloves - designed for perfect grip on her self-forged metal bō staffs - completed the ensemble.

Once suited up, she pulled up the secure channel on her watch - a device that had evolved from the old 'Yaoyorictionary' into a sophisticated, coded communicator. On the screen, Hatsume’s familiar animated face appeared in a small, bright window. She was the only one aware of Momo’s double life, always her steadfast partner in the shadows.

“Rough day at the office?” Hatsume asked with her trademark mix of teasing and genuine concern.

Momo allowed herself a small smile, her eyes tracing the reflection of the city lights through the window. “You could say that. But now it’s time for something a bit more… entertaining,” she replied in a soft, measured tone. Her voice carried the familiar no-nonsense cadence that had always commanded respect, whether in the boardroom or on the dark streets.

Hatsume’s eyes lit up with mischief as she responded, “Well, I’ve been monitoring the feeds. The so-called heroes are stumbling around like they’re part of a parade, completely unaware that someone is setting the pace tonight. You planning on giving them a little nudge?”

“Something like that,” Momo answered. “It’s almost amusing how out of step they are. They’re chasing outdated protocols while I’m pushing for real changes in the field. Tonight, I might just let them know that the real hero isn’t the one in the spotlight but the one who’s truly in control of the moment.”

There was a pause, and then Hatsume’s chuckle crackled through the channel. “I must say, Boss, your moves always leave me impressed. Enjoy the night - make sure you get back in time. And do try not to leave too many questions in your wake. The press is loving every new headline.”

Momo’s eyes narrowed slightly in a playful yet determined manner. “Let them wonder. They never will catch on,” she murmured. “After all, it’s not about keeping up with them - it’s about setting a pace they can’t possibly follow.”

With that, she disengaged the channel and stepped away from the preparation area. Outside, the city bloomed in the cool night air. As she navigated the labyrinth of deserted streets with the poise of a master and the subtle swagger of someone who knew exactly her worth, her mind replayed the night's objective. Every calculated maneuver, every silent observation of the heroes’ clumsy attempts to respond to the rising tide of real change, was a quiet mockery - a message sent not with harsh words but with fearless precision.

In the dim glow of neon signs and under the star-dappled sky, Momo - the unspoken force behind Aegis Innovations by day, and tonight, the elusive “Crimson Virtuoso” whose true identity remained her little secret - moved like a well-crafted symphony. With every step, she reaffirmed that while the system’s heroes were scrambling to keep pace, the real change was orchestrated by someone who not only understood the game but was rewriting its very rules. And as her deft strikes disrupted the proud facades of those who prided themselves on outdated protocols, she couldn't help but let a hint of a smile play on her lips - a silent promise that true brilliance could never be confined to a system that refused to evolve.

For now, the night belonged to her. And the only one who truly understood this delicate balance was Hatsume, quietly watching over their shared secret and ready to back her every step, every daring move into the dark.

In one of the quiet, early mornings at his father's agency headquarters, Shouto found himself alone in the staff lounge - a room where the bustle of official business was reduced to a low murmur and the only sound was the faint rustling of newspapers and occasional tapping on keyboards. With a steaming cup of coffee in hand, he settled into a worn leather chair and unfolded the latest edition of the daily newspaper. His eyes fell upon an article that made his heart quicken unexpectedly.

The headline, splashed in bold across the page, proclaimed: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚘𝚜𝚘: 𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚅𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚎𝚜

Shouto paused, his breath momentarily catching in his throat. The article described a mysterious vigilante whose rapid, precise strikes had left even the most seasoned heroes scrambling in the wake of disarray. Every detail - the deep burgundy costume, the unmistakable flair of audacity, the artful evasion of detection - was painted in a way that glorified an almost otherworldly ability to outmaneuver those who swore to protect the city by day. Yet, despite the glowing praise and the almost gleeful mockery of the official ranks, one thing remained unsaid: the vigilante’s true identity was still a mystery.

Shouto’s steady gaze shifted back and forth over the neatly arranged columns, the detailed account evoking a strange mix of admiration, curiosity, and a subtle pang of something unnamable. He had always prided himself on his quiet strength and unwavering focus, yet as he read on, an internal stirring reminded him of a familiarity he couldn’t quite place. The narrative described the vigilante’s mastery, an effortless blending of tactical brilliance and defiant rebellion against a system that often lagged behind progress. It was as if the writer had written not just to inform but to challenge, to remind the hero society that there were forces at work that were far more agile than the outdated protocols many of his peers embraced.

He folded the newspaper carefully, his mind turning over the implications. In that moment, Shouto couldn’t help but recall the countless times he had witnessed a certain quiet brilliance on the training fields, in boardrooms, or in hushed conversations among peers - an brilliance that shone with an intensity that belied quiet exterior. Yet the article made no mention of the familiar name he had known since graduation. The vigilante’s mask was nothing more than a silhouette of defiant flair, adorned in deep burgundy that shimmered like secret dusk. Strangely, every description layered with quiet superiority and subtle mockery of outdated heroes stirred memories of a certain person he had long admired from a distance.

As he sipped his coffee, Shouto mused privately, “Whoever this Crimson Virtuoso is, they move with a clarity and purpose that even our highest-ranked heroes struggle to match.” He recalled fragments of conversations, the hushed rumors in the corridors, and even the unintentional, fleeting looks exchanged in the aftermath of missions - small details that now resonated with a new, bittersweet poignancy. For a long while, he had carried a silent admiration for a friend whose talent had always been eclipsed by the noise of tradition; but he never made the connection, not until now, when every vestige of that mystery seemed to echo in the printed words before him.

Across the room, a seasoned colleague chattered quietly about upcoming deployments and the shifting hierarchies within the official hero ranks. Shouto, however, remained lost in thought. There was no trace of recognition in his eyes, at least not for the unknowing onlookers, but his mind was a tempest of conflicted emotions: a mix of respect for the raw, unfiltered brilliance of the vigilante, a pang of regret for opportunities missed in the past, and a secret hope that someday the truth would emerge. Yet, for now, the true identity behind the Crimson Virtuoso remained safely hidden behind layers of mystery - a mystery that, unbeknownst to him, lay tantalizingly close to his heart.

He folded the newspaper once more, tucking it into a folder with careful deliberation. Even as his father’s agency prepared for another hectic day, Shouto’s internal world had shifted. The article was a stark reminder that sometimes, heroism was not found in the accolades and regulated rankings that governed their lives, but in the unorthodox brilliance of those who dared to break free from the mold. And as he walked out of the lounge, the echo of the vigilante’s defiant message lingering in his ears, Shouto vowed silently that he would never again take for granted the subtle signs of true greatness - even if the world, for a time, remained blissfully unaware of its source.

Chapter Text

The debate had never truly died down. Even years after their graduation, after the ceremony that had left the entire hero community stunned, Momo Yaoyorozu’s departure from heroics remained a lingering wound in the industry - one that resurfaced in news cycles, in hushed conversations between pro heroes, and in the quiet regrets of those who had once overlooked her.

Shouto had seen it unfold in real time, had watched the way the media scrambled to dissect her words, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind her speech. At first, the reaction had been confusion. The stunned silence in the auditorium had stretched long after she stepped down from the podium, her Hero License left behind like an unspoken challenge. But as the days passed, confusion gave way to outrage, then introspection, then regret.

The debates had started almost immediately. News anchors, analysts, retired heroes - everyone had something to say. Some dismissed her decision as arrogance, claiming she had abandoned her duty, that she had wasted her potential. Others, the ones who truly understood, argued that the system had failed her first. That she had been overlooked, underestimated, and pushed aside for years, until she finally decided they didn’t deserve her.

Shouto had watched those debates unfold with a quiet, simmering frustration. He had listened as heroes who had once ignored her suddenly spoke of her brilliance, as if they had only just realized what they had lost. Some admitted, with a rare honesty, that they had never truly seen her back then - not the way they should have. That they had dismissed her quiet leadership, her strategic mind, her ability to see solutions where others saw obstacles. That if they had given her the chance, she could have been one of the greatest heroes of their generation.

But they hadn’t. And now, it was too late.

Even now, years later, Shouto still heard whispers of it. He saw it in the way some heroes hesitated when her name was mentioned, in the way younger students at U.A. spoke of her with a mixture of admiration and regret, as if mourning the hero she could have been. He saw it in the way his father, despite his usual indifference to such matters, had made a point to keep Aegis Innovations close to his agency, as if trying to salvage some connection to the brilliance that had slipped through the cracks.

And yet, despite all of it, Momo never looked back. She had built something greater than hero rankings and public approval. Aegis Innovations had become a cornerstone of hero support, its influence stretching across agencies, its technology shaping the future of heroics in ways no one could ignore. She had carved out her own path, one that didn’t require validation from the system that had once rejected her.

Shouto admired that. He always had.

But there was something else, something deeper, that lingered in his thoughts whenever he saw her name in the news, whenever he caught glimpses of her at industry events or in passing meetings. A quiet longing, a regret that was his own. Because he had been there, too, all those years ago. He had seen her brilliance firsthand, had known what she was capable of. And yet, even he had let her slip away.

He wondered, sometimes, if she ever thought about it. If she ever looked at the hero world and felt even the smallest flicker of what could have been. Or if she had truly, completely moved on.

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

The soft hum of the city filtered through the open window of Shouto’s apartment, blending with the quiet rustle of papers on his desk. He sat in his home office, the dim glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. His patrol had ended hours ago, but sleep felt distant, his mind too tangled in thoughts that refused to settle.

Momo had left hero work behind. That was the fact everyone accepted, the reality that had shaped the industry in ways no one had anticipated. But the more Shouto thought about it, the more he questioned whether she had truly, completely moved on.

It wasn’t just the way people still spoke of her, the lingering regret in the voices of heroes who had once dismissed her. It wasn’t just the way her name surfaced in debates, in articles dissecting the flaws in hero society, in discussions about what could have been. It was something else - something quieter, something harder to define.

She had built Aegis Innovations into an empire, had made herself indispensable to the hero world without ever stepping onto the battlefield. But there was a precision to the way she operated, a sharpness to her decisions that felt too familiar. She understood hero work too well, anticipated needs before they arose, designed support gear that functioned with an almost uncanny level of foresight. It was as if she still thought like a hero, still saw the world through the lens of someone who had once trained to fight, to protect, to lead.

And then there was the vigilante.

The Crimson Virtuoso, as the press had taken to calling them, had been making headlines for weeks. No one knew who they were, no one had been able to track them, but their movements were precise, their tactics calculated. They operated with an efficiency that rivaled top-ranked heroes, dismantling criminal networks with a level of strategy that felt eerily familiar.

Shouto had read every article, had watched every piece of footage available, and the more he studied them, the more something in his gut told him that whoever was behind the mask wasn’t just some rogue fighter. They were trained. They understood hero work. They understood how to move, how to anticipate, how to control a battlefield without ever being seen.

And that thought unsettled him.

Because if Momo had truly moved on, if she had truly left heroics behind, then why did everything about the Crimson Virtuoso feel like something she would have designed?

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his gaze drifting toward the window. The city stretched out before him, its lights flickering like distant stars, its streets alive with movement even in the late hours. Somewhere out there, the vigilante was moving, slipping through the cracks, operating in a way that defied the system that had once rejected her.

And Shouto couldn’t shake the feeling that he had seen this kind of brilliance before.

The city was alive in the way it only ever was at night - shadows stretching long beneath neon lights, the hum of distant traffic blending with the occasional murmur of voices in alleyways. Momo moved through it like a specter, her deep burgundy cape billowing slightly as she landed soundlessly on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of rain that had dried hours ago, leaving the streets slick and reflective beneath the glow of streetlamps.

She adjusted the clasp of her cape, fingers brushing against the black gemstone at her throat, before tapping the side of her watch - a sleek, modified version of what had once been her composition book, now a fully integrated communication device. The screen flickered to life, and within seconds, Mei Hatsume’s voice crackled through the secure channel.

“Fancy Girl! You’re late,” Mei teased, her tone bright despite the hour. “I was starting to think you got caught up in some boring CEO nonsense.”

Momo allowed herself a small smile, though her focus remained sharp as she scanned the streets below. “I had a meeting that ran long,” she replied, her voice steady, professional. “But I’m here now. What do you have for me?”

Mei’s fingers clattered against her keyboard, pulling up live feeds from various surveillance points she had scattered across the city. “Alright, Boss, listen up. We’ve got movement near the docks - some low-level traffickers trying to move stolen support gear. Nothing groundbreaking, but they’re sloppy, and I figured you’d want to clean up before the heroes even realize what’s happening.”

Momo’s eyes narrowed slightly as she crouched near the edge of the rooftop, watching the distant flicker of headlights near the industrial district. “How many?”

“Four, maybe five. They’re not expecting trouble, which makes this even funnier.” Mei’s voice carried a grin, even if Momo couldn’t see it. “You’re gonna make them regret thinking they could operate under the radar.”

Momo exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders before standing. “Send me the coordinates. I’ll handle it.”

“Already done, Fancy Girl. Try not to make it too easy for them.”

Momo smirked slightly, tapping her watch again to close the channel before leaping from the rooftop, her boots absorbing the impact as she landed in a narrow alleyway. She moved quickly, her steps silent, her presence nothing more than a passing shadow against the city’s glow.

The docks were quiet when she arrived, save for the low murmur of voices near a stack of shipping containers. She pressed herself against the metal, listening carefully, catching snippets of conversation - discussions about inventory, about buyers, about how no one would notice a few missing crates of high-end support tech.

They were wrong.

With practiced ease, Momo stepped into the open, her deep burgundy cape catching the faint light as she strode forward. The first man turned, confusion flickering across his face before it twisted into something resembling amusement.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Momo tilted her head slightly, her gloved fingers flexing as she summoned a sleek metal bō staff from her exposed thigh. The weapon materialized instantly, cool and solid in her grip.

“Someone you should be afraid of,” she answered simply.

The fight was over before it had even begun.

She moved with precision, her strikes calculated, her movements fluid. The first man barely had time to react before she swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. The second lunged, but she sidestepped effortlessly, twisting her staff and slamming it into his ribs. The third tried to run, but she caught him with a well-placed strike to the back of his knee, sending him sprawling.

By the time the last man realized he was alone, he was already backing away, hands raised in surrender.

Momo stepped forward, her staff resting lightly against her shoulder. “You’re going to leave the stolen tech behind,” she instructed, her voice calm, unwavering. “And you’re going to tell everyone you work with that this city isn’t as unguarded as they think.”

The man nodded frantically, scrambling to his feet and bolting into the night.

Momo exhaled, tapping her watch again.

“Mei?”

“Already watching, Boss. That was beautiful.”

Momo allowed herself a small smile, glancing at the crates before turning away. “Let the heroes find the mess. I’m done here.”

She disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the quiet proof that the Crimson Virtuoso had struck again.

The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Momo’s office, casting long streaks of light across the polished surface of her desk. Aegis Innovations hummed with quiet efficiency around her—executives moving through the halls, engineers fine-tuning prototypes, assistants coordinating meetings. It was the rhythm of progress, the carefully orchestrated machine she had built from the ground up.

She sat with perfect posture, a cup of tea resting beside her as she scrolled through the latest reports on her tablet. Production numbers were steady, new contracts with hero agencies were in negotiation, and the latest prototypes were exceeding expectations. Everything was running exactly as it should.

And yet, her eyes flickered toward the muted television screen mounted on the far wall, where the morning news played in the background.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 - 𝚅𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚎𝚜

The headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen, accompanied by grainy footage of the previous night’s events. The reporters spoke with a mix of intrigue and frustration, dissecting every detail, every movement, every calculated strike.

Momo took a slow sip of her tea, listening as the anchors debated the implications.

"Whoever this vigilante is, they’re operating with a level of precision we don’t often see outside of top-ranked heroes. The question remains - why? Why continue working outside the system when they could easily be recognized as one of the best?"

"That’s exactly the issue, isn’t it?" the second anchor chimed in. "If they were part of the system, they’d be bound by regulations, by oversight. But as it stands, they’re proving that heroes are struggling to keep up. And that’s a problem."

Momo’s lips pressed together slightly, her expression unreadable as she set her cup down.

It was always the same conversation. The same cycle of speculation, frustration, and reluctant admiration. The heroes couldn’t keep up, and the press couldn’t ignore it. Every time the Crimson Virtuoso struck, it was another reminder that the system was flawed, that bureaucracy slowed progress, that heroism wasn’t confined to licenses and rankings.

And yet, no one had any leads.

No one had connected the vigilante to her.

She glanced at her reflection in the window - poised, composed, every inch the CEO the world expected her to be. There was no trace of the woman who had moved through the shadows the night before, no hint of the calculated strikes, the effortless dismantling of criminals who thought they could operate unnoticed.

"The real question is - how long can this vigilante keep this up before the heroes decide to intervene?"

Momo exhaled slowly, tapping her fingers against the desk.

Let them wonder.

Let them chase shadows.

She had built an empire in the daylight, and she had mastered the night.

And as long as the system continued to fail, she would continue to remind them why they had never deserved her in the first place.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The meeting room at Endeavor’s agency was tense, the air thick with expectation as the assembled heroes reviewed the latest reports. Shouto sat near the head of the table, his arms crossed as he listened to the briefing, his mind already working through the implications. Across from him, Izuku Midoriya leaned forward, scanning the footage displayed on the large screen, while Katsuki Bakugo sat back with his usual air of irritation, tapping his fingers against the table in barely restrained impatience.

The Crimson Virtuoso had become a problem.

Not in the way villains were a problem - not in the way crime syndicates or rogue operatives disrupted the fragile balance of hero society. No, this was different. This vigilante wasn’t reckless, wasn’t sloppy, wasn’t leaving behind chaos for the sake of it. They were precise, methodical, and undeniably effective. And that was the issue.

The heroes couldn’t keep up.

Every time the Crimson Virtuoso struck, it was another reminder that the system was flawed, that bureaucracy slowed progress, that heroism wasn’t confined to licenses and rankings. The press had latched onto the narrative, spinning it into something that made the heroes look sluggish, outdated. And now, the Hero Public Safety Commission had decided enough was enough.

The directive was clear: track down and capture the vigilante.

Shouto exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering toward the latest footage. The movements were familiar - too familiar. The way the vigilante anticipated attacks, the way they controlled the battlefield without ever being seen, the way they operated with a level of strategy that rivaled top-ranked heroes. It was unsettling, not because he feared them, but because something about it felt like a puzzle piece he should have recognized long ago.

Midoriya spoke first, his voice measured but carrying that ever-present weight of concern. “Whoever they are, they’re trained. This isn’t just someone with a strong Quirk and good instincts. They know how heroes operate, how we respond, how we think.”

Bakugou scoffed, arms folding tighter across his chest. “Yeah, no shit. They’ve been making us look like idiots for weeks. About time we put an end to it.”

Shouto remained silent, his fingers tapping lightly against the table as he considered the situation. He had been assigned to the task force alongside Izuku and Katsuki - three of the strongest heroes in their generation, all tasked with bringing down someone who had, so far, remained untouchable.

And yet, as he studied the reports, as he listened to the analysis, as he watched the footage, a thought lingered in the back of his mind, quiet but insistent.

The meeting continued, strategies were discussed, patrol routes were assigned, but Shouto’s mind remained elsewhere. He had spent years wondering if Momo ever thought about what could have been, if she ever looked at the hero world and felt even the smallest flicker of attachment.

And now, for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

The streets were quiet, save for the occasional hum of passing cars and the distant chatter of late-night pedestrians. Patrols like this were routine - standard procedure when tracking a target that had eluded them for weeks. But tonight, the tension was different. The weight of their assignment pressed against them, unspoken but ever-present.

Shouto walked with measured steps, his gaze scanning the rooftops, the alleyways, the places where shadows stretched long beneath flickering streetlights. Beside him, Izuku occasionally glanced down at his phone, his expression softening for brief moments before he quickly refocused. Bakugou, on the other hand, had been grumbling since the moment they started.

“This is a waste of time,” Bakugou muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets as they rounded a corner. “We’re out here chasing some ghost while real villains are probably laughing their asses off.”

Izuku sighed, locking his phone and slipping it back into his jacket. “You know it’s not that simple, Kacchan. The Commission wouldn’t have assigned us if they didn’t think it was serious.”

Bakugou scoffed, kicking a stray rock down the sidewalk. “Yeah, well, maybe if the damn heroes did their jobs right, we wouldn’t need to be cleaning up after some vigilante who thinks they’re better than us.”

Shouto remained silent, his thoughts tangled in the same questions that had plagued him since the briefing. He had watched the footage, studied the reports, listened to the analysis. And yet, something about the Crimson Virtuoso’s movements, their precision, their strategy - it all felt too familiar.

Izuku checked his phone again, a small smile flickering across his face before he quickly hid it.

Shouto raised an eyebrow. “Uraraka?”

Izuku flushed slightly but nodded. “She just wanted to make sure we were being careful.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “You two are disgustingly soft.”

Izuku chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think she’s just worried. She knows how unpredictable this vigilante is.”

Shouto hummed in response, his gaze drifting toward the rooftops again. The Crimson Virtuoso had remained untouchable for weeks, slipping through the cracks, operating with a level of efficiency that rivaled top-ranked heroes. And now, they were supposed to track them down, to capture them, to put an end to the quiet rebellion that had been unfolding right under their noses.

But as they continued their patrol, as Bakugou grumbled and Izuku occasionally checked his phone, Shouto couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t just chasing a rogue operative.

They were chasing someone who had once been one of them.

Bakugou hated nights like this.

Patrols were supposed to be about catching actual villains, not chasing some smug vigilante who thought they were better than the pros. And yet, here he was, stalking through the empty streets with Deku and Half-n-Half, wasting time on someone who had been making headlines for weeks.

The Crimson Virtuoso.

The name alone pissed him off. Too flashy, too self-important, like they were some kind of untouchable legend instead of a glorified nuisance. Every time the media talked about them, it was with this weird mix of admiration and frustration, like they couldn’t decide whether to praise them or condemn them. And that was the problem.

Heroes were supposed to be the ones setting the pace. Not some masked show-off who kept slipping through their fingers.

He kept walking, his boots scuffing against the pavement as they moved deeper into the city. The streets were quiet, but not in the way that meant nothing was happening. It was the kind of quiet that came before something big, the kind that made his instincts buzz with anticipation.

Deku was still checking his phone every few minutes, probably messaging Round Face again. Bakugou had half a mind to tell him to focus, but honestly, it wasn’t like they had much to go on anyway. The Crimson Virtuoso didn’t leave trails, didn’t make mistakes, didn’t give them anything to work with.

And that was what pissed him off the most.

“They’re too damn careful,” he muttered, breaking the silence. “No slip-ups, no patterns, no dumb mistakes. Either they’ve been doing this for years, or they’re trained.”

Half-n-Half glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “They move like a hero.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Yeah, well, they ain’t one.”

Deku sighed, slipping his phone into his jacket. “That’s what makes this complicated. They’re not reckless, they’re not causing chaos, they’re just… doing the job without the system.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and that’s the problem. If they wanted to do the job, they should’ve done it right. Not like this.”

Peppermint Bastard didn’t respond, just kept scanning the rooftops like he was expecting something. Bakugou narrowed his eyes, watching him carefully. He’d been quiet all night, too quiet, like his brain was working through something he wasn’t saying out loud.

“You got something to say, Icy-Hot?”

Shouto hesitated for half a second - just long enough for Bakugou to catch it.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted.

Bakugou frowned, but before he could press him further, a sudden noise cut through the quiet - a sharp movement, the faint sound of something shifting above them.

All three of them stopped.

Bakugou’s hands curled into fists, his instincts kicking in immediately. Deku was already analyzing, his eyes darting toward the rooftops, while Half-n-Half remained perfectly still, his gaze locked on the shadows above.

The city had been quiet.

But not anymore.

Izuku barely had time to react before the figure moved.

A blur of deep burgundy and gold streaked across the rooftops, cutting through the night like a phantom. The Crimson Virtuoso had been watching them - waiting, calculating - and now, they were gone, slipping through the cracks before any of them could get a proper look.

“Move!” Bakugou barked, already launching himself forward with an explosion, his boots skidding against the pavement as he propelled himself upward. Izuku followed immediately, his legs tensing before he shot into the air with Blackwhip, the tendrils snapping around a nearby fire escape as he swung himself onto the rooftops. Shouto was right behind them, ice forming beneath his feet as he surged forward, his gaze locked onto the fleeing figure ahead.

Izuku’s mind raced as he analyzed their movements. The vigilante was fast - faster than expected, faster than most heroes he had worked with. Their strides were calculated, their turns precise, every movement designed to maximize efficiency. There was no hesitation, no wasted energy, just pure, practiced control.

They knew exactly how to evade pursuit.

Izuku gritted his teeth, pushing himself harder, Blackwhip snapping forward to latch onto a rooftop ledge. He swung himself higher, trying to close the distance, but the Crimson Virtuoso was already adjusting, already anticipating. They vaulted over a gap between buildings, twisting mid-air before landing with effortless grace, their cape billowing behind them.

Bakugou snarled, launching another explosion to propel himself forward. “They’re playing with us!”

Izuku could feel it too. The vigilante wasn’t just running - they were testing them, measuring their response time, their coordination, their ability to keep up. It was a game, and they were losing.

Shouto sent a wave of ice forward, aiming to cut off their path, but the Crimson Virtuoso reacted instantly, flipping over the frozen barricade without breaking stride. They landed smoothly, barely pausing before darting into a narrow alleyway, disappearing into the maze of the city.

Izuku cursed under his breath, adjusting his trajectory and swinging downward, landing hard on the pavement below. He sprinted forward, Bakugou right beside him, his explosions lighting up the alley for brief flashes. Shouto followed, his ice creeping along the walls, trying to slow their target down.

But the Crimson Virtuoso was already three steps ahead.

Izuku caught a glimpse of movement - a flash of deep burgundy disappearing around a corner, the faint sound of boots hitting concrete. He pushed himself harder, turning sharply, but by the time he reached the next street, the vigilante was gone.

No trace. No lingering presence. No sign of where they had vanished to.

Bakugou skidded to a stop beside him, his breathing heavy, his hands clenched into fists. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Shouto arrived a second later, his expression unreadable as he scanned the area, his breath visible in the cold air.

Izuku exhaled slowly, his pulse still racing, his mind still trying to process what had just happened.

They had been outmaneuvered. Completely.

And the worst part?

The Crimson Virtuoso had done it effortlessly.

Izuku’s grip tightened around his phone as he pulled up the latest reports, his thoughts already shifting, already analyzing.

They weren’t going to let this happen again.

Next time, they would be ready.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Shouto sat in his office, the glow of his computer screen casting sharp shadows across the dimly lit room. The footage from their chase played on loop, grainy and imperfect, but still enough to work with. He had spent the past few days reviewing every angle, every frame, every fleeting glimpse of the Crimson Virtuoso as they slipped through their grasp.

And now, finally, he had something.

The security footage had been difficult to work with - low resolution, poor lighting, too much movement - but the app had helped. He hadn’t even remembered installing it until he saw the familiar interface, sleek and efficient, designed to clean up distorted images and enhance details.

Momo had put it on his computer years ago.

She had insisted it would help him, knowing he wasn’t great with the specifics of tech, knowing he’d need something simple and effective. He had never used it much, never thought he’d need it for anything important. But now, as he adjusted the settings, as the image sharpened frame by frame, he felt a strange weight settle in his chest.

The vigilante’s face came into focus - not perfectly, not enough for undeniable proof, but enough.

Enough for him to recognize the shape of her jawline, the curve of her cheekbones, the familiar intensity in her eyes.

Enough for him to be almost certain.

Shouto leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his gaze locked onto the screen.

Momo.

It wasn’t definitive. The graininess still obscured some details, still left room for doubt. But he knew her. He had spent years watching her, admiring her, regretting the way the hero world had let her slip away. And now, after all this time, after all the speculation, after all the unanswered questions - he had something close to an answer.

She hadn’t fully left hero work behind.

She had just found a way to do it on her own terms.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his thoughts tangled in a mess of realization and uncertainty. He could report this, could bring it to the Commission, could confirm what they had been searching for.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he stared at the screen, at the image of the woman who had once been his classmate, his teammate, his friend.

And for the first time since their chase, he wondered if he really wanted to catch her at all.

Shouto stared at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, his pulse steady but his thoughts anything but. The image wasn’t perfect - grainy, distorted, just clear enough to make him almost certain - but that didn’t matter. If he could enhance it this much with a simple app, then the Hero Public Safety Commission could do far more.

They would find her.

They would confirm what he already knew.

And then they would come for her.

His jaw tightened, his fingers curling slightly as he moved the cursor over the file. He hesitated for only a second before pressing delete.

The footage vanished.

No backups. No copies. No trace.

Shouto leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his gaze drifting toward the city skyline beyond his window. He had spent years wondering if Momo had ever looked back, if she had ever felt even the smallest flicker of attachment to hero work. Now, he had his answer.

She hadn’t left.

She had just refused to play by their rules.

And he wasn’t going to be the one to drag her back into a system that had never deserved her in the first place.

At the next Task Force meeting, he said nothing.

He sat through the briefing, listened to the latest reports, nodded at the speculation, but he didn’t mention the footage. Didn’t mention the image. Didn’t mention the fact that they had been closer than they realized.

Bakugou complained about how the vigilante was still making them look like idiots. Izuku analyzed new patterns, trying to predict their next move. The Commission pressed for results, for progress, for something concrete.

Shouto remained silent.

Because he knew the truth.

And he wasn’t going to be the one to betray it.

Chapter Text

Izuku sat at his desk, the glow of his laptop illuminating the pages of his notebook, where hastily scribbled notes filled the margins. The footage played on loop, different encounters, different fights, different chases - all of them showcasing the Crimson Virtuoso’s unmistakable precision. He had spent hours analyzing their movements, breaking down their techniques, trying to understand the way they fought.

It was unlike anything he had seen before.

The vigilante wasn’t just skilled - they were calculated. Every strike was measured, every dodge perfectly timed, every escape executed with an almost eerie level of foresight. They didn’t waste energy, didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. It was as if they knew exactly how their opponents would react before they even moved.

Izuku flipped to a fresh page, jotting down observations as he rewound a particular sequence. The Crimson Virtuoso had been cornered in an alleyway, three opponents closing in, their movements coordinated. A normal fighter would have struggled, would have had to force their way out. But the vigilante had barely needed effort.

Instead of engaging directly, they had used the environment - redirecting attacks, forcing their opponents into each other’s paths, manipulating the space around them until the fight was over before it had even begun.

Izuku underlined the phrase ҽɳʋιɾσɳɱҽɳƚαʅ ƈσɳƚɾσʅ in his notes, tapping his pen against the paper as he thought.

This wasn’t just instinct.

This was training.

He rewound another clip, watching as the vigilante evaded pursuit across the rooftops. Their movements were fluid, efficient, designed for maximum speed without sacrificing control. They didn’t just run - they anticipated. Every turn, every jump, every shift in direction was calculated to keep their pursuers off balance.

Izuku scribbled down another note: ρɾҽԃιƈƚιʋҽ ɱσʋҽɱҽɳƚ - ԋιɠԋ-ʅҽʋҽʅ ƚαƈƚιƈαʅ αɯαɾҽɳҽʂʂ.

Whoever they were, they weren’t just some rogue fighter with a strong Quirk. They understood hero work. They understood strategy. They understood how to control a battlefield without ever being seen.

And that was what unsettled him.

Because the more he studied them, the more familiar it felt.

He flipped back through his notebook, scanning past entries, past analyses of heroes he had trained with, fought alongside, learned from. He had studied countless fighters, had broken down their techniques, had memorized their strengths and weaknesses.

And yet, something about the Crimson Virtuoso’s style felt like a puzzle piece he should have recognized.

Izuku frowned, rewinding the footage again, watching the way they moved, the way they fought, the way they controlled the space around them.

He had seen this kind of brilliance before.

But he couldn’t place where.

Not yet.

The city stretched out before them, bathed in the dim glow of streetlights and neon signs, the hum of late-night traffic filling the air. Bakugou walked ahead of the other two, his boots hitting the pavement with sharp, deliberate steps, his mood already sour. Another night, another patrol, another pointless chase after some smug vigilante who thought they were untouchable.

He hated this.

Hated wasting time on someone who wasn’t even a real villain, hated the way the media kept hyping them up, hated the way the Crimson Virtuoso had made them look like idiots for weeks. Most of all, he hated the fact that they hadn’t caught them yet.

Deku was, as usual, buried in his damn notebook, flipping through pages and muttering to himself as they walked. Half-n-Half was quiet, scanning the rooftops like he was expecting something, like he knew something the rest of them didn’t. Bakugou had noticed how weird he’d been acting lately - more reserved than usual, like his brain was working through something he wasn’t saying out loud.

It pissed him off.

“If you got something to say, Icy-Hot, spit it out,” Bakugou snapped, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Shouto didn’t look at him, just kept walking, his gaze flickering toward the alleyways, the rooftops, the places where shadows stretched long beneath the city lights. “I don’t have anything yet.”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “Yet?”

Deku finally looked up from his notebook, glancing between the two of them before sighing. “Kacchan, just let it go. We need to focus.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

They kept moving, their patrol taking them deeper into the city, the streets quieter than usual. It was the kind of silence that made Bakugou’s instincts buzz, the kind that meant something was about to happen.

And then, just as they turned a corner, movement flickered in the distance.

A blur of deep burgundy and gold.

Bakugou’s eyes locked onto the figure, his muscles tensing, his hands sparking with heat.

“Found you.”

The chase was on.

The moment the Crimson Virtuoso moved, the chase began.

Bakugou launched forward first, explosions propelling him across the pavement as he closed the distance. Shouto followed immediately, ice spreading beneath his feet as he surged ahead, his gaze locked onto the fleeing figure. Izuku reacted a split second later, Blackwhip snapping out to latch onto a rooftop ledge, pulling him upward as he swung into pursuit.

The vigilante was fast - faster than expected, faster than most villians they had ever chased. Their movements were precise, their turns calculated, every step designed to maximize speed without sacrificing control. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter, didn’t waste energy.

Bakugou snarled, pushing himself harder, explosions lighting up the alley as he tried to cut them off. Shouto sent a wave of ice forward, aiming to block their path, but the Crimson Virtuoso reacted instantly, flipping over the frozen barricade without breaking stride.

Izuku analyzed every movement, every adjustment, every shift in direction. The vigilante wasn’t just running - they were predicting. Anticipating. Testing them.

And then, just as they reached the rooftops, the Crimson Virtuoso made their move.

A sudden, sharp turn - too quick for Bakugou to adjust, forcing him to skid to a stop with a frustrated growl. Shouto tried to follow, but the vigilante vaulted over a gap between buildings, twisting mid-air before landing with effortless grace, disappearing into the maze of the city.

Only Izuku remained in pursuit.

Blackwhip snapped forward, latching onto a fire escape as he swung himself higher, his breath steady, his focus sharp. The Crimson Virtuoso was fast, but Izuku had spent his entire life chasing after people stronger, faster, better. He wasn’t going to let them slip away.

The city blurred around them, the chase narrowing into a battle of endurance.

And for the first time, the Crimson Virtuoso hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

But it was enough.

Izuku pushed himself harder, Blackwhip snapping against the rooftops as he closed the distance. The Crimson Virtuoso was fast - faster than almost anyone he had ever chased - but he was keeping up, matching their movements, anticipating their next turn.

And then, for the briefest moment, they hesitated.

It was small, barely noticeable, but Izuku caught it. A fraction of a second where their stride faltered, where their body adjusted mid-motion, as if calculating something. He reacted instantly, shifting his trajectory, preparing to intercept-

But before he could, they moved.

A flash of exposed skin, a shimmer of something materializing out of thin air.

Izuku’s eyes widened as a metal Bō staff formed in their grip, appearing seamlessly from their thigh.

It was instinctive, effortless, the kind of Quirk usage that came from years of mastery. The Crimson Virtuoso didn’t even pause, didn’t hesitate to wield the weapon as they struck the fire escape railing, using the momentum to vault themselves upward, flipping over the edge of the rooftop and disappearing into the night.

Izuku skidded to a stop, his breath sharp, his mind racing.

He knew that Quirk.

He had seen it before, had studied it, had fought alongside it.

Creation.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at the empty rooftop, the space where the vigilante had vanished. The chase was over, but something far more important had just begun.

Because now, for the first time, Izuku had a suspect.

And that suspect was Momo Yaoyorozu.

Izuku sat at his desk, his fingers gripping the edges of his notebook as he stared at the footage playing on his laptop. The chase replayed in slow motion, frame by frame, every movement of the Crimson Virtuoso dissected with meticulous precision. He had spent weeks analyzing their techniques, breaking down their strategies, trying to understand how they operated. But now, for the first time, he wasn’t just studying a vigilante.

He was studying Momo Yaoyorozu.

The realization had settled in his chest like a weight, pressing against his ribs with every frame he rewound. He had seen the Quirk usage firsthand, had watched the effortless way the bō staff materialized from exposed skin, had recognized the seamless transition between movement and creation. It wasn’t just similar - it was identical.

And now, as he reviewed past footage, he saw the connections he had missed before.

The way the Crimson Virtuoso controlled the battlefield, the way they manipulated their surroundings, the way they anticipated attacks before they even came - it was all too familiar.

Izuku flipped through his old notebooks, the ones from U.A., the ones where he had documented every fighting style, every strength, every weakness of his classmates. He found the pages on Momo, his own handwriting scrawled across the margins, detailing her ability to strategize mid-battle, her adaptability, her precision.

She had always fought with control.

She had never wasted movement, never relied on brute force, never engaged without a plan.

And the Crimson Virtuoso fought the exact same way.

Izuku exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his pen as he stared at the notes, at the footage, at the undeniable truth forming before him.

Momo hadn’t left hero work behind.

She had just changed the way she did it.

And now, he had to decide what to do with that knowledge.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Izuku stood outside the towering glass headquarters of Aegis Innovations, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He had spent days thinking about this, replaying the chase, analyzing the footage, comparing every movement, every decision, every calculated strike. And now, after everything, he was here.

He hadn’t told the Hero Public Safety Commission. He wasn’t going to.

Just like Shouto.

Though, as far as he knew, Shouto wasn’t aware.

He stepped inside, moving through the sleek, modern lobby with quiet determination. He had been here before - meetings, collaborations, industry events - but this time was different. This time, he wasn’t here as a hero. He was here for answers.

Momo’s office was at the top floor, a space designed for efficiency, for control, for the kind of leadership she had mastered over the years. When he entered, she was seated at her desk, poised as always, her expression unreadable as she glanced up from her tablet.

“Izuku,” she greeted, her tone polite but measured. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He closed the door behind him, his fingers tightening slightly at his sides. “I know.”

She studied him for a moment, then set her tablet down, folding her hands neatly atop the desk. “You’re here for something specific.”

Izuku nodded, stepping forward. “I know it’s you.”

There was no flicker of surprise, no sharp intake of breath, no immediate denial. Momo simply held his gaze, her expression carefully neutral, as if she had already anticipated this moment.

Izuku exhaled, his voice steady but quiet. “I didn’t tell the Commission. I don’t plan to.”

Momo’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in calculation. “Does anyone else know?”

Izuku hesitated for only a second before shaking his head. “Not that I know of.”

She leaned back slightly, considering his words, considering him. “And what do you plan to do with this information?”

Izuku swallowed, his mind racing with everything he had thought about, everything he had analyzed, everything he had come to understand. “I don’t know yet.”

Momo nodded once, as if accepting that answer.

And for the first time since he had stepped into her office, he realized that she wasn’t just waiting for his decision.

She was preparing for whatever came next.

Izuku stood firm, his hands still buried in his pockets, his mind working through the weight of the moment. Momo didn’t look away, didn’t shift uncomfortably, didn’t try to explain herself. She simply waited, poised, composed, as if she had already accounted for every possible outcome.

He had expected denial. He had expected deflection. Maybe even frustration. But instead, she was watching him with the same quiet calculation she had always carried, the same sharp intelligence that had once made her one of the most overlooked minds in heroics.

And now, she was the one outpacing them all.

Izuku exhaled slowly, his voice quieter this time. “Why?”

Momo’s fingers tapped lightly against the desk, her gaze steady. “You already know why.”

He did. He had spent days thinking about it, analyzing it, breaking it down in his notebook like he did with everything else. She hadn’t left hero work behind because she had lost interest. She had left because the system had failed her, because it had refused to see her worth, because it had dismissed her again and again until she decided she didn’t need it.

And now, she was proving that she had never needed it in the first place.

Izuku swallowed, shifting slightly. “You could have been one of the best heroes of our generation.”

Momo tilted her head slightly, considering his words. “And yet, no one gave me the chance to be.”

The truth of it settled between them, heavy and undeniable.

Izuku had watched the debates unfold after graduation, had listened to heroes regretfully admit that they had overlooked her, had seen the way the industry struggled to reconcile the fact that they had let her slip through their fingers. And now, years later, she was still proving them wrong.

But this—this was different.

This wasn’t just walking away from hero rankings and public approval. This was stepping into the shadows, operating outside the system, outmaneuvering the very people who had once dismissed her.

Izuku ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “You know they won’t stop looking for you.”

Momo nodded, her expression unreadable. “I know.”

He hesitated, his mind tangled in the weight of everything he had uncovered, everything he had come to understand. “I don’t want to be the one to stop you.”

For the first time, something flickered in her gaze - something softer, something almost like understanding.

“You won’t be,” she said simply.

Izuku studied her for a long moment, searching for something - hesitation, regret, doubt - but there was none.

She had made her choice.

And now, he had to decide what to do with that.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Izuku sat across from Shouto in the quiet of his apartment, the city lights flickering through the window as he tried to find the right words. He had spent the past few days thinking about this, turning it over in his mind, weighing the risks. He hadn’t told the Commission. He wasn’t going to. But he couldn’t keep it to himself - not entirely.

Shouto was the only person he trusted with this.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck before finally speaking. “I know who the Crimson Virtuoso is.”

Shouto didn’t react - not immediately. He simply took a sip of his tea, his expression calm, unreadable, as if he had already expected this conversation.

Izuku frowned slightly. “You’re not surprised.”

Shouto set his cup down, meeting Izuku’s gaze with quiet certainty. “Because I already know.”

Izuku blinked, his mind stalling for a brief second before catching up. “You- wait, what?”

Shouto leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “I figured it out a while ago. I had footage from our first chase - grainy, but with some editing, I could see enough to be almost certain.”

Izuku’s pulse quickened. “You had footage?”

Shouto nodded. “I deleted it.”

The weight of that statement settled between them, heavy and unspoken.

Izuku stared at him, processing the implications. “You didn’t tell the Commission.”

Shouto shook his head. “I wasn’t going to.”

Izuku exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I confronted her.”

Shouto raised an eyebrow, but there was no shock, no frustration - just quiet understanding. “And?”

Izuku leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “She didn’t deny it. She didn’t confirm it either, but she didn’t need to. She knows we know.”

Shouto nodded once, as if accepting that answer.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Izuku sighed, shaking his head with a small, almost disbelieving chuckle. “So, I guess this is our secret now.”

Shouto smirked slightly, the closest thing to amusement he had shown all night. “Looks like it.”

Izuku leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything settling in his chest.

They had spent years chasing after people stronger, faster, better. And now, they were keeping a secret about someone who had once been one of them - someone who had outpaced them all.

And neither of them had any intention of stopping her.

Bakugou sat at the long conference table, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently against the floor as the latest reports scrolled across the screen at the front of the room. The Crimson Virtuoso had struck again - another clean takedown, another flawless escape, another reminder that the heroes were still two steps behind.

And yet, something felt off.

Not about the case itself - no, that was frustratingly predictable at this point. What felt off was Deku and Half-n-Half.

They were too quiet.

Not in the usual way, where Icy-Hot just sat there brooding and Deku got lost in his damn notebook. No, this was different. This was deliberate.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, watching them from across the table as the Commission rep droned on about strategy adjustments and patrol schedules. Deku was listening, nodding at the right moments, but his focus wasn’t really on the meeting. And Half-n-Half? He was even worse - calm, composed, too composed, like he had already figured something out and wasn’t saying it.

They were hiding something.

Bakugou’s fingers twitched against his bicep, his irritation growing by the second. He knew these two better than anyone - had spent years fighting alongside them, watching them, reading them. And right now, they were keeping him out of something.

The realization made his blood simmer.

The meeting dragged on, more reports, more speculation, more theories that were all wrong. The Commission still had no leads, no real progress, just educated guesses that were never going to catch the vigilante.

And Deku and Half-n-Half just sat there, silent.

Bakugou clenched his jaw, barely restraining the urge to slam his fist against the table. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t blind. He could feel it - whatever they knew, whatever they weren’t saying, it was important.

And they weren’t telling him.

The meeting finally ended, the reps filing out, leaving just the three of them in the room. Bakugou didn’t waste a second.

“What the hell are you two hiding?”

Deku stiffened, his fingers tightening around his notebook. Half-n-Half didn’t react, just looked at him, unreadable as ever.

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play dumb. You two have been acting weird for days. You know something.”

Deku hesitated - too long - before shaking his head. “Kacchan, it’s not-”

“Bullshit.” Bakugou stood, planting his hands on the table, his glare sharp. “You figured something out, didn’t you?”

Half-n-Half finally spoke, his voice calm but too measured. “We don’t have anything concrete.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Like hell you don’t.”

Neither of them answered.

Bakugou felt the shift, the unspoken agreement between them, the quiet understanding that he wasn’t part of it.

And that pissed him off more than anything.

He wasn’t going to let this go.

Not until he knew exactly what they were keeping from him.

Bakugou stalked ahead of the other two, his boots hitting the pavement harder than necessary as they moved through the quiet streets. The patrol was routine, the same damn thing they’d been doing for weeks, but his focus wasn’t on catching the Crimson Virtuoso tonight.

It was on them.

Deku and Half-n-Half had been acting off since the last meeting, and Bakugou wasn’t about to let it slide. He knew them too well - knew when they were keeping something from him, knew when they were working through something in their heads but refusing to say it out loud. And right now, they were doing exactly that.

He let the silence stretch for a few more minutes, just long enough to make them think he wasn’t going to bring it up. Then, without warning, he turned sharply, walking backward as he faced them.

“Alright, spill it.”

Deku sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kacchan, we don’t-”

“Cut the crap.” Bakugou jabbed a finger at him. “You two know something. You’ve been acting weird since the last chase. You figured it out, didn’t you?”

Shouto barely glanced at him, his expression as unreadable as ever. “We don’t have anything definitive.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t be this quiet if you didn’t have a damn clue.”

Deku shook his head, his voice steady but too careful. “We don’t know who they are.”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, watching them both closely. They weren’t lying - not exactly. But they weren’t telling the whole truth either.

“You’re both terrible at this,” he muttered, turning back around and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Keep your little secret. But when I figure it out, don’t expect me to let it slide.”

Neither of them responded.

Bakugou gritted his teeth, frustration simmering beneath his skin. He hated being left out, hated the feeling that he was missing something important.

And whatever they knew, whatever they weren’t saying, it was important.

He wasn’t going to stop until he had answers.

The city stretched out before them, quiet but never truly still. Shouto walked alongside Izuku and Bakugou, his gaze scanning the rooftops, the alleyways, the places where shadows stretched long beneath flickering streetlights. The patrol had become routine - searching, waiting, anticipating - but tonight, there was nothing.

No movement. No flicker of deep burgundy disappearing into the night. No sign of the Crimson Virtuoso at all.

It was strange.

She had been active almost every night, always one step ahead, always slipping through their grasp. But now, the streets felt empty, as if she had deliberately chosen to stay out of sight.

Shouto exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air. He had spent days thinking about their last chase, about the footage he had deleted, about the quiet understanding he now shared with Izuku. They knew the truth. They knew who she was. And yet, neither of them had done anything about it.

Bakugou was still irritated, still suspicious, still convinced they were keeping something from him. He wasn’t wrong. But Shouto wasn’t going to tell him - not yet.

Not until he knew what came next.

Izuku glanced at him, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. “She’s not here.”

Shouto nodded. “Not tonight.”

Bakugou scoffed, kicking a stray rock down the sidewalk. “Tch. Figures. Probably knows we’re watching.”

Shouto didn’t respond, just kept walking, his thoughts tangled in the weight of everything they weren’t saying.

Momo was staying out of sight.

And that meant she was planning something.

He just didn’t know what.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Shouto didn’t knock. He simply stepped into Momo’s office, closing the door behind him with quiet finality. The morning light streamed through the windows, casting a soft glow over the pristine space, illuminating the woman seated at the desk with effortless poise.

She didn’t look surprised to see him.

“Todoroki,” she greeted, setting down her pen, her gaze sharp but unreadable. “I assume this isn’t a social visit.”

Shouto studied her for a moment, then walked forward, stopping just short of her desk. “I know.”

Momo didn’t react - not visibly. She simply leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap, waiting for him to continue.

“I had footage,” he said, voice even. “It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.”

She tilted her head slightly, considering his words. “And?”

“I deleted it.”

A pause. Not of shock, not of hesitation - just quiet understanding.

Shouto exhaled, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. “Midoriya knows too.”

Momo hummed, thoughtful but unsurprised. “I assumed he would figure it out eventually.”

Shouto nodded. “He confronted you.”

She allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile. “He did.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Shouto watched her carefully, the weight of everything pressing against his thoughts. “You never really left hero work.”

Momo’s expression remained composed, but there was something in her eyes - something quiet, something resolute. “No. I didn’t.”

Shouto inhaled slowly, letting the truth settle. “I won’t stop you.”

Momo studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “I know.”

And just like that, the understanding between them solidified.

Neither of them would say anything.

Neither of them would stop her.

Because they both knew - she had never needed the system in the first place.

Chapter Text

Bakugou moved through the city with sharp, deliberate steps, his gaze flickering between the rooftops and the empty streets ahead. The night stretched quiet around him, but he knew better than to trust it. There was always something lurking beneath the surface, always movement just beyond reach.

He had gone out alone, ignoring the usual patrol routes, ignoring protocol, ignoring the fact that Deku and Half-n-Half were probably wondering where he was. He didn’t care. They had been keeping something from him, and he wasn’t about to sit around waiting for them to decide he was worthy of knowing whatever the hell it was.

The Crimson Virtuoso had been untouchable for weeks, slipping through their grasp, outmaneuvering every attempt to track them down. But Bakugou wasn’t interested in playing by the Commission’s rules anymore. He wasn’t going to sit through another useless meeting, wasn’t going to listen to more speculation that led nowhere. He was going to find them himself.

His eyes flickered toward the rooftops, scanning for movement, for any sign that someone was watching. The vigilante was careful, too careful, but even the best made mistakes eventually. And when they did, he would be there.

He turned sharply down another alley, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he moved. The city was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made his instincts buzz, that told him something was just out of reach. His hands curled into fists, heat sparking at his palms, his frustration fueling his focus.

Deku and Half-n-Half thought they could keep him in the dark.

They thought he wouldn’t notice.

They were wrong.

Bakugou wasn’t going to stop until he had answers. And when he did, they were going to regret keeping him out of it.

His patience was wearing thin.

He had been moving through the city for over an hour, scanning every alley, every rooftop, every shadowed corner where the Crimson Virtuoso might lurk. But there was nothing. No flicker of movement, no sign of pursuit, no indication that the vigilante was even active tonight.

His teeth clenched as he turned down another street, his boots hitting the pavement harder than necessary. He wasn’t used to waiting. He wasn’t used to chasing something that refused to be caught. Every villain he had ever gone after had made a mistake eventually, had slipped up just enough for him to get the upper hand. But this was different.

The Crimson Virtuoso wasn’t sloppy. They didn’t leave trails, didn’t make reckless moves, didn’t give him anything to work with. It was like they knew exactly how to stay ahead, exactly how to avoid detection.

Bakugou exhaled sharply, irritation simmering beneath his skin. He had expected a fight tonight, had expected some kind of confrontation, had expected something. But instead, the city stretched out before him, empty and unyielding, like it was mocking him for thinking he could force an answer out of thin air.

He stopped at the edge of a rooftop, scanning the streets below, his hands curling into fists.

They were out there. He knew they were.

And sooner or later, they were going to slip.

And when they did, he would be ready.

Bakugou caught the movement before he heard it. A flicker of motion in his peripheral vision, a shift in the shadows just beyond the rooftop edge. His instincts kicked in instantly, his body moving before his mind had fully processed it. He launched himself forward, explosions propelling him across the gap between buildings, his eyes locked onto the figure darting through the night.

Finally.

The Crimson Virtuoso was fast, but Bakugou had spent his entire life chasing people who thought they could outrun him. He pushed himself harder, explosions lighting up the rooftops as he closed the distance, his breath steady, his focus razor-sharp. The vigilante twisted mid-air, landing with effortless grace before pivoting sharply down into an alleyway.

Bakugou didn’t hesitate. He dropped down after them, his boots hitting the pavement hard, sparks crackling at his palms. The chase narrowed into a battle of endurance, the city blurring around them as they weaved through tight spaces, scaling fire escapes, cutting through abandoned streets.

But this time, the vigilante wasn’t just running.

They were preparing for a fight.

Bakugou saw it in the way they moved, the way they adjusted their stance, the way their hand hovered near their thigh - waiting, calculating. He reacted instantly, sending an explosion forward, forcing them to dodge, forcing them to engage.

The Crimson Virtuoso pivoted, their movements precise, their response seamless. A weapon materialized in their grip - a bō staff, appearing from bare skin with practiced ease.

Bakugou’s mind barely had time to register it before the fight began.

The first strike came fast, aimed at his side, but he twisted away, countering with a blast that sent them skidding backward. They recovered instantly, adjusting their grip, their stance shifting into something eerily familiar. Bakugou narrowed his eyes, his pulse pounding, his instincts screaming at him to look closer.

Another strike, another dodge, another perfectly timed maneuver that felt too practiced.

And then, for the briefest moment, the streetlight caught their face.

Bakugou’s breath hitched.

Momo.

The realization slammed into him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t falter. His body kept moving, his mind racing, his grip tightening as he blocked another strike. She didn’t speak, didn’t react, didn’t confirm what he had just seen.

But she didn’t need to.

Bakugou knew.

And now, everything had changed.

His next explosion came harder, more forceful, his frustration bleeding into his movements. She had walked away from hero work, had left it behind, had turned her back on everything they had fought for. And yet, here she was, doing the same damn thing - just without the title.

"You quit just to do this?" he snarled, his voice sharp, his anger spilling into every word.

Momo didn’t answer.

She just kept fighting.

Bakugou’s explosions came faster, sharper, fueled by the frustration clawing at his chest. Momo met each strike with precision, her movements controlled, her grip on the bō staff unwavering. She wasn’t reckless, wasn’t panicked, wasn’t scrambling to escape. She was fighting him like she had fought countless others before - like she had already calculated exactly how to counter him.

That only pissed him off more.

"You walked away from hero work," Bakugou growled, dodging a strike and retaliating with a blast that sent sparks scattering against the alley walls. "You left it behind, acted like it wasn’t worth your damn time. And now you’re out here doing the same thing, just without the title?"

Momo didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, didn’t offer any kind of excuse. She simply adjusted her stance, shifting her weight before lunging forward, her staff swinging in a sharp arc. Bakugou blocked it with an explosion, the force pushing them apart for a brief second before they clashed again.

"You think this is better?" he snapped, his voice edged with something raw, something more than just anger. "You think working outside the system makes you smarter than the rest of us?"

Momo didn’t answer, but her silence wasn’t avoidance - it was calculation. She was waiting, watching, analyzing his movements the same way she had always done. It was infuriating, the way she stayed so composed, the way she refused to react the way he wanted her to.

Bakugou sent another blast forward, forcing her to pivot, forcing her to adjust. "You were supposed to be one of the best," he spat, his breath sharp, his pulse pounding. "And you threw it away!"

Momo’s staff met his next strike with a sharp crack, the force reverberating through the air. Her expression remained unreadable, but there was something in her eyes - something steady, something resolute, something that told him she wasn’t going to apologize for any of it.

Bakugou gritted his teeth, his hands sparking again, his frustration boiling over.

She wasn’t running.

She wasn’t backing down.

And that meant this fight was far from over.

Bakugou’s explosions ripped through the alley, each blast forcing Momo to adjust, to pivot, to keep moving. She wasn’t fighting to win - she was fighting to leave. Every strike of her staff was measured, every dodge calculated, every movement designed to stall him just long enough for her to slip away.

And he wasn’t about to let her.

"You had everything you needed to be a top hero," Bakugou snapped, dodging a strike and retaliating with a blast that sent her skidding back. "You had the training, the skill, the damn brains - and instead of proving everyone wrong, you walked away!"

Momo didn’t flinch, didn’t react the way he wanted her to. She simply adjusted her grip, shifting her stance, waiting for his next move.

Bakugou lunged forward, his palm sparking as he aimed for her side. She twisted at the last second, using the length of her staff to redirect his momentum, sending him off balance just enough to slip past him.

"You think this is better?" he growled, spinning on his heel and launching another explosion toward her retreating form. She blocked it with the staff, the force rattling through her arms, but she didn’t falter. "You think sneaking around at night, working outside the system, makes you more of a hero than the rest of us?"

Momo’s next strike came fast, aimed low, forcing him to jump back. She wasn’t trying to land a decisive blow - she was stalling. Every movement, every calculated dodge, every perfectly timed counter was designed to slow him down just enough for her to escape.

Bakugou saw it, recognized it, and it only fueled his frustration.

"You could’ve changed things!" he snapped, sending a blast toward the ground near her feet, forcing her to leap onto a fire escape. "You could’ve made the system work for you instead of running from it!"

Momo didn’t respond, didn’t break her focus. She climbed higher, her movements fluid, her escape route already planned.

Bakugou snarled, launching himself upward with an explosion, closing the distance between them.

She wasn’t getting away.

Not this time.

Momo moved fast, scaling the fire escape with practiced ease, her grip steady as she pulled herself onto the rooftop. Bakugou was right behind her, explosions propelling him upward, closing the gap before she could gain too much distance. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause to reassess - she already knew her route, already had her escape planned.

Bakugou wasn’t about to let her slip away.

He landed hard on the rooftop, sparks crackling at his palms as he pushed forward. Momo darted across the uneven surface, her movements fluid, her staff still gripped tightly in one hand. She wasn’t running blindly - she was leading him, forcing him to follow, maneuvering him into a chase that favored her.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, adjusting his trajectory. If she thought she could control the pace, she was wrong.

"You think you can just disappear when it’s convenient?" he snapped, launching himself forward with another blast. "You think walking away from hero work means you get to make your own damn rules?"

Momo didn’t answer, didn’t slow down. She vaulted over a gap between buildings, landing with precision before sprinting toward the next ledge. Bakugou followed, his explosions carrying him across the gap, his frustration fueling his speed.

"You could’ve done something real!" he growled, sending a blast toward the rooftop ahead of her, forcing her to change direction. "You could’ve fixed the system instead of running from it!"

Momo pivoted sharply, using the momentum to swing her staff toward him. Bakugou barely dodged, twisting mid-air before landing hard on the rooftop beside her. She didn’t press the attack, didn’t try to take him down - she was still focused on getting away.

Bakugou wasn’t going to let her.

He lunged again, cutting off her path, forcing her to engage.

She wasn’t escaping this time.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Bakugou sat on the edge of his couch, his jaw tight as he wrapped a strip of gauze around his forearm. The scrape wasn’t deep, just another damn reminder that Momo had gotten away. His knuckles were bruised, his ribs sore from where her staff had caught him once - nothing serious, nothing he couldn’t handle. But the fact that she had slipped through his fingers still burned.

He pulled the bandage tighter than necessary, irritation simmering beneath his skin. He had been so caught up in the fight, in the chase, in the sheer audacity of her running around like some rogue vigilante, that he hadn’t stopped to think about why she was doing it.

Now, with the adrenaline fading and the silence of his apartment pressing in, he couldn’t ignore it.

She wasn’t doing this for glory. She wasn’t doing it for recognition. She wasn’t even doing it because she wanted to prove something.

She was doing it because the system had failed her.

Bakugou exhaled sharply, leaning back against the couch, his fingers flexing against his palm. He had spent years watching the Hero Public Safety Commission twist things to fit their narrative, watching them push aside people who didn’t fit their mold, watching them ignore the ones who should have been at the top.

Momo had been one of them.

She had done everything right - trained harder than anyone, strategized better than half the pros out there, built herself into the kind of hero the world should have recognized. And instead, they had let her slip through the cracks, had dismissed her, had refused to see her worth until she decided she didn’t need their approval.

Bakugou gritted his teeth, rolling his shoulders as he finished wrapping the last of his bruises. He wasn’t mad at her anymore.

He was mad at them.

At the Commission. At the system. At the way they had forced her into this, had made her believe that the only way to do real hero work was outside their rules.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t wrong.

The meeting had been the same useless routine - reports, speculation, theories that led nowhere. Bakugou had barely paid attention, his mind already set on what needed to happen next. He had waited long enough, let Deku and Half-n-Half keep their little secret, let them think they could keep him in the dark.

They were wrong.

The second they stepped outside, away from the cameras, away from the Commission’s watchful eyes, Bakugou turned sharply on them.

“I know.”

Deku stiffened, his fingers tightening around his notebook. Shouto barely reacted, just exhaled like he had expected this moment to come sooner or later.

Bakugou crossed his arms, his glare sharp. “You two really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Deku hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “How long have you known?”

Bakugou scoffed. “Since last night. I chased her. Fought her. Saw her damn face.”

Shouto nodded slightly, like he was filing the information away, like it was just another piece of the puzzle. “And you’re not telling the Commission.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Obviously. You think I trust those bureaucratic idiots to handle this the right way?”

Deku let out a breath, relief flickering across his face before he quickly masked it. “So… what now?”

Bakugou clenched his jaw, irritation still simmering beneath his skin. “Now? I figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with this mess.”

Shouto studied him for a moment, then asked, “Are you still mad at her?”

Bakugou exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Not at her. At the damn system that made her think this was her only option.”

Deku nodded slowly, understanding settling between them.

Bakugou shook his head, frustration still lingering, but not as sharp as before. “This whole thing is screwed up.”

Shouto hummed in agreement. “It is.”

Bakugou glanced between them, knowing they had already made their decision, knowing they had already chosen to keep this secret.

And now, whether he liked it or not, he was part of it too.

Bakugou walked ahead of the other two, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression set in its usual scowl. The patrol was more of an excuse to get out of another pointless meeting than anything else. None of them were really looking for Momo tonight, and if they did come across her, well - none of them were going to chase her.

Still, the whole situation sat weirdly with him. He wasn’t mad at her anymore, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t annoyed by certain things.

Like her damn name.

“The hell kind of name is Crimson Virtuoso?” Bakugou muttered, kicking a stray rock down the sidewalk. “Sounds like some fancy-ass stage performer, not a vigilante.”

Midoriya perked up instantly, his eyes lighting up with the kind of excitement that meant he was about to start rambling. “Well, if you think about it, it actually makes sense! ‘Crimson’ could symbolize leadership, power, or even rebellion, and ‘Virtuoso’ implies mastery, which-”

Bakugou groaned, cutting him off before he could go full analysis mode. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, nerd. Doesn’t mean it’s not stupid.”

Midoriya hummed in thought, tapping his chin. “So, you think she needs a new name?”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Midoriya grinned, already flipping through ideas in his head. “Okay, what about Shadow Forge? Since she creates things and works at night?”

Bakugou scoffed. “Sounds like some knockoff villain.”

Midoriya didn’t seem deterred. “Alright, what about Arcane Architect?”

Shouto, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. “That sounds like a magician.”

Midoriya frowned slightly, then brightened again. “Ooh! What about Midnight Engineer?”

Bakugou shot him a look. “She’s not a damn train conductor.”

Shouto tilted his head slightly, considering. “What about Red Sentinel?”

Bakugou groaned. “I don’t trust you to name anything, Icy-Hot. Your hero name is literally just your real name.”

Shouto blinked, then shrugged. “It’s efficient.”

Midoriya chuckled, glancing between them. “Well, to be fair, Kacchan, your hero name is-”

Bakugou shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

Shouto, however, wasn’t about to let it go. “Great Explosion Murder Lord Dynamight.”

Midoriya pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.

Bakugou’s eye twitched. “Everyone just calls me Dynamight.”

Shouto nodded. “Because your full name is ridiculous.”

Bakugou huffed, crossing his arms. “At least I didn’t just slap my first name on a license and call it a day.”

Shouto didn’t seem bothered. “It’s still better than ‘Murder Lord.’”

Midoriya finally lost it, laughing as Bakugou shoved him lightly in irritation.

The patrol continued, the conversation shifting, but the easy banter remained.

None of them said it out loud, but it was clear - things had changed.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like a bad thing.

Midoriya was still rattling off names, each one more elaborate than the last, while Bakugou shot down every single one without hesitation. Shouto listened quietly, only occasionally offering his own input, though Bakugou had already made it clear he didn’t trust him to name anything.

“She had a hero name before she left,” Shouto finally said, cutting through Midoriya’s latest suggestion of 'Scarlet Innovator'.

Bakugou scoffed. “Yeah, and she can’t exactly use ‘Creati’ now, genius.”

Shouto nodded, unfazed. “But it was structured well. Simple, recognizable, tied to her abilities without being too obvious.”

Midoriya hummed in thought, tapping his chin. “So, you think it should just be one word?”

Shouto shrugged. “It would be cleaner. Easier to remember.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, it still has to sound good. Can’t just slap a random word on her and call it a day.”

Midoriya perked up again, flipping through ideas. “Okay, what about just ‘Forge’?”

Bakugou frowned slightly, considering. “Not bad. But it sounds too much like a blacksmith.”

Shouto glanced at Midoriya. “What about ‘Havyn’?”

Midoriya blinked. “Like… haven?”

Shouto nodded. “It implies protection. Stability. A place where things are built.”

Bakugou made a face. “Sounds too soft.”

Midoriya chuckled. “Well, she’s not exactly running around blowing things up like you, Kacchan.”

Bakugou huffed, crossing his arms. “Still needs something stronger.”

Shouto tilted his head slightly. “What about ‘Vetra’?”

Midoriya furrowed his brows. “That’s… not a word.”

Shouto shrugged. “It sounds like one.”

Bakugou groaned. “This is why I don’t trust you to name things.”

Midoriya laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, okay, let’s keep thinking.”

The conversation continued, ideas tossed back and forth, some dismissed instantly, others lingering just long enough to be considered.

None of them knew if Momo would ever actually use the name they came up with.

But that wasn’t really the point.

Midoriya walked alongside the other two, his notebook tucked under his arm as he rattled off another name. Bakugou shot it down instantly, as expected, while Shouto listened with quiet consideration, occasionally offering his own suggestions - most of which Bakugou rejected just as fast.

It was strange how easily they could fall into this kind of rhythm. The three of them had never been the type of friends who did things traditionally. Bakugou was too brash, Shouto too reserved, and Midoriya too caught between them, balancing their extremes. And yet, somehow, it worked.

“Okay, what about ‘Aegis’?” Midoriya suggested, glancing between them. “It means shield, protection. Fits her whole theme.”

Bakugou frowned. “Sounds too much like a corporate brand.”

Shouto nodded slightly. “It’s also the name of her company.”

Midoriya blinked. “Oh. Right.”

Bakugou scoffed. “You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

Midoriya huffed, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. “Fine, what about ‘Vanguard’?”

Shouto considered it. “It implies leadership. Forward movement.”

Bakugou shook his head. “Too military.”

Midoriya tapped his pen against the paper, thinking. “Just 'Sentinel'?”

Bakugou groaned. “We already went over this. Sounds like some knockoff hero agency.”

Shouto glanced at him. “You’re rejecting everything.”

Bakugou crossed his arms. “Because everything sucks.”

Midoriya chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, then what would you name her?”

Bakugou opened his mouth, then paused, his expression shifting slightly.

Midoriya raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have anything, do you?”

Bakugou scowled. “Shut up.”

Shouto smirked slightly, the closest thing to amusement he had shown all night. “For someone who hates bad names, you’re not coming up with anything better.”

Midoriya laughed, flipping through his notes again. “Okay, okay, let’s keep going.”

The conversation continued, names tossed back and forth, some dismissed instantly, others lingering just long enough to be considered.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo sat on the edge of her bed, carefully wrapping a fresh bandage around her arm. The bruises from her fight with Bakugou were deep, the scrapes along her ribs sharp reminders of how close some of his explosions had gotten. Nothing serious, nothing she couldn’t handle, but enough to make movement stiff, enough to remind her that she had underestimated his persistence.

She had known it was only a matter of time before he figured it out.

Midoriya had always been too observant, too analytical to miss the patterns. Shouto had caught on early, had deleted the footage before anyone else could put the pieces together. And Bakugou - he had chased her, fought her, seen her face in the dim streetlight.

Now, all three of them knew.

Momo exhaled slowly, adjusting the bandage before tying it off. She had faith they wouldn’t tell the Commission. Midoriya and Shouto had already made their stance clear, and Bakugou, despite his frustration, wasn’t the type to hand her over to bureaucrats who would twist the situation to fit their own agenda.

Still, the weight of it lingered.

She had spent years operating in the shadows, staying ahead, staying unseen. Now, three of the most capable heroes of their generation knew exactly who she was, knew exactly what she was doing.

It didn’t change her plans.

But it did change the game.

Momo leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling, her mind already working through the next steps.

She wasn’t going to stop.

And now, she had to be more careful than ever.

Chapter Text

Momo adjusted the earpiece, her gaze locked onto the scene below as she crouched in the shadows of a rooftop ledge. The vantage point gave her a clear view of the warehouse entrance, where the villain group was gathering - more people than she usually dealt with, but nothing she hadn’t handled before. She had faced worse odds, had taken down more dangerous opponents, and she was confident she could get this done.

A crackle of static came through her earpiece before Hatsume’s voice filtered in, bright and energetic despite the late hour. “Alright, Fancy Girl, I’ve got eyes on the perimeter. No alarms, no extra security measures - just a whole lot of bad guys standing around looking suspicious.”

Momo allowed a small smile, adjusting her grip on the bō staff resting against her knee. “That’s what I expected. Any movement inside?”

Hatsume hummed, the sound of rapid typing in the background. “Not much. Looks like they’re waiting for something - or someone. Could be a deal going down, could be a meeting. Either way, they’re all clustered near the entrance, which means you’ve got a clean shot at taking them by surprise.”

Momo nodded, scanning the layout again. The positioning was favorable, the element of surprise on her side. She had planned for this, had accounted for the numbers, had mapped out her approach.

“I’ll move in soon,” she said, shifting slightly to prepare for descent. “Keep me updated if anything changes.”

Hatsume let out a short laugh. “You got it, Boss. Just try not to break anything too expensive - I hate having to replace gear.”

Momo smirked, shaking her head slightly. “I’ll do my best.”

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, her focus narrowing in on the task ahead.

The villains had no idea she was here.

And she intended to keep it that way - at least until it was too late for them to react.

The room was cold, sterile, filled with the quiet hum of monitors and the low murmur of voices. The Commission’s analysts worked quickly, pulling up reports, tracking movement, piecing together the latest intel on the Crimson Virtuoso. A red marker blinked on the screen - a location flagged, a disturbance noted.

“She’s been sighted,” one of the officials said, adjusting their glasses as they scanned the data. “Warehouse district, eastern sector. No reports of civilian casualties, but the fight is escalating.”

Another official leaned forward, fingers steepled. “She’s hesitating.”

The statement hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Across the city, Momo swung her staff in a sharp arc, knocking one opponent back before pivoting to block another strike. The fight had stretched longer than she anticipated. The villains were more coordinated than expected, their movements sharper, their attacks relentless. She had planned for numbers, but not for endurance - not for a battle that refused to end.

She exhaled sharply, adjusting her stance, ignoring the ache in her ribs where a hit had landed earlier. She could still win this. She just needed to finish it quickly.

Back at the Commission headquarters, orders were being issued.

“Deploy the Task Forces,” the lead official commanded, voice clipped, decisive. “We have enough units in the area to corner her. No more chasing - we end this tonight.”

The call went out, signals transmitted, locations sent.

Midoriya’s phone buzzed first. He glanced down, his stomach twisting as he read the message.

𝙲𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙼𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢.

Shouto’s phone lit up next, then Bakugou’s.

Momo ducked under a wild swing, countering with a precise strike to the attacker’s knee. Another opponent lunged, forcing her to twist away, her breath coming faster now, her movements sharp but strained.

She was running out of time.

The trio exchanged glances, the weight of the order settling between them.

They had been avoiding this moment.

Now, they had no choice but to act.

Midoriya kept his eyes on the mission briefing flashing across his phone screen, the details updating in real time as the transport sped toward the warehouse district. The Commission had deployed multiple units, not just their Task Force, but others stationed nearby. They weren’t leaving anything to chance.

Shouto sat across from him, arms resting loosely on his knees, his expression calm but focused. Bakugou leaned back against the side of the vehicle, his fingers tapping against his leg in restless irritation. None of them had spoken much since the call came in, but the tension in the air was enough to make words unnecessary.

Momo struck another opponent, her staff catching them across the chest before she pivoted to avoid a second attacker. The fight had stretched longer than expected, and she could feel the strain in her muscles, the sharp ache in her ribs where a hit had landed earlier. She had accounted for numbers, but the coordination of this group was making it harder to control the pace.

She needed to end this before reinforcements arrived.

Midoriya exhaled slowly, glancing at the map overlay on his screen. The Commission had marked multiple entry points, meaning they were planning to box her in. If she didn’t leave soon, she wouldn’t have a way out.

Bakugou scoffed, breaking the silence. “They think we’re actually gonna take her down?”

Shouto didn’t look up. “They don’t know we won’t.”

Midoriya frowned, fingers tightening around his phone. “We need to get there before the others do.”

Momo dodged another strike, her movements still sharp but losing their edge. She had fought longer battles before, but this wasn’t about endurance - it was about timing. If she didn’t finish this soon, she wouldn’t get the chance.

The transport slowed as they neared the district, the city lights giving way to the industrial shadows of the warehouse sector.

They were close.

And Momo was running out of options.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Shouto stepped out of the transport first, his eyes scanning the warehouse exterior. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and metal, the aftermath of a battle lingering in the stillness. The scene was brutal - bodies scattered across the ground, unconscious villains slumped against crates and sprawled across the pavement.

But what caught his attention wasn’t the sheer number of them.

It was the blood.

There was more than there should have been. The villains had taken their fair share of hits, but the amount staining the concrete, smeared across the ground in uneven patterns, wasn’t just theirs.

Momo wasn’t here.

But she had bled here.

Midoriya stepped forward, his expression tight as he took in the scene. Bakugou let out a sharp breath, his gaze flickering between the unconscious bodies and the streaks of red leading away from the main fight.

“She’s hurt,” Midoriya muttered, his voice edged with something uneasy.

Bakugou clicked his tongue, already moving toward the nearest exit point. “No kidding. She wouldn’t just leave this much behind unless she had no choice.”

Shouto nodded once, his mind already working through the possibilities. If she had been injured badly enough to retreat, she wouldn’t have gone far - not without stabilizing herself first.

“We split up,” he said, glancing between them. “We find her before the others do.”

Midoriya hesitated for only a second before nodding. “I’ll check the side streets.”

Bakugou rolled his shoulders, already heading toward the rooftops. “I’ll take high ground.”

Shouto turned toward the alleyways, his breath steady, his focus sharp. “I’ll cover the back routes.”

They moved quickly, slipping into the shadows just as the other Task Forces arrived.

The Commission’s units wasted no time, securing the area, rounding up the unconscious villains, assessing the damage.

None of them knew that the real target had already disappeared.

And none of them knew that three heroes were already breaking protocol to find her first.

Shouto moved through the alleyways with measured steps, his breath steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. The blood trail was faint but present, leading away from the warehouse district, disappearing in places where she had likely tried to cover her tracks. But she was injured - badly enough that she wouldn’t have made it far without stopping.

He found her slumped against the side of a building, half-hidden in the shadows, her bō staff lying just out of reach. Her breathing was shallow, her injuries worse than he had expected. Deep gashes along her arms, bruises blooming across her ribs, a cut near her temple where dried blood had streaked down her cheek. She had fought until she couldn’t anymore.

Shouto crouched beside her, pressing two fingers against her neck. Her pulse was weak but steady. She was alive.

He exhaled slowly, pulling out his phone - not the Commission-issued one, but the private line they had set up for situations exactly like this.

“I found her,” he said, keeping his voice low as the call connected. “She’s unconscious. Injuries are bad, but not fatal.”

Bakugou’s response was immediate. “Where?”

Shouto glanced around, assessing the area. “Too close to the Task Forces. We need to move her before they start searching outside the warehouse perimeter.”

Midoriya’s voice came through next, urgent but controlled. “Where do we take her?”

Shouto didn’t hesitate. “My apartment. It’s the safest option.”

Bakugou let out a sharp breath. “Fine. We’re on our way.”

Shouto ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket before turning his attention fully to Momo.

He slid one arm beneath Momo’s knees and the other around her back, lifting her with practiced ease. She didn’t react, her body limp against him, her breathing shallow but steady. The weight of her injuries was evident in the way she barely shifted, her usual strength drained from the fight that had lasted too long.

He adjusted his grip, holding her close as he stepped deeper into the alley, keeping to the shadows. The streets weren’t empty - patrol vehicles moved in the distance, the Commission’s forces securing the warehouse district - but they hadn’t expanded their search yet. He had time, but not much.

Instead of using his ice to cover ground quickly, he moved with controlled precision, avoiding sudden movements that might worsen her condition. The city stretched around him, quiet but tense, the distant hum of engines reminding him that they weren’t out of danger yet.

Momo’s head rested lightly against his shoulder, her injuries stark against the dim glow of passing streetlights. She had fought until she had nothing left, had refused to stop even when the odds had turned against her.

Shouto exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip as he neared his apartment.

She had spent so long fighting alone.

Tonight, she wouldn’t have to.

Bakugou paced near the entrance, arms crossed, his jaw tight as he listened for any sign of movement outside. Midoriya had let them in with Shouto’s spare key, and now they were just waiting - waiting for him to show up, waiting to see how bad Momo’s injuries really were, waiting to figure out what the hell they were supposed to do next.

Midoriya sat on the edge of the couch, his fingers tapping anxiously against his knee, his eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds. He wasn’t saying much, which meant he was thinking too much, running through possibilities, calculating outcomes.

Bakugou exhaled sharply, pushing off the wall just as he heard footsteps approaching.

The door opened, and Shouto stepped inside, Momo still cradled in his arms.

Bakugou’s eyes immediately went to her injuries - the bruises, the dried blood, the way she barely reacted to being moved. She looked worse up close, worse than he had expected, worse than she should have after a fight she had probably thought she could handle.

Midoriya was already moving, clearing space on the couch, grabbing the first aid kit Shouto kept in the apartment.

Shouto didn’t hesitate, carrying her over and lowering her carefully onto the cushions, his movements precise, controlled, like he had been hyper-aware of every shift, every breath, every sign of discomfort.

Bakugou clenched his fists, irritation simmering beneath his skin - not at her, not at them, but at the entire damn situation.

She had fought alone.

And now, whether she liked it or not, she wasn’t anymore.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo woke slowly, the scent of miso soup and grilled fish pulling her from the haze of sleep. The warmth of the blanket was unfamiliar, the quiet hum of the apartment a stark contrast to the cold alley where she had last been conscious. Her body ached, the dull throb of bruises and deeper wounds reminding her of the fight, the escape, the way she had barely made it out.

She blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, her surroundings coming into focus. Shouto’s apartment. Not her hideout, not some abandoned rooftop where she would have patched herself up alone.

She wasn’t alone.

Carefully, she pushed herself up, wincing as the movement pulled at her injuries. The blanket slipped off her shoulders, revealing fresh bandages wrapped neatly around her arms, her ribs, even the cut near her temple. Someone had taken the time to do it properly, had made sure she wouldn’t wake up worse than before.

She glanced toward the kitchen, where Bakugou stood at the stove, focused, precise, moving with the kind of efficiency that made it clear he had done this a hundred times before.

Shouto sat nearby, watching her with quiet intent, his posture relaxed but his attention unwavering. He hadn’t left.

Midoriya was covering for them, keeping the Commission off their backs, making sure no one questioned why Bakugou wasn’t on patrol, why Shouto wasn’t reporting in.

And Shouto had stayed, refusing to leave her side.

Momo swallowed, adjusting her posture, trying to piece together the situation.

She had spent so long fighting alone.

But now, it seemed, she wasn’t the only one making sure she could keep going.

Momo shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around her as she glanced toward Shouto. He was sitting near the armchair, posture relaxed but gaze steady, watching her with the quiet intensity that had always made him difficult to read.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said softly, her voice still rough from exhaustion.

Shouto blinked, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “I wanted to.”

There was no hesitation in his tone, no awkward attempt to justify it. Just a simple truth, spoken like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Momo exhaled slowly, studying him for a moment. He wasn’t the type to hover, wasn’t the type to impose, but there was something about the way he sat there - calm, steady, unwavering - that made it clear he wasn’t leaving until he was sure she was alright.

“You should be out on patrol,” she murmured, shifting slightly to ease the tension in her ribs.

Shouto tilted his head slightly. “Midoriya is covering for me.”

She nodded, glancing toward the kitchen where Bakugou was still focused on the stove, his movements sharp and efficient. “And Bakugou?”

Shouto’s lips twitched slightly, the closest thing to amusement she had seen from him since she woke up. “He came back this morning.”

Momo hummed in thought, letting the silence settle between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable - just quiet, just steady, just something she hadn’t realized she needed.

Shouto shifted slightly, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

Before he could figure it out, Bakugou strode over, dropping a tray in front of her with enough force to make the dishes rattle.

“Eat,” he ordered, arms crossed, his glare sharp. “Or else.”

Momo blinked, startled by the sudden interruption.

Shouto sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Subtle.”

Bakugou scoffed. “She’s too damn stubborn to rest properly. Someone’s gotta make sure she doesn’t keel over.”

Momo hesitated for only a second before picking up the chopsticks, the warmth of the meal settling into her hands.

She had spent so long fighting alone.

But now, it seemed, she wasn’t the only one making sure she could keep going.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The past month had been a careful balancing act - one that Momo had managed with practiced ease. She had stayed away from vigilante work, kept to her CEO persona, maintained the image that the world expected of her. The excuse of falling down the stairs had been enough to explain the head injury, and the long-sleeved shirts covered the worst of the bruises.

No one questioned it.

At least, no one outside of the three heroes who had seen the truth firsthand.

Shouto had kept his distance in public, but she knew he was watching, knew he was making sure she wasn’t pushing herself too soon. Midoriya had been subtle, checking in through casual conversations, slipping in questions that seemed harmless but were always meant to gauge how she was recovering.

And Bakugou- well, Bakugou had been the least subtle of them all.

He had made it clear from the start that he wasn’t going to let her go back to fighting until she was actually ready. Every time she even hinted at returning to work, he shot her down with a glare and some variation of “Don’t be stupid.”

She had expected frustration, had expected them to push back against her choices, had expected them to try to convince her to stop entirely.

But they hadn’t.

They hadn’t told her to quit. They hadn’t tried to force her into the system.

They had just made sure she had time to heal.

Momo adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, glancing at the reflection in the office window. She looked composed, polished, exactly as she was supposed to.

But she knew the moment she stepped back into the shadows, the moment she picked up her staff again, the moment she returned to the work she had started,

She wouldn’t be doing it alone anymore.

Momo sat across from the trio in the quiet of her office, a tablet resting in her hands as she scrolled through the latest reports. The conversation had started with strategy - patrol routes, villain activity, shifts in crime patterns - but had gradually eased into something more casual, something that felt almost normal.

Midoriya leaned forward, tapping a section of the map displayed on the screen. “The Commission has been monitoring this district more closely since the warehouse incident. They’ve increased patrols, but the reports don’t show any major breakthroughs.”

Shouto nodded slightly, arms crossed as he studied the data. “They’re still chasing shadows.”

Bakugou scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Because they don’t know what the hell they’re actually looking for.”

Momo hummed in thought, adjusting the display to highlight movement patterns. “They’re reacting instead of anticipating. If they were truly close to finding anything, their approach would be more aggressive.”

Midoriya hesitated for a moment before speaking. “They think they scared her off.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been.

Shouto glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

Midoriya exhaled, tapping his fingers against the table. “The reports mention her absence. The Commission expected her to resurface by now, but since she hasn’t, they’re assuming she either went underground or decided the risk wasn’t worth it.”

Bakugou let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Idiots. She’s not gone, she’s just-” He stopped himself, clicking his tongue in irritation.

Momo adjusted the tablet, keeping her expression neutral. “They’ll realize soon enough that their assumption is incorrect.”

Shouto studied her for a moment before nodding. “And when they do, they’ll push harder.”

Midoriya frowned slightly, his mind already working through possibilities. “We need to be ready for that.”

Bakugou crossed his arms, his gaze sharp. “Then let’s make sure we’re ahead of them.”

Momo glanced at the map again, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

She had stayed out of the shadows for a month.

But the world wasn’t going to let her stay there forever.

Bakugou leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression shifting from irritation to something closer to exasperation. “By the way, that dumbass name the press gave you? It sucks.”

Momo blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Excuse me?”

Midoriya sighed, already bracing for whatever was about to come next. “Kacchan-”

“No, shut up, you know I’m right,” Bakugou cut in, gesturing vaguely. “Crimson Virtuoso? What the hell kind of name is that? Sounds like some fancy-ass violinist, not a vigilante.”

Shouto tilted his head slightly, considering. “It does sound theatrical.”

Momo exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t pick it. The media did.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Yeah, well, you should’ve rejected it. You need something better.”

Midoriya hummed in thought, tapping his fingers against the table. “We did talk about this before…”

Shouto nodded. “A single-word name would be more effective.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because you’re so great at naming things, Shouto.”

Shouto blinked. “I chose efficiency.”

Midoriya chuckled, shaking his head. “Okay, okay, let’s not start that argument again.”

Momo sighed, setting her tablet down. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think changing it now would make much of a difference.”

Bakugou huffed. “It’d make a difference to my sanity.”

Shouto smirked slightly. “That’s debatable.”

Midoriya laughed, and Momo shook her head, letting the conversation shift back to strategy.

But she had a feeling Bakugou wasn’t going to let this go anytime soon.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The meeting room was quiet, save for the hum of monitors displaying reports, surveillance footage, and movement patterns. The Commission’s top analysts sat in stiff-backed chairs, their attention fixed on the data in front of them.

A senior officer tapped a finger against the table, his gaze sharp. “It’s been over a month since her last sighting. No new activity, no confirmed engagements. Either she’s gone underground, or she’s waiting.”

Another official adjusted their glasses, scanning the latest patrol reports. “She’s not gone. If she were, we’d see a shift in crime patterns. The groups she disrupted would be moving more freely. But they aren’t. They’re still cautious, still hesitant. That means they believe she’s coming back.”

A third officer leaned forward, arms crossed. “Then the question isn’t if she’ll resurface - it’s when.”

The lead strategist pulled up a map, highlighting key locations. “We’ve increased surveillance in her most active areas, but that hasn’t given us anything useful. If she’s avoiding those zones, she’s either adapting or recovering.”

A silence settled over the room, heavy with unspoken conclusions.

Finally, one of the senior officials spoke, voice measured. “There’s another inconsistency we need to address.”

The others turned their attention toward him.

He tapped the screen, pulling up a series of reports. “The Task Forces assigned to track her have been inconsistent. Before, their findings aligned. Now, there are gaps - contradictions in patrol logs, discrepancies in pursuit records.”

Another officer frowned. “Are you suggesting interference?”

The senior official exhaled slowly, his gaze narrowing. “I’m suggesting that certain heroes may know more than they’re letting on.”

The weight of the statement settled over the room.

The Crimson Virtuoso wasn’t the only target anymore.

Now, they had reason to suspect the people around her.

The discussion shifted, the air in the room growing heavier as the senior official pulled up another set of reports. Patrol logs, mission briefings, post-operation assessments - all meticulously documented, all showing a pattern that hadn’t been there before.

“The inconsistencies aren’t random,” he stated, scrolling through the data. “They’re concentrated within specific Task Forces. And three names keep appearing in reports that don’t align with the expected findings.”

A tap of his finger, and three profiles appeared on the screen.

𝙸𝚣𝚞𝚔𝚞 𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚢𝚊. 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚘 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚒. 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚒 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚐𝚘𝚞.

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of the revelation settling in.

Another official leaned forward, scanning the files. “They’ve been assigned to multiple pursuit operations. If they were withholding information, we would have seen signs earlier.”

The strategist narrowed his gaze. “We did. We just didn’t recognize them for what they were.”

A third officer exhaled, crossing his arms. “If they know something, they won’t admit it outright. We need to apply pressure.”

The lead official nodded. “Increase surveillance. Monitor their movements, their reports, their interactions. If they slip, we catch it.”

Another officer tapped a pen against the table. “And if they don’t?”

The strategist’s expression remained unreadable. “Then we make them.”

Chapter Text

The Commission wasted no time. Surveillance increased overnight - subtle at first, just enough to go unnoticed by most, but the trio felt the shift immediately. Patrol routes were adjusted, reports were scrutinized more closely, casual conversations with colleagues carried an edge that hadn’t been there before.

Midoriya noticed first. His phone logs were being reviewed more frequently, his mission briefings questioned with an unusual level of detail. The Commission wasn’t outright accusing him of anything, but they were watching - waiting for a mistake, for a slip, for something they could use.

Shouto remained outwardly unaffected, but he had caught the extra eyes on him, the way his movements were tracked with more precision, the way his reports were double-checked against other sources. He didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge it, but he adjusted - careful wording, controlled responses, ensuring nothing could be twisted against him.

Bakugou was the least patient. He had already snapped at one of the Commission’s officers for asking too many questions, had nearly walked out of a briefing when the interrogation tactics became too obvious. He knew they were testing him, trying to push him into a reaction that would confirm their suspicions.

And then came the direct questioning.

It started with Midoriya - pulled aside after a routine patrol, asked about inconsistencies in reports, about unusual activity in areas connected to the Crimson Virtuoso. The questions were framed carefully, not accusations, but probes - searching for cracks, for hesitation, for anything that could be used against him.

Shouto was next. His interactions with Momo were analyzed, his movements tracked against known vigilante activity. They didn’t have proof, but they were looking for it, pressing just enough to make it clear that they weren’t letting this go.

Bakugou’s interrogation was the most aggressive. They didn’t bother with subtlety, didn’t try to ease into the conversation. They wanted answers, and they wanted them now.

But none of them gave the Commission what they were looking for.

The pressure was mounting.

And the Commission wasn’t going to stop until they had something solid.

The briefing had barely ended when the Commission officers made their move, cutting off the trio before they could leave the room. The shift in atmosphere was immediate - what had been a routine debrief now carried the weight of something far more deliberate.

Midoriya kept his expression neutral, already anticipating the line of questioning. Shouto remained composed, his posture relaxed but his attention sharp. Bakugou, on the other hand, let out an irritated breath, crossing his arms as he shot the officers a glare.

“We have a few follow-up questions,” one of the officials stated, tone measured but firm.

Bakugou scoffed. “Of course you do.”

The lead officer ignored the comment, pulling up a file on his tablet. “The Crimson Virtuoso has been inactive for over a month. Yet, despite increased surveillance, we’ve found no indication of her whereabouts. No new leads, no sightings, nothing.”

Midoriya tilted his head slightly. “That would suggest she’s either gone underground or stopped entirely.”

The officer’s gaze didn’t waver. “Or that someone is helping her stay hidden.”

Shouto remained silent, watching the exchange unfold.

Bakugou clicked his tongue, already tired of the conversation. “You think we know where she is?”

The officer didn’t answer directly. “You’ve been assigned to multiple pursuit operations. If anyone would have insight into her movements, it would be you three.”

Midoriya exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve followed every directive given to us. If we had actionable intelligence, it would be in the reports.”

Shouto nodded slightly. “And yet, you’re questioning us instead of reviewing your own findings.”

The officer’s expression remained unreadable. “Do you know who she is?”

Bakugou let out a sharp breath, his patience officially gone. “Someone obviously infinitely better at hero work than you are.”

Midoriya closed his eyes briefly, already regretting everything.

Shouto sighed. “That’s not going to help.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Like they were gonna believe anything we said anyway.”

The officer narrowed his gaze but didn’t press further. “We’ll be watching.”

The trio didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge the warning, didn’t give them anything to latch onto.

The Commission was closing in.

But they weren’t going to make it easy.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The trap was meticulously planned - layers of misdirection, controlled leaks of false information, carefully placed bait designed to force the Crimson Virtuoso into action. The Commission had spent months refining their approach, adjusting their tactics, ensuring that when she finally resurfaced, they would be ready.

And she had taken the bait.

Momo had known something was off the moment she arrived. The setup was too clean, the timing too precise, the supposed villain activity too conveniently placed within one of her usual patrol zones. But she couldn’t ignore it - not when innocent lives were at risk, not when the alternative was standing by and doing nothing.

So she moved.

The fight was quick, efficient - her strikes precise, her movements calculated. The villains weren’t the real threat, just pieces in a larger game, but she had dealt with them before the Commission’s forces arrived.

She had planned her escape route, had accounted for pursuit, had ensured she wouldn’t be cornered.

But what she hadn’t accounted for was the surveillance.

High-speed cameras, strategically placed drones, enhanced tracking systems - all designed for one purpose.

To capture her face.

She had barely slipped into the shadows when she realized the mistake. The Commission wasn’t chasing her.

They didn’t need to.

Because this time, they had proof.

The revelation sent shockwaves through the hero world.

Momo Yaoyorozu - the poised CEO, the former U.A. prodigy, the woman the Commission had deemed unfit for hero work - was the Crimson Virtuoso. The footage was undeniable, her face captured with perfect clarity, her movements unmistakable. The media latched onto the story with relentless force, dissecting every detail, every past decision, every failure of the system that had led to this moment.

The Commission scrambled to control the fallout, issuing statements, pushing narratives, trying to frame her as reckless, misguided, a danger to the order they had built. But the public wasn’t so easily swayed.

Because this wasn’t just about her.

It was about the system itself - the cracks that had been ignored, the people it had failed, the illusion of control that had been shattered.

And the consequences didn’t stop with her.

Midoriya, Bakugou, and Todoroki were dragged into the controversy, their past connections to Aegis Innovations scrutinized, their involvement questioned. Shouto bore the worst of it - his agency had worked with her company more than any other, his personal ties to her undeniable. Endeavor’s name was pulled into the mess; his reputation tangled in the fallout.

The Commission pushed harder, desperate to regain control of the narrative.

But then Bakugou, in his usual fashion, made sure they lost it entirely.

During a press conference, when yet another official tried to dismiss her actions as nothing more than "a rogue vigilante disrupting order," Bakugou scoffed, arms crossed, irritation clear.

"You think she’s some reckless idiot playing hero?" he snapped. "She’s everything you tried to erase, and she’s never gonna stop because she's infinitely better at it then you'll ever be."

The name stuck.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚅𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎; 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢.

A callback to what she had once been - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘; 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒.

But now, she was gone.

No sightings. No reports. No trace of her anywhere.

Momo Yaoyorozu had officially gone underground.

And no one knew when - or if - she was coming back.

The revelation didn’t just expose Momo - it exposed the system itself.

For years, society had operated under a carefully constructed hierarchy. Heroes were chosen, trained, sanctioned by the Commission. Civilians were taught to rely on them, to trust that those deemed capable would protect them. Vigilantes were dismissed as reckless, dangerous, a threat to order.

But now, the world had to confront an uncomfortable truth.

Momo Yaoyorozu had been deemed incapable - rejected by the very system that claimed to uphold justice. And yet, she had done what heroes were meant to do. She had protected people, fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves, stepped into the void left by bureaucracy and inefficiency.

And she had done it better than most sanctioned heroes ever could.

The debate was unavoidable.

Was the system truly working?

If someone like her - someone trained, skilled, intelligent - had been cast aside, how many others had been? How many had been told they weren’t good enough, weren’t strong enough, weren’t worthy of the title of hero? How many had been forced into the shadows, not because they wanted to break the law, but because the law had failed them?

The Commission tried to control the narrative, but the cracks were already showing.

Public trust wavered. Discussions turned into arguments. Protests sparked in major cities, demanding reform, demanding answers, demanding accountability.

And through it all, Momo remained unseen.

She had become more than just a vigilante.

She had become proof that the system wasn’t infallible.

And that terrified the people who had built it.

The Commission was in chaos.

What had started as a controlled operation to unmask a vigilante had spiraled into a full-blown crisis. The footage had done more than expose Momo Yaoyorozu - it had shattered the carefully maintained illusion that the system was infallible.

Public trust was crumbling. News outlets dissected every failure, every inconsistency, every decision that had led to this moment. Protests erupted across major cities, demanding reform, demanding accountability, demanding answers the Commission didn’t have.

And worst of all, they had no way to fix it.

Momo had disappeared. No sightings, no reports, no trace of her anywhere. They couldn’t control the narrative because she wasn’t there to be controlled.

Meetings stretched late into the night, officials scrambling for solutions, for damage control, for anything that could shift the conversation back in their favor. Some pushed for harsher regulations, for stricter enforcement against vigilantes, for a crackdown that would remind the public who was in charge. Others argued for reform, for a restructuring of the system before it collapsed entirely.

But no one could agree.

Because the truth was undeniable.

Momo Yaoyorozu had been deemed incapable.

And yet, she had done the job better than most sanctioned heroes ever could.

The Commission had spent years convincing the world that only a select few were worthy of the title of hero.

Now, the world was starting to question if that had ever been true at all.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Six months had passed, and the Commission had been forced to adapt.

The fallout from Momo’s exposure had reshaped public discourse, forcing lawmakers to confront the flaws in the system they had upheld for decades. The protests hadn’t stopped, the debates hadn’t faded, and the pressure to enact meaningful change had only grown stronger.

So, for the first time in years, the Commission rewrote its laws.

The restriction on Quirk usage had been one of the most heavily contested policies. Before, civilians had been barred from using their Quirks at all unless they held a hero license. Now, the law had shifted - Quirk usage in combat was still restricted, but self-defense was officially recognized as an exception.

It was a small change, but it was monumental.

People no longer had to stand helpless in the face of danger, forced to wait for a hero to intervene. If someone was attacked, if their life was threatened, they could fight back without fear of legal repercussions.

And that wasn’t the only reform.

First responders - police officers, firefighters, paramedics - were now eligible for specialized Quirk licenses, allowing them to use their abilities in their fields. A firefighter with a water Quirk could actively assist in extinguishing flames. A police officer with a mobility Quirk could apprehend criminals without drawn-out foot chases. Doctors with healing Quirks could use their abilities to save more lives without bureaucratic interference.

Even the entertainment industry saw changes. Performers, artists, and production teams could now incorporate Quirk usage into their work, creating new possibilities for creativity and innovation.

The shift was gradual, but undeniable.

For years, the system had operated under the belief that only heroes should be allowed to use their Quirks freely. That belief had created layers of inequality, had forced people into limitations that made no sense, had upheld a hierarchy that benefited only a select few.

Now, that hierarchy was beginning to crack.

And the world was starting to look a little fairer.

Shouto sat at his desk, the glow of his phone screen illuminating the dimly lit room. The article stared back at him, the headline bold, undeniable.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚈𝚊𝚘𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚣𝚞 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝙴𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎.

He had known this was coming. The reforms had been inevitable, the pressure too strong for the Commission to ignore. The laws had changed, the restrictions had loosened, and for the first time, civilians had real autonomy over their own abilities.

And it was because of her.

The world had finally acknowledged what he had known all along - that Momo had never been the problem. The system had failed her, had cast her aside, had forced her into the shadows. And even then, she had done what heroes were meant to do.

But she wasn’t here to see it.

Shouto exhaled slowly, scrolling through the article, reading every word even though he already knew what it would say. The media had turned her into a symbol, a force that had reshaped the hero world without ever standing in the spotlight. They praised her, analyzed her, debated whether she had been right or wrong.

But none of it mattered.

Because she was still gone.

Six months, and not a single trace of her. No messages, no sightings, no quiet reassurances that she was safe. She had cut off contact completely, disappearing into the underground with no indication of when - or if - she would return.

Shouto had searched.

Not openly, not recklessly, but he had looked. He had followed leads, had listened for whispers, had tried to find anything that might tell him where she had gone.

But she had covered her tracks too well.

He set his phone down, staring at the city skyline beyond his window. The world had changed because of her, but she wasn’t here to see it.

And that was the part he couldn’t accept.

Shouto had never been good at recognizing his own emotions.

He had spent years learning control, mastering restraint, ensuring that nothing - anger, grief, fear - ever dictated his actions. It was a skill honed through necessity, a survival tactic that had carried him through childhood and into hero work.

But this was different.

This wasn’t something he could suppress, wasn’t something he could compartmentalize and push aside. It was constant, lingering beneath the surface, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn’t shake.

Momo was gone.

And it felt wrong.

He caught himself searching for her without meaning to. His eyes lingered on places she used to frequent, his thoughts drifted to conversations they had months ago, his fingers hovered over his phone screen, knowing there would be no new messages.

She had cut off contact completely. No explanations, no reassurances, no quiet promises that she would return.

And that was what unsettled him the most.

She had always been deliberate, always careful, always thinking five steps ahead. If she had disappeared this thoroughly, it wasn’t just for safety - it was because she had decided she had to.

Midoriya had noticed. He hadn’t said anything outright, but his concern was obvious, his quiet glances lingering a little too long, his attempts at conversation always steering toward how Shouto was handling everything rather than the situation itself.

Bakugou, on the other hand, had no patience for subtlety.

"You look like hell," he muttered one evening, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall of their shared briefing room.

Shouto didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge the statement, just continued scanning the latest reports.

Bakugou scoffed. "Tch. You think ignoring it’s gonna make it go away?"

Shouto exhaled slowly, setting the tablet down. "I don’t know where she is."

"Yeah, no kidding," Bakugou shot back. "And it’s driving you insane."

Shouto didn’t argue.

Because it was true.

He had spent months trying to rationalize it, trying to convince himself that she was safe, that she had planned this, that she knew what she was doing.

But none of that changed the fact that he wanted to see her, to hear her voice, to know that she was okay.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do.

Shouto had never been one to dwell on things he couldn’t change.

He had learned early on that lingering on uncertainty did nothing but waste time. If something was broken, you fixed it. If something was wrong, you corrected it. If something was missing, you found it.

But this wasn’t something he could fix.

Momo had disappeared, and no amount of searching, analyzing, or waiting had brought her back.

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking.

It was subtle at first - his eyes scanning crowds without thinking, his patrol routes shifting slightly toward places she used to frequent, his mind catching on details that reminded him of her. But as the months stretched on, it became harder to ignore.

Midoriya had tried to talk to him about it, his voice careful, measured, like he was afraid pushing too hard would make Shouto retreat further.

"You know she wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself," he had said one evening, his expression open, understanding.

Shouto had only nodded, because he knew that.

But knowing didn’t change anything.

Bakugou, as expected, had no patience for quiet concern.

"You’re acting like a damn idiot," he snapped one afternoon, arms crossed, irritation clear. "She’s gone. You think staring at reports is gonna magically bring her back?"

Shouto didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know what else to do.

The world had changed because of her. The laws had shifted, the system had been forced to evolve, and yet she wasn’t here to see it.

And that was the part he couldn’t accept.

Because if anyone deserved to see the world she had helped reshape, it was her.

The city was quiet tonight, the streets settled into the usual rhythm of late patrols. Shouto walked alongside Midoriya and Bakugou, their Task Force still active, still watching, still waiting for any sign that Momo would resurface.

But she hadn’t.

And Shouto had stopped expecting her to.

Midoriya was talking - something about Ochako, about their last mission together, about how she had handled a hostage situation with a level of precision that had impressed even the senior heroes. Shouto listened, nodded when appropriate, offered the occasional comment, but his responses were noticeably sparse.

Bakugou, as usual, had no patience for Midoriya’s rambling.

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, she’s amazing," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "You gonna write a damn thesis on it?"

Midoriya huffed. "I’m just saying, it was impressive!"

Shouto hummed in agreement, but it was absent, automatic.

Midoriya noticed.

Bakugou noticed faster.

The conversation shifted, Midoriya filling the silence with another tangent, but Bakugou wasn’t listening anymore. His gaze flicked toward Shouto, sharp, assessing, irritation simmering beneath the surface.

And then, without warning,

"You’re acting like a lovesick idiot."

Midoriya nearly tripped over his own feet. "Kacchan!"

Shouto blinked, turning to him with a slow, measured look. "Excuse me?"

Bakugou scoffed, crossing his arms. "You heard me. You’ve been walking around like some moody dumbass for months, and I’m sick of it."

Midoriya sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is not how we approach things delicately-"

Bakugou ignored him entirely. "You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t notice how you get all weird every time someone brings her up? You’re miserable, and it’s pathetic."

Shouto exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "I don’t know where she is."

Midoriya hesitated, glancing between them, unsure whether to intervene or let the conversation play out.

Shouto didn’t argue.

Because it was true.

And now, he had to figure out what to do about it.

Chapter Text

The reforms had passed, but the fight was far from over.

The Commission had been forced to adapt, rewriting laws, loosening restrictions, allowing civilians more autonomy over their own abilities. But the changes had come at a cost - public trust had fractured, protests had continued, and the debate over whether the system was truly sustainable had only grown louder.

And now, the cracks were starting to show.

Inside the Commission, officials were divided. Some believed the reforms were necessary, a step toward progress, a way to prevent another disaster like Momo’s exposure. Others saw them as a dangerous precedent, proof that vigilantes could force the system to bend, a sign that control was slipping.

The tension wasn’t just internal.

Public unrest had barely settled. Some civilians welcomed the changes, relieved that they could finally use their Quirks without fear of legal repercussions. Others argued that the reforms didn’t go far enough, that the Commission had been exposed as flawed and needed a complete overhaul.

And then there were those who believed the opposite - that the reforms had weakened the system, that heroes were losing authority, that vigilantes like Momo had set a reckless example that would lead to chaos.

The Commission was struggling to maintain control, and the pressure was mounting.

And the trio was still caught in the middle.

Midoriya, Bakugou, and Shouto had never been officially accused of anything, but suspicion lingered. They had worked with Aegis Innovations, had been close to Momo, had been involved in too many incidents that now raised uncomfortable questions.

The scrutiny hadn’t faded.

Their reports were still reviewed with more detail than necessary. Their movements were still monitored. Their interactions were still analyzed, dissected, picked apart for any sign that they knew more than they were letting on.

And the Commission wasn’t done searching.

Momo had disappeared, but they hadn’t stopped looking.

Because as long as she was out there, she was proof that the system wasn’t as untouchable as they wanted it to be.

The protests hadn’t stopped.

Even with the reforms, even with the Commission’s attempts at damage control, the unrest remained. The changes had been necessary, but for many, they weren’t enough. The system had been exposed as flawed, and now, people wanted more than just adjustments. They wanted transparency. They wanted accountability. Some wanted to dismantle the Commission entirely.

The streets were filled with voices demanding answers. Signs called for investigations, for resignations, for a complete restructuring of hero oversight. News outlets struggled to keep up with the shifting narrative, some defending the Commission’s authority, others questioning whether it had ever been justified in the first place.

And at the center of it all was Momo.

Her name was everywhere - on banners, in speeches, in articles dissecting every decision that had led to this moment. She had become more than just a vigilante. She was a symbol, proof that the system had failed, proof that heroes weren’t the only ones capable of protecting people.

The Commission was losing control of the conversation.

For years, they had dictated the rules, had shaped public perception, had ensured that heroes remained the foundation of society. But now, civilians were questioning everything. Why had Quirk usage been restricted for so long? Why had only heroes been allowed to act? Why had someone like Momo been cast aside when she had done nothing but prove her capability?

And the Commission had no good answers.

Because the truth was undeniable.

The system had survived for decades on the belief that only a select few were worthy of the title of hero.

Now, the world was starting to wonder if that had ever been true at all.

The unrest was no longer just protests. It was movement.

What had started as scattered demonstrations had grown into something larger, something organized, something the Commission could no longer dismiss as temporary outrage. Civilians weren’t just demanding answers - they were demanding change.

And they weren’t waiting for permission.

Independent safety networks had begun forming in major cities - groups of civilians trained in emergency response, using their Quirks to assist in crises before heroes even arrived. Some were former rescue workers, some were simply people who had decided they weren’t going to stand by and wait anymore.

The Commission tried to shut them down.

They issued statements, warning that unregulated intervention could lead to disaster, that heroes were still the best-equipped to handle emergencies. But the public wasn’t listening.

Because the public had seen the truth.

They had seen Momo Yaoyorozu, a woman the system had deemed incapable, step into the void left by bureaucracy and inefficiency. They had seen her protect people, fight for them, do what heroes were supposed to do. And now, they were asking themselves - if she could do it, why couldn’t they?

The Commission was losing control.

And the more they tried to tighten their grip, the more people slipped through their fingers.

Some officials pushed for harsher regulations, for stricter enforcement, for a crackdown that would remind civilians who was in charge. Others argued that doing so would only prove Momo’s point - that the system wasn’t built to protect people, but to control them.

The divide was growing.

And the world was watching.

The Commission was fracturing.

For months, they had operated under the assumption that Momo Yaoyorozu’s disappearance would allow them to regain control. That once she was gone, the protests would die down, the outrage would settle, and the system would stabilize.

But that hadn’t happened.

Instead, her absence had only fueled the movement. She had become a symbol, a catalyst for change, proof that the system had failed. And now, the Commission was split on how to handle it.

Some officials wanted to hunt her down harder than ever. They argued that as long as she remained free, she was a threat - not just to their authority, but to the very foundation of hero society. If she resurfaced, if she continued her work, it would send a message that vigilantes could operate unchecked, that the system could be defied.

Others saw the danger in that approach.

They argued that pursuing her would only prove her point - that the Commission was more concerned with control than actual justice. That instead of addressing the flaws in their system, they were trying to silence the person who had exposed them.

The debates grew heated.

Some pushed for increased surveillance, for expanded search efforts, for harsher penalties against anyone suspected of aiding her. Others warned that doing so would only deepen public distrust, that the Commission was already on unstable ground, that another misstep could be the final blow to their credibility.

No one could agree.

Because the truth was undeniable.

Momo Yaoyorozu had disappeared.

And yet, even in her absence, she was still reshaping the world.

The divide within the Commission was no longer just quiet disagreements behind closed doors. It was turning into something volatile, something dangerous, something that threatened to unravel everything they had spent decades building.

Meetings were tense, arguments sharp, voices raised in frustration as officials clashed over the next course of action. Some demanded immediate action, calling for a full-scale operation to track Momo down, to bring her in, to make an example out of her before the movement spiraled further out of control. Others warned that doing so would be catastrophic, that the Commission was already teetering on the edge of losing public trust entirely, that another misstep could push them past the point of no return.

The pressure was mounting.

Reports flooded in - more civilians organizing independent safety networks, more protests demanding transparency, more heroes questioning whether the system they had sworn to uphold was even worth protecting. The Commission had spent years ensuring that hero society remained structured, orderly, controlled. But now, that control was slipping through their fingers, and they had no way to stop it.

Some officials took matters into their own hands.

Surveillance increased, Task Forces were reassigned, new restrictions were quietly proposed in an attempt to regain authority. But none of it was enough. The public wasn’t backing down, the movement wasn’t fading, and Momo remained a ghost, unseen, unreachable, untouchable.

And the longer she stayed hidden, the more powerful her absence became.

Because she wasn’t just a vigilante anymore.

She was proof that the system could be defied.

The scrutiny hadn’t faded.

Midoriya, Bakugou, and Shouto had never been officially accused of anything, but suspicion lingered. They had worked with Aegis Innovations, had been close to Momo, had been involved in too many incidents that now raised uncomfortable questions.

And the Commission wasn’t letting it go.

Every report they submitted was dissected, every mission analyzed for inconsistencies, every interaction monitored for signs that they knew more than they were admitting. Some officials were convinced they had information on Momo’s whereabouts, that they were protecting her, that they had been complicit in her actions from the beginning. Others weren’t sure, but they still saw them as liabilities - heroes too close to the controversy, too tangled in the fallout to be trusted completely.

The questioning was relentless.

Midoriya handled it with careful diplomacy, answering every inquiry with precision, ensuring that nothing he said could be twisted against them. He knew how dangerous the situation was, how easily the Commission could turn suspicion into something more damning.

Bakugou, unsurprisingly, had no patience for it.

He had already snapped at one official for implying they had aided Momo, had nearly walked out of a briefing when the interrogation tactics became too obvious. He knew they were testing him, trying to push him into a reaction that would confirm their suspicions.

Shouto remained composed, but the weight of it was starting to wear on him.

Every meeting, every report, every carefully worded conversation was a reminder that Momo was gone, that she had cut off contact, that he had no answers to give even if he wanted to. And yet, the Commission kept pressing, kept watching, kept waiting for one of them to slip.

Because as long as Momo remained missing, they were the closest thing to a lead.

The pressure was becoming unbearable.

At first, the scrutiny had been subtle - extra questions during debriefings, reports being reviewed with more detail than necessary, quiet observations that never felt like coincidences. But now, it was blatant. The Commission wasn’t just watching them. They were waiting for them to crack.

Midoriya had started double-checking everything before submitting reports, making sure there was nothing that could be misinterpreted, nothing that could be used against them. He had always been meticulous, but now it was different. Now, it was survival.

Bakugou had stopped holding back. He didn’t bother with diplomacy, didn’t waste time pretending he didn’t see what was happening. Every meeting was a battle, every question an accusation, and he treated them as such. He had already walked out of two briefings, had nearly gotten himself suspended after telling one official exactly what he thought of their interrogation tactics.

Shouto was starting to feel the strain.

He had kept his responses measured, his actions controlled, his presence neutral. But the weight of it was pressing down on him, tightening around his ribs like something he couldn’t shake. Every conversation about Momo, every implication that they knew more than they were admitting, every reminder that she was still gone - it was suffocating.

And now, the Commission was escalating.

Their patrol routes were being monitored more closely, their interactions with civilians analyzed for any sign that they were hiding something. Officials had started questioning their colleagues, their contacts, anyone who might have insight into whether they had been involved in Momo’s disappearance.

It wasn’t just suspicion anymore.

It was a hunt.

And the Commission wasn’t going to stop until they had answers.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Shouto had spent months convincing himself that this was just worry.

That his frustration, his restlessness, his inability to focus was nothing more than concern for a missing teammate. That his constant need to search for her, to hear something - anything - about her was just a natural response to the situation.

But it wasn’t.

It was more than that.

And now, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

It had started as a quiet ache, something he could push aside, something he could rationalize. But as the weeks stretched into months, as the Commission’s scrutiny tightened, as the world continued to change because of her absence, it became impossible to suppress.

He missed her.

Not just in the way one misses a friend, not just in the way one worries for someone they care about. It was deeper than that, heavier, something that settled in his chest and refused to leave.

It was longing.

It was painful.

It was love.

And he didn’t know what to do with that realization.

He had never been good at emotions, had never been good at understanding them, at recognizing them for what they were. But this - this was undeniable. This was something he couldn’t rationalize away, couldn’t bury beneath logic and restraint.

She was gone.

And it felt like something inside him had been ripped away with her.

Shouto knew it was reckless.

The Commission was watching him, waiting for any sign that he knew more than he was letting on. Every move he made was scrutinized, every report dissected, every conversation analyzed for hidden meaning. Searching for Momo would only make things worse.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

At first, it was subtle. He paid closer attention to underground activity, listened for whispers, tracked movements that didn’t align with known vigilante groups. He followed leads that seemed insignificant, hoping that somewhere in the chaos, there would be something - anything - that pointed to her.

But nothing ever did.

So he pushed harder.

He started reaching out to old contacts, people who had worked with Aegis Innovations, people who might have seen something, heard something, known something. He kept his questions vague, careful not to draw attention, but the more he searched, the more obvious it became.

She had covered her tracks too well.

No one had seen her. No one had spoken to her. No one even knew where to start looking.

And yet, he refused to stop.

Because the alternative was accepting that she was gone.

And that was something he couldn’t do.

Shouto wasn’t being careful anymore.

What had started as quiet inquiries had turned into something more deliberate, more reckless, more desperate. He wasn’t just listening for whispers - he was chasing them. Every lead, no matter how thin, no matter how unlikely, was followed. Every rumor was investigated. Every trace of movement in the underground was analyzed for any sign that she had resurfaced.

And people were starting to notice.

Midoriya had pulled him aside twice now, voice careful, concern clear, asking if he was sure this was a good idea. Shouto had nodded, had assured him that he wasn’t doing anything dangerous, that he was just keeping an eye on things.

Bakugou wasn’t buying it.

"You think I don’t see what you’re doing?" he snapped one evening, arms crossed, expression sharp. "You’re gonna get yourself in deep shit if you keep this up."

Shouto didn’t argue.

Because he knew Bakugou was right.

The Commission was watching. Every move he made, every report he submitted, every deviation from routine was being tracked. If they hadn’t already suspected that he was looking for her, they would soon.

But none of that mattered.

Because she was still gone.

And he wasn’t going to stop until he found her.

Shouto hadn’t meant to say anything.

For months, he had kept it buried, pushed it down, convinced himself that acknowledging it wouldn’t change anything. He had focused on the search, on the reports, on the quiet desperation that had settled into his bones.

But Midoriya had always been perceptive.

And tonight, he wasn’t letting it go.

They were sitting in the agency’s break room, the city quiet outside, the weight of everything pressing down on them. Midoriya had been watching him for weeks, concern growing, patience wearing thin.

"You need to talk to someone about this," he said, voice careful, measured, like he was afraid pushing too hard would make Shouto retreat.

Shouto exhaled slowly, staring at the untouched cup of tea in front of him. "There’s nothing to talk about."

Midoriya didn’t argue. He just waited.

And for some reason, that made it harder to hold back.

Shouto swallowed, fingers tightening around the ceramic. "I don’t know how to deal with this."

Midoriya’s expression softened. "Deal with what?"

Shouto hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

But there was no point in denying it anymore.

"The fact that she’s gone," he admitted, voice quieter than he meant for it to be. "And the fact that it feels like something inside me is missing because of it."

Midoriya didn’t speak right away. He let the words settle, let the weight of them sink in.

Then, carefully, he said, "You love her."

Shouto didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know what to say.

The realization had been creeping up on him for months, pressing against the edges of his thoughts, refusing to be ignored. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing Midoriya say it so plainly, made it impossible to push aside.

He loved her.

And she was gone.

Midoriya didn’t press him for an answer. He just sat there, waiting, giving him space to process something that had already been true for longer than he wanted to admit.

Shouto exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his cup. "It doesn’t matter."

Midoriya frowned. "Of course it matters."

Shouto shook his head. "She’s not here."

And that was the part he couldn’t change.

It didn’t matter how much he missed her, how much he wanted to see her, how much it hurt to know that she had cut off contact completely. She had made her choice, had disappeared into the underground, had left without a single word.

Midoriya sighed, leaning forward, his voice quieter now. "That doesn’t mean she’s gone forever."

Shouto wanted to believe that.

But after months of searching, months of chasing leads that led nowhere, months of waiting for something - anything - to tell him where she was, he wasn’t sure he could.

Because if she had wanted to be found, she would have left something behind.

And she hadn’t.

Shouto had never been one to speak impulsively.

He had spent years learning restraint, mastering control, ensuring that every word he said carried weight and purpose. He understood the importance of careful phrasing, of measured responses, of never giving the Commission more reason to scrutinize him than they already had.

But tonight, he didn’t care.

The press conference had been routine - an update on the latest hero initiatives, a discussion on the ongoing reforms, a carefully curated attempt to reassure the public that the system was stabilizing. He had stood alongside Midoriya and Bakugou, answering questions with the same precision he always did, keeping his responses neutral, professional, detached.

Until someone asked about Momo.

The reporter’s voice was steady, but the question was anything but. "Given her impact on the recent reforms, do you believe Momo Yaoyorozu was right in her actions?"

The room went silent.

Midoriya shifted beside him, posture tense, already preparing to deflect. Bakugou exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face, knowing exactly how dangerous the question was.

Shouto should have done the same.

He should have given the expected answer - something vague, something diplomatic, something that wouldn’t make things worse.

Instead, he said, "She did what the system refused to do."

The silence deepened.

The reporter hesitated. "So you believe her actions were justified?"

Shouto met their gaze, his voice steady, unwavering. "I believe she protected people when no one else would."

Midoriya inhaled sharply. Bakugou muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "You absolute dumbass."

But it was too late.

The damage was done.

And the Commission was going to make sure he paid for it.

The fallout was immediate.

Shouto had barely stepped off the stage before the backlash began. The press latched onto his words, headlines twisting them into something sharper, something more dangerous. Officials were furious, their carefully controlled narrative unraveling with a few sentences spoken on live television.

And now, the Commission was debating whether he should still be allowed to call himself a hero.

The meeting was closed-door, but the tension seeped through the walls. Some argued that his statement was a direct challenge to hero society, that publicly defending a known vigilante undermined everything they stood for. Others warned that revoking his license would only make things worse, that punishing him for speaking the truth would fuel the movement rather than suppress it.

Midoriya was pacing.

Bakugou was livid.

Shouto was silent.

He had known the risks when he spoke. He had known the Commission would retaliate, that they would see his words as defiance rather than honesty. But knowing didn’t make it easier.

Because if they took his license, if they stripped him of his title, if they decided that his loyalty to the system was no longer enough - then what was left?

And more importantly, what would he do next?

Chapter Text

The months that followed were suffocating.

The Commission hadn’t revoked his license, but the threat had never fully disappeared. Every mission was scrutinized, every report dissected, every action weighed against the words he had spoken. He was still a hero, but the title felt conditional, like they were waiting for him to slip just once so they could justify taking it away.

Public perception had shifted. Some civilians saw him as reckless, as someone too close to the controversy to be trusted. Others saw him as the only hero willing to acknowledge the truth, the only one who wasn’t afraid to say what everyone already knew.

And through it all, Momo remained missing.

The protests hadn’t stopped. The movement hadn’t faded. The divide between the Commission and the public had only widened, and the system was struggling to hold itself together.

Shouto had stopped waiting for things to settle.

He had spent months searching, chasing leads, following whispers that led nowhere. He had exhausted every logical path, every careful approach, every method that wouldn’t put him directly in the Commission’s crosshairs.

But none of it had worked.

So now, he was done being careful.

Because if the system was already breaking, then what was the point in pretending he still had to play by its rules?

The world had been waiting for her return.

For nearly a year, Momo had been a ghost - no sightings, no messages, no trace of where she had gone. The Commission had searched, heroes had listened for whispers, civilians had speculated, but she had remained unreachable.

Until now.

The crisis unfolded fast. A hostage situation in the heart of the city, a villain group with no clear demands, chaos spreading before heroes could contain it. The Commission mobilized, agencies responded, but before any of them could take control, she stepped in.

It wasn’t subtle.

She moved with precision, cutting through the conflict before anyone could react, dismantling the threat with the same efficiency that had made her infamous. The villains never stood a chance. The hostages were freed before the Commission could even issue a statement.

And then, just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone.

But the damage was done.

The footage spread within minutes, news outlets scrambling to cover the return of the woman who had reshaped hero society without even holding a license. The Commission was in chaos, officials struggling to decide whether to condemn her actions or acknowledge that she had done what their heroes had failed to do.

And the world was watching.

Shouto didn’t hesitate.

The moment the footage surfaced, the moment her presence was confirmed, the search began again. He had spent months chasing dead ends, following leads that led nowhere, convincing himself that maybe she didn’t want to be found. But now, there was no doubt. She was here. She had resurfaced. And he wasn’t going to let her disappear again.

This time, he wasn’t subtle.

He retraced the path of the crisis, analyzing every detail, every movement, every possible escape route she could have taken. He reached out to contacts who had once worked with Aegis Innovations, pressed for information, ignored the warnings that the Commission was watching him more closely than ever.

Midoriya tried to reason with him.

"You don’t even know if she’ll talk to you," he said, voice careful, concern clear. "She left for a reason, Shouto. What if she doesn’t want to be pulled back into all of this?"

Shouto didn’t answer.

Because it didn’t matter.

She was here.

And after everything, after the months of silence, after the weight of her absence, after the way the world had changed because of her - he needed to see her.

Even if she didn’t want to be found.

Shouto wasn’t searching anymore - he was chasing.

The moment she resurfaced, the quiet restraint he had forced himself to maintain shattered. He had spent too long waiting, too long convincing himself that patience was the right approach, too long pretending that logic could override the way his chest tightened every time he thought about her.

Now, he was done pretending.

He tracked every possible lead, followed every whisper, pushed deeper into the underground than he ever had before. He wasn’t careful, wasn’t measured, wasn’t thinking about the consequences. The Commission was watching, the media was speculating, his colleagues were questioning his judgment, but none of it mattered.

Midoriya had stopped trying to talk him down.

Bakugou had started watching him more closely, irritation giving way to something quieter, something that looked suspiciously like concern.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Shouto had been waiting for this moment.

The second crisis had unfolded quickly - an attempted raid on a supply convoy, a group of masked assailants trying to seize resources meant for evacuation shelters. The heroes had responded, but before they could take control, she was already there.

She moved with the same precision as before, dismantling the threat before anyone could react, cutting through the conflict with practiced efficiency. But this time, Shouto was ready.

He had anticipated her movements, had tracked the patterns, had positioned himself where she would have no choice but to pass through. And when she finished handling the situation, when she slipped into the shadows to disappear again, he was waiting.

She stopped the moment she saw him.

Her expression didn’t shift - no surprise, no frustration, just quiet calculation. She had changed. Her hair was shorter now, falling just past her shoulders, no longer tied in the spiky ponytail he had memorized. A new scar marked her upper lip, a faint but undeniable addition to the one that had already traced her temple.

She looked different.

She felt different.

And yet, she was still her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, calmly, she said, "You shouldn’t be here."

Shouto exhaled slowly, watching her carefully. "Neither should you."

Her gaze flickered, unreadable, but she didn’t move.

She could run. She could disappear again. She could leave him standing here with nothing but the confirmation that she was alive.

But she didn’t.

And that was enough for him to take the next step.

Momo had spent months ensuring no one could track her.

She had changed her patterns, avoided familiar places, severed every connection that could lead back to her. She had convinced herself that if she stayed ahead of the search, if she remained careful, if she kept moving, she wouldn’t have to face the past she had left behind.

But Shouto had never been one to let things go.

And now, he was standing in front of her, blocking the only exit she had planned, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakable.

She didn’t let herself react.

She had learned how to keep her emotions buried, how to ensure that nothing showed unless she wanted it to. But Shouto had always been difficult to shut out.

He wasn’t speaking yet, wasn’t demanding explanations, wasn’t forcing her into a confrontation she wasn’t ready for. He was just waiting.

And that was worse.

She exhaled slowly, keeping her stance neutral. "You should leave."

His gaze didn’t waver. "Not without you."

Her fingers twitched at her sides, the instinct to turn, to disappear, to end this before it became something she couldn’t control pressing against her ribs.

But she didn’t move.

Because despite everything, despite the months of silence, despite the way she had convinced herself that she was better off alone, she couldn’t ignore the fact that he had found her.

And she wasn’t sure what that meant.

Momo heard them before she saw them.

The heroes were regrouping, voices sharp, orders clear - spread out, search the area, find her before she disappeared again. The Commission wouldn’t let this go. They had been waiting for her to resurface, and now that she had, they wouldn’t stop until they had her cornered.

She could run.

She should run.

But Shouto was still standing there, still watching her, still refusing to let her slip away like she had before.

She exhaled sharply, frustration flickering beneath her ribs, and before she could think better of it, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the shadows.

He didn’t resist.

But he didn’t stay quiet either.

"You don’t have to do this," he said, voice low but firm as she led him through the narrow alleyway, weaving between abandoned crates and rusted metal.

She didn’t answer.

"You could have left me back there," he continued, keeping pace with her easily. "But you didn’t."

Her grip tightened before she forced herself to let go.

She hadn’t meant to grab him. She hadn’t meant to pull him with her. She had acted on instinct, on something unnecessary, on something she should have ignored.

She stopped when they reached the far end of the alley, pressing herself against the wall, listening for movement, waiting for the search to shift away from their location.

Shouto didn’t move.

"You’re not going to disappear again," he said, quieter now, but no less certain.

She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling slowly, steadying herself.

"I don’t have time for this," she muttered.

"Then make time."

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time since she had resurfaced, she realized something.

He wasn’t just searching for her.

He was waiting for her to let herself be found.

Momo exhaled slowly, pressing further into the shadows as the voices of the heroes faded into the distance. They were still searching, still combing through the wreckage of the crisis she had intercepted, but they wouldn’t find her here. Not yet.

Shouto hadn’t moved.

She could feel his gaze on her, steady, unwavering, waiting for something she wasn’t ready to give. He had always been patient in ways that frustrated her, always willing to stand his ground even when the world was shifting beneath his feet.

She should tell him to leave.

She should disappear before he could ask the questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She inhaled sharply, irritation flickering beneath the exhaustion she had been carrying for months. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. The world had changed since she left, and she had changed with it.

"You don’t get it," she muttered, shaking her head. "This isn’t your fight."

Shouto didn’t flinch. "It is if you’re in it."

She hated how easily he said it, how effortlessly he placed himself in something she had spent nearly a year trying to shoulder alone.

She could leave.

She should leave.

But for some reason, she stayed.

The meeting was tense from the moment it started.

The Task Force had been assembled to address the growing instability, to discuss the latest crisis, to determine how to handle the fallout of Momo’s return. Officials spoke in clipped tones, exchanging strategies, debating containment, arguing over whether her actions should be condemned or quietly ignored.

Shouto barely listened.

He had spent months watching the system unravel, watching the Commission scramble to maintain control, watching the world shift in ways they refused to acknowledge. He had spent even longer questioning what heroism was supposed to mean, what justice was supposed to look like, what the system had truly been built to protect.

And now, sitting in this room, listening to them talk about Momo like she was a problem to be solved rather than a symptom of their own failures, he realized something.

He didn’t care anymore.

Not about their policies.

Not about their orders.

Not about the title they had given him.

Halfway through the meeting, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his hero license, and set it down on the table.

The room went silent.

Izuku inhaled sharply, eyes wide, already leaning forward like he was about to protest. Bakugou stiffened beside him, disbelief flickering across his face before it hardened into something unreadable.

The officials didn’t speak.

They just stared.

Shouto pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out without another word.

He didn’t need to explain himself.

They had already given him every reason to leave.

The fallout was immediate.

Shouto walking out of the Task Force meeting had been shocking enough, but leaving his hero license behind turned it into something else entirely. The media latched onto it within hours, headlines twisting the event into speculation, theories, and outright panic.

Had he resigned? Had he been forced out? Was this connected to Momo’s return? Was this another sign that hero society was crumbling?

The Commission scrambled to control the narrative, issuing statements that were carefully worded but ultimately hollow. They insisted that Shouto was still affiliated with hero work, that discussions were ongoing, that his departure from the meeting did not indicate a full resignation. But the public wasn’t buying it.

And neither was Endeavor.

For years, Enji had been fighting to repair his reputation, to prove that he was more than the man who had built his legacy on power and control. He had worked to mend the fractures in his family, to reconcile with his children, to be something more than the symbol of strength the Commission had molded him into.

But now, his son - the son who had once been his greatest proof of redemption - had walked away from heroism entirely.

The press hounded him for answers.

Was this a reflection of his failures as a father? Had Shouto’s disillusionment stemmed from his upbringing? Did this mean Endeavor himself was reconsidering his place in the system?

He didn’t answer.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure what the answer was.

And Shouto, caught in the center of the storm, wasn’t giving anyone an explanation.

He had made his choice.

And now, the world had to figure out what it meant.

The transition was quiet.

Shouto never made a formal statement, never stood in front of cameras to announce his resignation, never gave the Commission the satisfaction of controlling the narrative. But he didn’t need to. His absence spoke for itself.

He stopped attending briefings.

He ignored every attempt to pull him back into hero work.

He let the world speculate, let the headlines twist his departure into theories, let the Commission scramble to explain why one of their most promising heroes had simply walked away.

Izuku reached out more than once, messages carefully worded, concern woven into every attempt. Bakugou was less patient, showing up unannounced, demanding answers, refusing to accept silence as an excuse.

Endeavor didn’t try at all.

And Shouto preferred it that way.

He had spent years watching the system fail, watching the Commission prioritize control over justice, watching hero society fracture under the weight of its own hypocrisy. He had spent even longer questioning what heroism was supposed to mean, what his own place in it had ever truly been, what his father’s legacy had left behind.

Now, he had his answer.

He wasn’t a hero anymore.

And he wasn’t interested in pretending otherwise.

The underground had always existed beneath the surface - vigilantes, rogue operatives, people who had abandoned the system long before Momo ever exposed its flaws. He had spent months searching for her, chasing leads, tracking movements that never led anywhere.

But now, he wasn’t just looking for her.

He was stepping into the world she had disappeared into.

And once he did, there would be no going back.

Shouto had spent months searching, but this time, he wasn’t chasing shadows.

The underground was vast, tangled with networks of people who had abandoned the system long before he had. He had learned how to navigate it, how to listen for the right whispers, how to track movements that weren’t meant to be followed. And now, finally, he had found her.

She was standing near the edge of a dimly lit alley, speaking in hushed tones to someone he didn’t recognize. The tension in her posture was different now - sharper, more guarded, like she had spent too long expecting danger at every turn.

She looked up before he could say anything.

Her gaze flickered over him, taking in the changes, the shift in his presence, the black jacket that had replaced the navy blue, the silver stripe where there had once been gray-blue, the white wrist guards instead of burgundy.

She didn’t react.

She just stared.

"You changed your costume," she said, voice unreadable.

"You changed your hair," he countered.

She exhaled slowly, crossing her arms, watching him like she was waiting for him to explain himself.

He didn’t.

Because after everything, after the months of silence, after the way the world had shifted around them, after the way they had both walked away from the system that had once defined them - he wasn’t here to justify anything.

He was just here to find her.

And now, he had.

Shouto didn’t expect her to say much.

She had always been measured with her words, careful with what she let slip, deliberate in what she chose to acknowledge. And now, after everything, after the months of silence, after the way they had both walked away from the system that had once defined them, she wasn’t going to waste time on unnecessary conversation.

She studied him for a moment, gaze flickering over the changes - the black jacket, the silver stripe, the white wrist guards. Then, quietly, she asked, "Did you really resign for this?"

Shouto held her stare, voice steady. "I did."

She didn’t react right away.

She just exhaled slowly, watching him like she was weighing something, like she was deciding whether this was something she could accept. Then, after a beat, she gave a small nod and turned, gesturing for him to follow.

He did.

Because after everything, after the months of searching, after the way hero society had fractured, after the way they had both abandoned the system - this was the only place left for him to go.

Shouto hadn’t known what to expect.

Momo had always been meticulous, always prepared, always thinking ten steps ahead. He had assumed her hideout would be practical - something tucked away in the underground, something functional, something built for survival rather than comfort.

But when she led him through the winding streets, past inconspicuous barriers, through a discreet entrance that blended seamlessly into the city’s architecture, he realized how wrong he had been.

The estate was massive.

High ceilings, polished floors, intricate detailing that spoke of wealth and legacy rather than secrecy. It wasn’t just a safe house - it was a full-fledged mansion, untouched by time, hidden in plain sight.

Shouto glanced at her as they stepped inside, taking in the quiet ease with which she moved through the space. "This is yours?"

She nodded, setting down her bag near the entrance. "One of my family’s properties. No one acknowledges it, so I use it."

He didn’t ask why.

He already knew.

Her family had always been complicated - built on status, expectation, quiet control. This place was hers by inheritance, but it was clear no one had ever cared enough to claim it. So she had.

She led him through the halls, past rooms that looked untouched, past spaces that felt more like a forgotten legacy than a home. Then, to both of their surprise, she stopped near one of the guest rooms and turned to him.

"If you don’t have anywhere else to go," she said, voice measured, "you can stay here."

Shouto studied her carefully, searching for hesitation, for uncertainty, for anything that suggested she regretted the offer the moment she made it.

But she didn’t take it back.

And after everything, after the months of searching, after the way hero society had fractured, after the way they had both abandoned the system - he realized he didn’t have a reason to say no.

Chapter Text

Shouto had spent years operating within the system.

Hero work had structure - briefings, assignments, regulations that dictated every move. Even when the system failed, even when bureaucracy slowed things down, there was always a framework to follow.

The underground had none of that.

Momo didn’t waste time explaining everything outright. She wasn’t training him, wasn’t guiding him like a mentor, wasn’t treating him like someone who needed to be eased into this world. She simply moved, and if he wanted to keep up, he had to learn as he went.

She had contacts - people who operated outside the Commission’s reach, informants who passed along information, suppliers who ensured she had what she needed. Some were former heroes, some were civilians who had lost faith in the system, some were people who had never been part of hero society to begin with.

She knew where to go, when to move, how to avoid attention.

She didn’t take unnecessary risks.

She didn’t act unless she had a reason.

And she never stayed in one place for too long.

Shouto watched, listened, adapted. He had spent months searching for her, chasing leads, tracking movements that never led anywhere. Now, he was learning how she had stayed ahead of everyone for so long.

She didn’t ask if he was keeping up.

She expected him to.

And he did.

Shouto had always been adaptable.

Hero training had demanded it - quick thinking, strategic adjustments, the ability to read a situation and react before it spiraled out of control. But this wasn’t hero work, and the rules he had once followed didn’t apply here.

Momo didn’t operate with the same structure heroes relied on. She didn’t wait for approval, didn’t waste time on formalities, didn’t hesitate when a decision needed to be made. Every move was calculated, every action deliberate, every choice weighed against the risks.

She had built something here.

It wasn’t just survival - it was a network, a system that functioned outside the Commission’s control. People trusted her, relied on her, passed information through channels that had nothing to do with hero agencies. Some were civilians who had been failed by the system, others were former heroes who had walked away long before Shouto had.

She didn’t explain everything outright.

She expected him to learn.

And he did.

He followed her through back alleys, through hidden entrances, through places that didn’t exist on official maps. He listened to the way she spoke to her contacts, the way she gathered intel, the way she ensured that every piece of information was verified before she acted on it.

This wasn’t reckless.

This wasn’t chaos.

This was control.

And for the first time since he had walked away from hero society, he understood why she had never gone back.

Shouto had expected the underground to be unstable.

He had assumed it was built on secrecy, on fleeting alliances, on people constantly moving to avoid detection. And while some of that was true, what Momo had created was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just survival - [it was infrastructure.

She had contacts in places the Commission couldn’t reach, informants who knew how to navigate the shifting landscape, suppliers who ensured she had everything she needed without leaving a trail. Every move was intentional, every decision calculated, every risk weighed against the consequences.

And now, Shouto was part of it.

He wasn’t just observing anymore.

He was learning how to move within it, how to listen for the right whispers, how to recognize when a situation was about to turn. He had spent years operating within hero society, following regulations, working within the system’s constraints. Now, he was adapting to something entirely different.

Momo didn’t slow down for him.

But the deeper he went, the more he realized how fragile the balance was.

The Commission wasn’t ignoring them.

They were watching.

Waiting.

And when they finally made their move, it wouldn’t be subtle.

Shouto had adjusted to the underground faster than expected, learning how to navigate its complexities, how to move without drawing attention, and how to recognize the unspoken rules that dictated survival. A month and a half had passed since he first stepped into Momo’s world, since he abandoned hero society, since he started understanding the mechanics of her network. He had adapted, adjusted, and integrated himself into the system she had built, no longer an outsider but not yet fully immersed in her operations.

Despite his growing involvement, he had never accompanied her on a mission, never stepped directly into the work that had kept her hidden for so long. She had been deliberate about it, ensuring he had time to learn before throwing him into something he couldn’t walk away from, keeping him close but separate, allowing him to observe without forcing him into action. Tonight, that changed as she approached him in the quiet of the mansion, her posture relaxed but her intent clear, offering him an opportunity rather than a demand.

"I have something lined up," she said, tone even but expectant, waiting for his response rather than assuming it. "If you want in, now’s the time."

Shouto met her gaze, searching for hesitation, for uncertainty, for any sign that she wasn’t sure about bringing him along, but he found none. She wasn’t testing him, wasn’t asking if he was ready, wasn’t treating this as a lesson or an evaluation. She was giving him a choice, trusting him to make the decision without interference, allowing him to determine his own place in what came next.

"When do we leave?" he asked, his voice steady, his decision already made before the words left his mouth.

Her expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flickering across her features before she turned toward the door, her movements fluid and certain, wasting no time on unnecessary explanations.

"Now," she said, expecting him to follow without question.

Without hesitation, he did.

Shouto followed Momo through the quiet streets, keeping pace as she led him away from the mansion and deeper into the city’s undercurrent. The route she took wasn’t random, each turn calculated, each movement deliberate, ensuring they avoided unnecessary attention while staying on course. He had seen her operate before, had watched how she navigated the underground with precision, but this was different. This time, he wasn’t observing from a distance - he was part of it.

She didn’t explain the mission outright, didn’t waste time on unnecessary details, trusting him to keep up without needing constant direction. He had learned enough over the past month and a half to understand that information was given when necessary, not before. Still, as they approached a discreet entry point leading into an abandoned building, she finally spoke, her voice low but clear.

"Supply retrieval," she said, scanning the area before stepping inside. "One of my contacts had a shipment intercepted. We’re getting it back."

Shouto absorbed the information without question, following her through the narrow corridor as they moved deeper into the structure. The underground wasn’t just about survival - it was about maintaining resources, ensuring that those operating outside the system had what they needed to continue their work. Supplies meant stability, and stability meant control.

The building was quiet, but not empty. Momo slowed her pace, listening for movement, assessing the situation before proceeding further. Shouto mirrored her caution, his senses sharp, his instincts already adjusting to the shift in atmosphere.

"How many?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Four guarding the shipment," she answered, her tone measured. "Two more patrolling the perimeter."

He nodded once, understanding the layout, recognizing the strategy forming in her mind before she voiced it. She had planned for this, had anticipated resistance, had already determined how they would handle it.

She glanced at him briefly, as if confirming he was ready, then moved forward without hesitation.

The mission had begun.

Shouto kept close as Momo advanced, her movements precise, each step calculated to avoid detection. The building was old, its structure worn but still functional, providing enough cover to mask their approach. The shipment was deeper inside, secured behind a makeshift barricade, guarded by people who had no intention of letting it go without a fight.

She signaled for him to stop, pressing herself against the wall as she listened for movement. The patrols were nearby, their footsteps steady, their voices low but distinct enough to track. Shouto didn’t need her to explain the plan - he had learned enough to recognize the rhythm of her strategy, the way she positioned herself before striking, the way she ensured control before engaging.

The first patrol passed without noticing them, their attention focused elsewhere, giving Momo the opening she needed. She moved swiftly, cutting off their path before they could react, her efficiency leaving no room for struggle. Shouto followed her lead, stepping in before the second guard could raise an alarm, his movements sharp, his control absolute.

The silence that followed was brief, the tension shifting as they advanced toward the barricade. The remaining guards were alert now, their stance rigid, their weapons drawn, recognizing that the situation had changed. Momo didn’t hesitate, adjusting her approach, calculating the next move before the opposition could dictate the pace.

Shouto felt the shift in the air, the moment before action, the weight of the confrontation settling into place. The underground wasn’t about brute force - it was about precision, about knowing when to strike, about ensuring that every move served a purpose.

Momo exhaled slowly, her focus locked onto the guards ahead, her stance unwavering.

Then, without a word, she moved.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The mission had gone as planned, the shipment secured, the resistance handled without unnecessary complications. Shouto followed Momo back through the city’s quieter paths, the weight of the night settling in as they moved with practiced ease. The underground operated on efficiency, and she had ensured that every step of the retrieval had been executed without wasted effort.

They returned to the mansion without speaking, the silence between them comfortable rather than strained. Momo had always been deliberate with her words, choosing when to speak rather than filling the space with unnecessary conversation. Shouto had learned to match that rhythm, recognizing that understanding didn’t always require explanation.

She set the bag down near the entrance, her movements fluid despite the exhaustion that lingered beneath the surface. The underground demanded endurance, and she had long since adapted to its pace. Shouto watched as she assessed the contents, ensuring everything was accounted for before finally exhaling, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"You kept up," she said, her tone neutral but not dismissive, acknowledging his presence without turning it into praise.

Shouto met her gaze, recognizing the weight behind the statement, the unspoken confirmation that he had integrated into her world without hesitation. "I learned from watching you," he answered, his voice steady, his intent clear.

Momo studied him for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her expression before she nodded, accepting the response without further discussion. The underground wasn’t about validation - it was about results, about ensuring that every action served a purpose, about knowing when to move forward without lingering on what had already been done.

She turned toward the hallway, her posture relaxed but her mind still focused, already considering the next steps before the night had fully settled. Shouto didn’t need to ask what came next - he knew she would tell him when it mattered.

For now, the mission was complete.

And tomorrow, the work would continue.

The Commission had been watching, waiting for the right moment to act, ensuring that when they finally moved, it would be decisive. Momo had operated in the underground for years, her presence a quiet but undeniable force, her actions shaping the way vigilantes functioned outside hero society’s control. Shouto’s arrival had changed the equation, turning her into more than just a rogue operative, shifting the balance in a way the Commission couldn’t ignore.

The first sign of escalation came through the media, carefully crafted reports framing their movements as reckless, their presence as a growing concern, their actions as a direct challenge to the stability hero society had fought to maintain. The narrative wasn’t outright condemnation, not yet, but it was enough to plant doubt, enough to turn whispers into discussions, enough to make people question whether the underground had become more dangerous than necessary.

Politicians followed suit, some pushing for stricter regulations, others using the situation as proof that hero society was still fractured, arguing that if two of its most capable figures had abandoned their titles, then the system itself was failing. The Commission didn’t respond publicly, choosing instead to tighten its grip behind the scenes, increasing surveillance, restricting movement, ensuring that every known vigilante felt the pressure of their presence.

Momo had anticipated this, had known that resurfacing would force a reaction, had prepared for the inevitable shift in control. Shouto had expected it too, recognizing that his departure had given the Commission the justification it needed to act. Neither of them were surprised when the underground became more cautious, when contacts started moving differently, when information became harder to secure.

The task force was assembled quietly, its purpose clear despite the lack of official statements. Vigilantes were being tracked, their movements monitored, their operations disrupted before they could gain momentum. The Commission wasn’t labeling them criminals outright, but the intent was obvious - pressure them into retreat, force them into mistakes, make it impossible for them to continue without consequence.

Momo adjusted, shifting her approach, ensuring that every move was calculated, every action deliberate, every step taken with the understanding that the Commission was waiting for an excuse to strike. Shouto followed her lead, recognizing the shift in atmosphere, understanding that the underground was no longer just about survival - it was about maintaining control before it was taken from them entirely.

The Commission had made its move.

Now, they had to decide how to respond.

Bakugou sat through the briefing with his arms crossed, barely restraining the urge to scowl as the details of the assignment were laid out before them. The Task Force had been assembled with careful precision, each member chosen for their skill, their experience, and their connection to the targets. That last part was what made the entire situation unbearable.

Izuku, Ochako, Eijirou, Mina, and himself - five people who had fought together, survived together, built their careers alongside each other. Five people who had spent years trusting Shouto and Momo, knowing their strengths, understanding their choices, believing in their convictions. And now, they were expected to track them down, to stop them, to treat them as threats rather than friends.

The tension in the room was thick, unspoken but undeniable, settling into every glance exchanged, every shift in posture, every moment of hesitation before someone spoke. Izuku looked conflicted, his brows furrowed as he absorbed the information, his mind already racing through possibilities, searching for a way to approach this without turning it into something irreversible. Ochako sat beside him, her expression tight, her fingers curled slightly against the table, her engagement ring catching the light as she exhaled slowly.

Eijirou and Mina weren’t much better, their presence a reminder of how much had changed since U.A., how their lives had intertwined beyond hero work, how they had built something together that made this mission even harder to accept. Bakugou didn’t care about the relationship dynamics - what irritated him was the fact that he was the only one in the group without someone to lean on, the only one who had to process this without the comfort of a partner to balance the weight of it.

But more than that, he hated the mission itself.

Tracking down Shouto and Momo wasn’t just difficult - it was personal. They weren’t just former heroes, weren’t just vigilantes operating outside the system, weren’t just names on a list. They were friends, they were family, they were people who had fought beside them, who had bled beside them, who had stood with them through everything U.A. had thrown their way.

And now, they were expected to take them down.

No one spoke immediately after the briefing ended, the silence stretching, the weight of the assignment settling into place. The tension in the room was suffocating, pressing into every unspoken thought, weighing down the space between them. No one had touched the files in front of them, the neatly stacked reports detailing movements, sightings, and speculation about two people they had once trusted without question. The Commission had framed the mission as necessary, as a precaution, as a way to ensure stability, but none of them were naïve enough to believe that justification made it any easier.

Izuku sat rigid, his fingers curled against the edge of the table, his expression unreadable but his mind clearly racing through possibilities. Ochako kept her arms crossed, her posture tense, her gaze flickering toward the reports before shifting away, unwilling to acknowledge them more than necessary. Eijirou and Mina sat close, their presence a quiet reminder how this mission forced them to confront something none of them wanted to face.

Bakugou exhaled sharply, his patience already thinning, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. He had never been one to hesitate, never been one to second-guess an assignment, never been one to let emotions dictate his actions. But this wasn’t just another mission, wasn’t just another target, wasn’t just another name on a list.

Shouto and Momo weren’t enemies.

They were friends.

And that made everything more complicated than it needed to be.

Izuku finally broke the silence, his voice steady but edged with something heavier than frustration. "We need to be realistic about this," he said, his gaze sweeping across the group, searching for something none of them had an answer for yet. "The Commission isn’t giving us a choice."

Ochako frowned, her fingers tightening slightly against her arm, her thoughts unreadable as she considered the reality of what they had been assigned to do. "That doesn’t mean we have to follow their lead blindly," she countered, her tone measured but firm, unwilling to accept the situation without resistance.

Eijirou shifted beside Mina, his jaw tense, his frustration evident in the way his fingers tapped against the table before he spoke. "We know them better than anyone," he muttered, his voice edged with something closer to resignation than irritation. "If we do this wrong, we’re gonna lose more than just the mission."

Mina sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly, her fingers curling against her palm as she glanced between them. "And if we don’t do it at all, the Commission will send someone else," she pointed out, her tone quieter than usual, her usual energy dulled by the weight of the situation. "Someone who won’t hesitate."

Bakugou leaned forward, his expression sharp, his mind already running through the inevitable confrontation, the way this would end if they weren’t careful. "Then we do it our way," he said, his voice edged with something unreadable, something heavier than frustration. "We find them before the Commission does."

No one argued.

Because they all knew he was right.

The decision settled between them, unspoken but understood, shifting the weight of the mission from something dictated by the Commission to something they could control. No one touched the reports, the neatly stacked files detailing movements, sightings, and speculation about two people they had once trusted without question. The Commission had framed the assignment as necessary, but none of them were willing to treat it like any other mission.

Izuku finally broke the silence, his voice steady despite the uncertainty beneath it, his determination clear even as his hesitation lingered. "We need to move fast," he said, his gaze sweeping across the group, searching for something none of them had an answer for yet. "The Commission won’t wait."

Ochako nodded slightly, her expression tight, her thoughts unreadable as she considered the reality of what they had been assigned to do. "We need to find them before anyone else does," she added, her tone measured, her conviction firm despite the doubt woven into it.

Eijirou shifted beside Mina, his fingers tapping against the table, his frustration evident in the way his jaw tensed before he spoke. "We know how they operate," he muttered, his voice edged with something heavier than irritation, something closer to resignation. "If we track their movements, we might be able to predict their next step."

The public response was immediate, spreading across news outlets, social media, and civilian discussions with the force of something too big to ignore. The Commission had been careful with its wording, framing the situation as a necessary precaution rather than an outright manhunt, ensuring that the narrative remained controlled even as speculation ran rampant. Shouto and Momo had operated outside the system for months, their presence a quiet but undeniable force, their actions shaping the way vigilantes functioned under the new laws. Now, with a task force assigned to track them, the conversation had shifted from quiet concern to open debate.

Hero society loyalists argued that this was inevitable, that vigilantes had always been a risk, that allowing them to operate unchecked would only lead to chaos. Some called for stricter regulations, pushing for amendments to the self-defense clause, demanding that Quirk usage outside of hero work be monitored more closely. Others took a more aggressive stance, insisting that Shouto and Momo had abandoned their responsibilities, that their actions undermined everything hero society had fought to rebuild.

Reformists and dissenters pushed back, pointing out that the Commission’s response only proved how fragile the system still was, how unwilling those in power were to acknowledge the flaws that had driven heroes away in the first place. Some civilians openly supported vigilantes, arguing that if heroes couldn’t handle certain threats, then those willing to step in shouldn’t be punished for it. Others questioned the necessity of the task force, wondering why resources were being spent tracking down two individuals who had done nothing to warrant criminal charges.

Former heroes and underground operatives watched carefully, recognizing the shift in atmosphere, understanding that this wasn’t just about Shouto and Momo - it was about control. The Commission had tolerated vigilantes under the new laws, but this escalation suggested that tolerance had limits, that the system was still struggling to maintain authority, that anyone operating outside its reach was still considered a liability. Some prepared for the worst, adjusting their movements, ensuring that their networks remained intact in case the crackdown extended beyond two individuals. Others saw an opportunity, waiting to see how Shouto and Momo would respond, knowing that their actions could set a precedent for how vigilantes were treated moving forward.

The media played both sides, some outlets pushing the Commission’s narrative, emphasizing the risks of unchecked vigilante activity, highlighting moments where hero society had been forced to intervene. Others took a more neutral stance, reporting on the facts without leaning into speculation, ensuring that the conversation remained open rather than dictated by a single perspective. Independent journalists dug deeper, questioning the Commission’s motives, investigating the timeline of events, exposing inconsistencies in the official statements.

Social media was chaotic, flooded with debates, theories, and conflicting opinions. Some civilians defended Shouto and Momo, pointing out their history, their contributions, their reasons for walking away from hero society. Others condemned them, arguing that their actions had forced the Commission’s hand, that their continued presence in the underground was a direct challenge to the system. Leaked footage, old interviews, and resurfaced reports circulated rapidly, making it impossible for the Commission to fully control the narrative.

The task force’s involvement only added fuel to the fire, turning the situation into something more personal, more complicated, more difficult to ignore. Class A had been a symbol of resilience, of unity, of everything hero society had fought to rebuild. Now, five of its members had been assigned to track down two of their own, forcing the public to question where the line between duty and loyalty truly existed.

The Commission had made its move.

Now, everyone was waiting to see what happened next.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The quiet of the mansion felt different tonight, less like a calculated retreat and more like a moment suspended between everything else. Shouto sat near the window, the dim glow of the city casting soft shadows across the room, the distant hum of movement outside barely noticeable beneath the stillness inside. Momo sat across from him, her posture relaxed in a way he hadn’t seen in a while, her guard lowered just enough to make the space feel less like a hideout and more like something resembling home.

It had been weeks since they had spoken like this, without strategy dictating the conversation, without the weight of their circumstances pressing into every word exchanged. The underground demanded efficiency, required them to move with purpose, forced them to prioritize survival over everything else. But tonight, for just a little while, none of that mattered.

Momo exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing absent patterns against the armrest of her chair, her gaze flickering toward him before settling on the window. "I forgot how quiet it can be here," she murmured, her voice softer than usual, lacking the usual edge of calculation. "I used to think it was unsettling."

Shouto watched her carefully, absorbing the way her expression shifted, the way her thoughts lingered somewhere beyond the present moment. "And now?" he asked, his tone even, his curiosity genuine.

She considered the question for a moment, her lips pressing together in something thoughtful before she answered. "Now, I think I prefer it," she admitted, her gaze drifting back to him, something unreadable flickering across her features. "It’s nice, having space to breathe."

Shouto nodded slightly, his fingers curling against his knee, his thoughts settling into something quieter, something more deliberate. He had spent years surrounded by noise - hero work, expectations, the constant pull of responsibility - but here, in this space she had carved out for herself, everything felt different.

"You deserve that," he said, his voice steady but edged with something softer, something closer to understanding.

Momo studied him for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her expression before she offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. "So do you," she replied, her tone carrying a weight he wasn’t sure she fully realized.

Shouto held her gaze, something warm settling in his chest, something familiar but unspoken, something that had lingered beneath the surface for longer than he cared to admit. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t push the moment further, didn’t let the quiet turn into something heavier than it needed to be.

Instead, he let it stay exactly as it was.

Comfortable.

Unrushed.

Something worth holding onto.

Chapter Text

The meeting started the way all Class A gatherings did - familiar faces, quiet murmurs, the unspoken understanding that whatever was happening, they would face it together. They had always been unified, always found common ground, always stood as one even when the world tried to pull them apart. No one expected this time to be any different.

But the tension was there, lingering beneath the surface, pressing into every glance exchanged, every hesitation before someone spoke, every unspoken thought that weighed heavier than it should. The Commission had made its move, the task force had been assigned, and now, they had to decide where they stood.

At first, the conversation was measured, cautious, filled with careful phrasing and quiet reasoning. Some argued that hero society was still worth saving, that walking away wasn’t the answer, that vigilantes only made things harder. Others pushed back, pointing out the flaws, the corruption, the way the system had failed people time and time again.

Then, the argument started.

Voices rose, frustration spilling into the space between them, the weight of their choices pressing into every word exchanged. Some defended Momo and Shouto, refusing to condemn them, insisting that their actions were justified. Others argued that hero society was still necessary, that abandoning it wasn’t the solution, that vigilantes only made things worse.

Bakugou had been silent up until that point, arms crossed, expression sharp, patience thinning with every passing second. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, his voice cutting through the chaos with something heavier than frustration.

"Enough," he snapped, his gaze sweeping across the room, his irritation clear. "If you support the vigilantes, move to the right. If you’re staying with the heroes, move to the left. If you can’t decide, stay in the middle."

No one moved immediately, the weight of the decision settling into the space between them, pressing into every hesitation, every unspoken thought, every quiet realization that this wasn’t just a discussion anymore - it was a choice.

Then, slowly, they started shifting.

Jirou moved first, stepping to the right without hesitation, her expression unreadable but her intent clear. Sero followed, his loyalty to Momo unshakable, his decision made long before the meeting had even started. Ojiro, Satou, Kaminari - they all moved, their steps deliberate, their stance firm, their choice undeniable.

Tokoyami stepped left, his loyalty to hero society outweighing his doubts, his belief in the system keeping him from crossing the line. Kouda followed, his uncertainty pushing him toward the safer option, his hesitation lingering but his choice made. Hagakure, Aoyama, Shouji - they all moved, their belief in hero society keeping them from siding with vigilantes, their conviction firm even as the division became undeniable.

Ochako hesitated, her fingers curling slightly against her palm, her thoughts unreadable as she lingered in the center for just a moment before stepping left, her family situation forcing her hand even if her heart wasn’t fully in it. Kirishima stood still for longer, his jaw tight, his frustration evident, his loyalty to his friends battling against his belief in heroism. Then, finally, he moved slightly to the right, his stance uncertain but his choice made.

Izuku and Iida remained in the middle, their hesitation heavier than anyone else’s, their inability to choose keeping them frozen in place.

The room was divided now, the split undeniable, the weight of their choices pressing into the silence that followed.

And for the first time since U.A., Class A wasn’t standing together.

The weight of the division settled into the room, pressing into every unspoken thought, every glance exchanged, every realization that this wasn’t just a disagreement - it was a fracture. No one spoke immediately, the silence stretching, the space between them feeling wider than it had ever been before.

Jirou crossed her arms, her expression unreadable but her stance firm, refusing to let the tension make her second-guess her choice. Sero stood beside her, his loyalty to Momo unwavering, his gaze sharp as he scanned the faces on the opposite side of the room. Ojiro exhaled slowly, his fingers curling slightly against his palm, his frustration evident but controlled, unwilling to let the moment turn into something worse.

Bakugou stood rigid on the left, his arms still crossed, his patience thinning with every second that passed. He had expected hesitation, expected conflict, expected people to struggle with the weight of the decision, but seeing the divide in real time made something settle uncomfortably in his chest. Ochako stood near him, her posture tense, her gaze flickering toward Izuku before shifting away, unwilling to acknowledge the uncertainty that lingered between them.

Kirishima shifted slightly, his stance uncertain, his frustration evident in the way his jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against his leg as he processed the reality of what had just happened. He had made his choice, but that didn’t mean it was easy, didn’t mean it felt right, didn’t mean he wasn’t still struggling with the consequences. Mina stood on the opposite side, her expression conflicted, her gaze flickering toward him before settling elsewhere, unwilling to let the division turn into something personal.

Izuku and Iida remained in the middle, their hesitation heavier than anyone else’s, their inability to choose keeping them frozen in place. Izuku’s fingers curled slightly against his palm, his thoughts racing, his mind searching for something that didn’t exist - a way to fix this, a way to bring them back together, a way to make this anything other than what it had become. Iida stood beside him, his posture rigid, his conviction clear even if his choice wasn’t, his belief in hero society keeping him from stepping right but his understanding of his friends keeping him from stepping left.

The silence stretched, the weight of the moment pressing into every breath, every movement, every realization that this wasn’t something they could take back.

Then, finally, Jirou spoke, her voice steady but edged with something heavier than frustration.

"So what happens now?"

No one had an answer.

Because none of them knew.

The tension hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deeper, pressing into every interaction, every mission, every moment where they had to pretend that nothing had changed. A week had passed since the split, but the weight of it lingered, unspoken but undeniable, shaping the way they moved, the way they spoke, the way they avoided certain topics as if ignoring them would make them disappear.

Bakugou had thrown himself into work, refusing to acknowledge the discomfort, refusing to let the division slow him down. He had never been one to dwell on emotions, never been one to hesitate, never been one to let uncertainty dictate his actions. But even he couldn’t ignore the way things felt different, the way conversations were shorter, the way some people hesitated before speaking, as if they weren’t sure where they stood anymore.

Ochako had kept herself busy, focusing on patrols, on reports, on anything that kept her from thinking too much about the choice she had made. She had known it was inevitable, had understood that her family situation left her with no real alternative, but that didn’t mean she was at peace with it. She still caught herself wondering what would have happened if things had been different, if she had been free to make a choice based on belief rather than obligation.

Tokoyami had remained steady, his conviction unshaken, his loyalty to hero society keeping him focused even as the division weighed on the group. He didn’t speak about the split, didn’t dwell on what had happened, didn’t let it affect his work. Kouda was much the same, his quiet nature making it easier for him to avoid the tension, to keep moving forward without getting caught in the emotional fallout.

Hagakure had tried to keep things normal, filling the silence with conversation, pretending that nothing had changed, refusing to let the weight of the situation settle too heavily on her shoulders. Aoyama had followed her lead, his usual dramatics dulled but still present, his attempts at maintaining normalcy feeling forced but necessary.

Shouji had been the most composed, his belief in hero society keeping him grounded, his understanding of both sides making him one of the few who could navigate the tension without letting it consume him. He didn’t condemn those who had left, but he didn’t question his own choice either, accepting the reality of the situation without hesitation.

Iida had remained focused, his sense of duty keeping him steady, his belief in structure making it easier for him to justify the split. He didn’t argue with those who had chosen differently, didn’t try to convince anyone to change their minds, didn’t let the division affect his work. But he still caught himself glancing toward Izuku, still felt the weight of his friend’s hesitation, still wondered if neutrality was truly sustainable.

The hero side had remained intact, but the cracks were there, subtle but present, lingering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break through.

And none of them knew if they would ever fully heal.

The vigilante side had settled into their new reality, but the weight of their choice lingered, shaping the way they moved, the way they spoke, the way they adjusted to the fact that they were no longer part of hero society in the same way they once were. A week had passed since the split, and while none of them regretted their decision, the consequences were impossible to ignore.

Jirou had thrown herself into work, using her connections to keep information flowing, ensuring that Momo and Shouto had everything they needed to stay ahead of the Commission. She had never been one to blindly follow authority, had always questioned the system, had always understood that hero society wasn’t as perfect as it pretended to be. But now, she wasn’t just questioning it - she was actively working against it, and that changed everything.

Sero had adjusted quickly, his loyalty to Momo making it easy for him to step into the underground without hesitation. He had always trusted her judgment, had always believed in her ability to navigate situations others couldn’t, had always known that if she was fighting for something, it was worth fighting for. He didn’t dwell on the split, didn’t waste time wondering what could have been, didn’t let the weight of his choice slow him down.

Ojiro had been quieter, more reserved, processing the shift in his own way, recognizing that while he had made his choice, it wasn’t without consequences. He had never been one for politics, had never cared much for the inner workings of hero society, had always focused on the work itself rather than the system behind it. But now, he was forced to confront the reality that the system wasn’t just flawed - it was actively working against people he cared about.

Satou had kept himself busy, ensuring that resources were available, making sure that those operating outside the system had what they needed to keep moving forward. He wasn’t the type to make speeches, wasn’t the type to argue about ideology, wasn’t the type to get caught up in debates about morality. He had made his choice, and now, he was doing what needed to be done.

Kaminari had followed Jirou’s lead, trusting her instincts, supporting her choice, ensuring that he was doing his part to keep the vigilantes connected and informed. He had always been adaptable, had always been able to adjust to whatever situation he found himself in, had always been able to find his footing even when the ground beneath him shifted. This was no different, even if the stakes were higher than they had ever been before.

Kirishima had struggled the most, his hesitation still lingering even after he had stepped to the right, his loyalty to his friends battling against his belief in heroism. He had always seen himself as someone who fought for what was right, someone who stood for justice, someone who believed in the strength of hero society. But now, he was forced to confront the reality that justice wasn’t always found within the system, that sometimes, the fight had to happen outside of it.

The vigilante side had made their choice, but the consequences were only just beginning.

And none of them knew how far they would have to go to see it through.

The hideout had always been a place of control, a carefully maintained space where Momo dictated the flow of information, where every movement was calculated, where survival depended on precision. But now, it was shifting, adjusting to the presence of those who had chosen to support them, adapting to the reality that they were no longer operating alone.

Shouto leaned against the doorway, watching as Sero settled into the guest room, his movements relaxed despite the weight of his decision. He had officially resigned, stepping away from hero society entirely, choosing to stay underground rather than operate in the space between. It wasn’t a choice made lightly, but it was one he had accepted without hesitation, his loyalty to Momo outweighing any lingering doubts.

Momo sat across the room, her posture composed but her thoughts clearly occupied, processing the shift in their operations, recognizing that while the support was necessary, it also changed the way they moved. The underground had always been about control, about ensuring that every action was deliberate, about maintaining stability even when the world outside was unpredictable. Now, with former heroes assisting them, the balance had to be recalibrated.

Jirou had been the first to establish a direct line of communication, ensuring that information flowed between them and those still operating within hero society. Kaminari had followed, using his skills to keep their network intact, making sure that nothing was lost in translation, ensuring that they remained ahead of the Commission’s movements. Ojiro and Satou had stepped in where needed, offering resources, providing support, ensuring that the underground remained functional despite the growing pressure.

Sero adjusted quickly, his presence settling into the space as if he had always been there, his familiarity with Momo making the transition seamless. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions, didn’t hesitate before stepping into the rhythm of their operations, didn’t waste time dwelling on what he had left behind. He had made his choice, and now, he was fully committed to seeing it through.

Shouto exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering toward Momo, recognizing the weight of the moment, understanding that while they had gained allies, they had also increased the stakes. The Commission wouldn’t ignore this, wouldn’t let the division remain stagnant, wouldn’t allow hero society to fracture without consequence.

Momo met his gaze, something unreadable flickering across her expression before she spoke, her voice steady but edged with something heavier than calculation.

"We need to move carefully," she said, her tone measured, her conviction firm. "The more support we have, the more attention we draw."

Shouto nodded, his fingers curling slightly against his palm, his thoughts settling into something quieter, something more deliberate.

"They won’t wait forever," he murmured, his voice even but certain. "Eventually, they’ll make their move."

Momo didn’t argue, didn’t counter, didn’t offer false reassurance.

Because they both knew he was right.

The media had already been circling the situation, reporting on the Commission’s actions, speculating on the vigilantes’ movements, analyzing every shift in hero society with careful precision. But when word of the divide between pro heroes surfaced, the narrative exploded, turning a controlled discussion into a chaotic storm of speculation, debate, and outright controversy.

News outlets scrambled to cover the fracture, some pushing the Commission’s stance, emphasizing the dangers of vigilante activity, highlighting the risks of heroes turning against the system. Others took a more neutral approach, reporting on the facts without leaning into condemnation, ensuring that the conversation remained open rather than dictated by a single perspective. Independent journalists dug deeper, exposing inconsistencies in official statements, questioning the Commission’s motives, revealing the growing instability within hero society.

Social media became a battlefield, flooded with debates, theories, and conflicting opinions. Some civilians defended the heroes who had sided with the vigilantes, arguing that their actions proved hero society was failing, that their choice to support Momo and Shouto was a stand against corruption rather than an act of rebellion. Others condemned them, insisting that heroes had a duty to uphold the system, that abandoning it only made things worse, that vigilantes were a threat rather than a solution.

Former heroes weighed in, some supporting the underground, pointing out the flaws in hero society, arguing that the Commission’s response was proof that the system was still broken. Others sided with the government, insisting that structure was necessary, that vigilantes only created instability, that hero society couldn’t afford to fracture any further. Politicians followed suit, some pushing for stricter regulations, others using the situation as proof that hero society needed reform, turning the debate into something larger than just Momo and Shouto’s actions.

The task force’s involvement only added fuel to the fire, turning the situation into something more personal, more complicated, more difficult to ignore. Class A had been a symbol of resilience, of unity, of everything hero society had fought to rebuild. Now, five of its members had been assigned to track down two of their own, forcing the public to question where the line between duty and loyalty truly existed.

The Commission remained silent, refusing to acknowledge the growing controversy, refusing to engage in the debate, refusing to let the narrative slip out of their control. But the silence only made things worse, only fueled speculation, only made people question what was happening behind closed doors.

The media had caught wind of the fracture.

And now, there was no stopping the storm that followed.

The media frenzy had reached a point where containment was no longer an option. What had started as speculation had evolved into a full-scale crisis, forcing every major news outlet, political figure, and hero agency to address the growing fracture within hero society. The Commission had lost control of the narrative, and now, the conversation was dictated by public opinion rather than official statements.

Talk shows hosted heated debates, bringing in analysts, former heroes, and government officials to dissect the situation from every possible angle. Some argued that vigilantes were destabilizing hero society, insisting that allowing them to operate unchecked would lead to chaos. Others countered that the Commission’s aggressive stance was proof that the system was failing, that heroes should be allowed to challenge authority when necessary, that Momo and Shouto’s actions were a symptom of a larger problem rather than the cause.

Headlines became increasingly dramatic, shifting from cautious reporting to outright sensationalism. Some publications framed the vigilantes as dangerous, emphasizing their defiance, questioning their motives, speculating on how far they were willing to go. Others painted them as revolutionaries, highlighting their supporters, exposing flaws in hero society, turning them into symbols of resistance rather than fugitives.

Civilians were no longer just watching—they were choosing sides, their opinions shaping the way heroes responded, their voices influencing the way agencies handled the situation. Protests began forming, some demanding stricter regulations on vigilantes, others calling for hero society to acknowledge its failures, turning the streets into battlegrounds for ideological conflict. Social media amplified the divide, fueling arguments, spreading misinformation, making it impossible for anyone to remain neutral.

Hero agencies scrambled to maintain order, some issuing statements reaffirming their loyalty to the Commission, others distancing themselves from the controversy, refusing to take a definitive stance. Some heroes resigned quietly, unwilling to be caught in the middle, unwilling to fight for a system they no longer believed in. Others doubled down, pushing for harsher measures, insisting that vigilantes needed to be stopped before hero society collapsed entirely.

The task force became a focal point, their involvement turning the situation into something deeply personal, something that couldn’t be dismissed as just another political debate. Class A had always been seen as a unit, as a group that stood together, as a symbol of resilience. Now, they were fractured, divided between duty and loyalty, caught in a conflict that had no easy resolution.

The Commission had underestimated the fallout.

And they were running out of ways to control it.

The divide had solidified, no longer just an ideological split but an outright conflict, forcing former classmates to stand on opposite sides of a battle none of them had ever imagined fighting. A month had passed since the initial fracture, and in that time, the situation had deteriorated beyond repair. What had started as tension had escalated into direct confrontations, turning old friendships into strained alliances, making it impossible to ignore the reality of what hero society had become.

Izuku had spent weeks deliberating, analyzing every angle, questioning every decision, searching for a way to reconcile his belief in heroism with the undeniable corruption within the Commission. But the deeper he dug, the more he realized that the system wasn’t just flawed - it was actively working against the very ideals it claimed to uphold. He had always believed in saving people, in protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves, in standing for justice no matter the cost. And now, that meant standing with the vigilantes, even if it meant going against everything he had once fought for.

Iida had struggled just as much, torn between his personal convictions and the weight of his family’s legacy. The Iida name had always been synonymous with heroism, with structure, with unwavering dedication to the system. He had spent years trying to live up to that expectation, trying to prove that he was worthy of carrying that responsibility, trying to ensure that his actions reflected the values his family had instilled in him. In the end, that loyalty kept him on the hero side, even if it meant standing against people he had once considered family.

The battles weren’t just physical - they were emotional, forcing them to confront the reality of fighting against people they had trained with, survived with, built their futures alongside. Jirou and Kaminari worked tirelessly to keep the vigilantes connected, ensuring that information flowed, that movements were coordinated, that they stayed ahead of the Commission’s crackdown. Sero had fully integrated into the underground, using his skills to navigate the shifting landscape, ensuring that Momo’s network remained intact despite the growing pressure.

Bakugou had thrown himself into hero work, refusing to acknowledge the discomfort, refusing to let the division slow him down, refusing to let hesitation dictate his actions. He had never been one to dwell on emotions, never been one to hesitate, never been one to let uncertainty affect his decisions. But even he couldn’t ignore the way things felt different, the way every mission carried the weight of knowing that eventually, they would be forced to fight people they had once trusted without question.

Kirishima had struggled the most, caught between his belief in heroism and his loyalty to his friends, forced to reconcile the fact that standing with the vigilantes meant standing against people he had once sworn to protect. Mina had remained with the heroes, not because she fully supported the Commission, but because she didn’t know how else to process everything, because she wasn’t ready to walk away from the system entirely. Their relationship remained intact, but the strain was undeniable, the weight of their choices pressing into every conversation, every moment where they had to pretend that things were still the same.

Ochako had accepted her place within hero society, knowing that her family situation left her with no real alternative, understanding that even if she sympathized with the vigilantes, she couldn’t afford to stand with them. Tokoyami had remained firm in his convictions, his loyalty to hero society keeping him grounded, his belief in structure making it easier for him to justify the split. Kouda, Hagakure, Aoyama, and Shouji had followed suit, their decisions shaped by their own understanding of heroism, their own belief in the system, their own unwillingness to abandon the structure they had fought to uphold.

The conflict had escalated beyond words, beyond debates, beyond quiet disagreements.

And now, there was no avoiding the inevitable.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

Momo had never been one to seek out physical comfort, had never been the type to lean into casual touches, had never considered herself someone who needed that kind of reassurance. She had always been composed, always maintained a certain level of distance, always prioritized efficiency over sentimentality. But lately, something felt off, something she couldn’t quite place, something that lingered beneath the surface in a way she didn’t fully understand.

She had adjusted to the underground, had built a system that kept them ahead, had ensured that every move was calculated, every action deliberate, every decision made with precision. She had allies now, people who had chosen to support her, people who had stepped away from hero society to stand with her, people who had placed their trust in her leadership. Sero had integrated seamlessly, his presence familiar, his loyalty unwavering, his ability to adapt making the transition easier than expected. Jirou and Kaminari kept information flowing, Ojiro and Satou ensured resources remained intact, Kirishima had committed himself fully despite his initial hesitation.

And then there was Shouto.

He had always been steady, always reliable, always someone she could count on to understand the weight of their choices without needing constant reassurance. He didn’t question her decisions, didn’t hesitate before following her lead, didn’t let the pressure of their situation affect his conviction. He was a constant presence, always nearby, always watching, always ensuring that she wasn’t carrying the burden alone.

She hadn’t realized how much she had come to rely on that presence until recently, hadn’t noticed the way she lingered in conversations longer than necessary, hadn’t acknowledged the way she found herself standing closer than she normally would, hadn’t considered the way she caught herself watching him when she should have been focused elsewhere.

It wasn’t until Sero had casually slung an arm around her shoulder during a briefing, his usual relaxed nature making the gesture seem entirely natural, that she felt the shift in herself. The warmth was unfamiliar, the weight of the contact something she hadn’t expected to affect her, the realization settling in before she could push it aside. She had stiffened slightly, not enough for anyone to notice, not enough to make it obvious, but enough for her to recognize that something was different.

She had never been one to seek out touch, had never considered herself someone who needed it, had never thought about the absence of it until now.

And now, she wasn’t sure what to do with that realization.

Shouto had always been perceptive, even if he didn’t always know what to do with the things he noticed. He had learned to read people in ways that weren’t always obvious, had spent years understanding the subtleties of emotion, had developed an awareness that made it impossible for him to ignore when something was wrong. And something was definitely wrong with Momo.

She wasn’t acting differently in any obvious way - she was still composed, still efficient, still focused on their operations with the same level of precision she always had. But there was something beneath it, something he could see in the way she lingered in conversations longer than necessary, in the way she stood closer than she normally would, in the way she seemed to hesitate before pulling away from casual touches rather than avoiding them entirely.

She had never been someone who sought out physical comfort, had always maintained a certain level of distance, had never been particularly open to casual affection. But lately, she seemed… off. Not in a way that affected her work, not in a way that anyone else seemed to notice, but in a way that made Shouto feel like he was watching something unfold that she hadn’t even realized was happening.

He wasn’t sure how to approach it, wasn’t sure if he should say anything, wasn’t sure if acknowledging it would make things worse. But the more he noticed, the harder it became to ignore, and eventually, he found himself standing beside her after a briefing, the weight of the realization pressing into his thoughts before he could stop himself from speaking.

"If you ever need-" He hesitated, realizing too late that he hadn’t actually planned how to phrase this, realizing that he was about to say something that would probably make him sound ridiculous. "I mean, if you ever need a hug or something, I wouldn’t mind."

Momo blinked, clearly caught off guard, clearly unsure how to respond, clearly processing the words as if they were in a language she didn’t fully understand.

Shouto felt his ears heat, regretting everything immediately, wondering if there was a way to take it back without making it worse. "Not that you have to," he added quickly, trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left. "Just… if you ever wanted to."

She didn’t say anything right away, her expression unreadable, her thoughts impossible to decipher. Then, slowly, something shifted in her posture, something almost imperceptible, something that made Shouto feel like maybe - just maybe - he hadn’t completely ruined this interaction.

"I’ll… keep that in mind," she said finally, her voice quieter than usual, lacking the usual edge of calculation.

Shouto nodded, pretending that his heart wasn’t beating faster than it should be, pretending that he hadn’t just embarrassed himself, pretending that this wasn’t the most awkward conversation he had ever initiated.

And if Momo lingered a little closer than usual after that, well - he wasn’t going to complain.

Sero had insisted on a movie night, claiming that if they were going to be stuck in the hideout for the foreseeable future, they might as well take advantage of the downtime. Shouto hadn’t argued, mostly because he didn’t have strong opinions on movies, and Momo had agreed with the same level of detached acceptance she gave to anything that wasn’t directly related to their operations.

The setup was simple - blankets, dim lighting, a selection of films that Sero had deemed essential viewing for 'culturally deprived childhoods'. Momo had raised an eyebrow at the phrasing, but she hadn’t protested, which was probably the closest thing to agreement she was capable of when it came to casual entertainment.

Shouto had expected her to remain as composed as she always was, sitting with perfect posture, absorbing the film with quiet analysis, treating the experience like another piece of information to catalog rather than something to enjoy. And for the first half of the movie, that was exactly what happened.

Then, gradually, something shifted.

It wasn’t immediate, wasn’t obvious, wasn’t something anyone else would have noticed. But Shouto felt it in the way her posture relaxed, in the way her breathing evened out, in the way she leaned just slightly closer, as if she wasn’t entirely aware of what she was doing.

He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t do anything that might make her realize and pull away.

The film continued, the dialogue blending into the background, the warmth of her presence settling against his side in a way that felt entirely natural despite the fact that it had never happened before.

Then, slowly, she shifted again, her weight pressing into him more fully, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, her exhaustion catching up to her before she could stop herself.

Shouto exhaled quietly, his gaze flickering toward her, his thoughts settling into something softer, something quieter, something he wasn’t entirely sure how to process.

She had fallen asleep.

And she hadn’t pulled away.

He didn’t move, didn’t risk waking her, didn’t do anything that might make her realize what had happened.

Instead, he let her stay exactly where she was.

And if his heart was beating a little faster than usual, well - no one had to know.

Sero had always been good at adapting, at finding ways to make things feel normal even when everything around them was anything but. The press chaos hadn’t died down, the vigilantes were still operating in the shadows, and the tension between hero society and the underground hadn’t eased in the slightest. But that didn’t mean they had to sit around and let the weight of it consume them.

So, naturally, he suggested dessert.

"I’ll go out in disguise," he said, already pulling on an oversized hoodie, adjusting the hat on his head, slipping on a pair of glasses that made him look just different enough to avoid suspicion. "I’m not exactly a household name, so as long as I don’t do anything stupid, I’ve got a solid chance of not getting recognized. Ya two want any ice cream?"

Shouto, who had been flipping through one of the reports Momo had left on the table, glanced up with mild interest. "Sure," he said, his tone even, his agreement immediate. "Mint chocolate chip."

Sero grinned, pointing at him with mock approval. "Solid choice."

Momo, who had been reviewing their latest intel, barely looked up. "I don’t think I need anything," she said, her voice distracted, her focus still on the documents in front of her.

Sero blinked, then tilted his head slightly, as if processing her response. "Wait. Do you not like ice cream?"

Momo hesitated, her fingers pausing against the edge of the paper, her expression unreadable for a moment before she finally admitted, "I don’t know."

Shouto frowned slightly, his attention shifting fully to her now. "You’ve never had ice cream?"

Momo exhaled slowly, as if realizing that this was about to turn into a conversation she hadn’t anticipated. "My parents never allowed sweets," she said simply, her tone neutral, her posture composed. "They considered processed foods unhealthy and unnecessary."

Sero stared at her for a long moment, then sighed dramatically, shaking his head as he pulled out his phone. "Okay, yeah, no, we’re fixing that immediately."

Momo raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his reaction. "I don’t see why it’s such a big deal."

Shouto, who had been quietly absorbing the exchange, finally spoke, his tone as even as ever. "It’s a big deal."

Sero nodded in agreement, already typing out a list of flavors. "You’re getting options," he announced, ignoring her skepticism entirely. "And I’m picking for you, because I don’t trust you to make a decision when you don’t even know what ice cream tastes like."

Momo sighed, clearly realizing that resistance was pointless. "Fine," she muttered, returning to her documents as if that would end the conversation.

Shouto watched her for a moment longer, then glanced at Sero. "Get her vanilla," he suggested, his tone thoughtful. "It’s simple."

Sero grinned. "And I’m getting her something fun, because she deserves it."

Momo didn’t argue.

And Shouto didn’t say it out loud, but he agreed.

Sero returned about half an hour later, balancing three cups of ice cream in one hand while shutting the door behind him with the other. His disguise had worked - no one had recognized him, no one had questioned him, and he had successfully acquired dessert without incident.

"Mission accomplished," he announced, tossing his hat onto the couch before handing out the ice cream. "Pistachio for me, mint chocolate chip for you, and strawberry for Momo."

Momo took the cup with mild curiosity, examining it as if it were some kind of foreign object rather than a simple dessert. "Strawberry?" she questioned, glancing between them.

Sero shrugged, already digging into his own. "Figured it was a safe bet, it's your favorite fruit after all. Plus, it’s got a little sweetness without being overwhelming."

Shouto nodded slightly, taking a bite of his own, watching as Momo hesitated before finally trying hers. She was composed as always, but he caught the way her expression shifted just slightly, the way her posture relaxed, the way she took another bite without commenting on it.

They sat together, the conversation flowing easily, the tension of the outside world momentarily forgotten. Sero kept things light, filling the silence with casual remarks, ensuring that the atmosphere remained comfortable despite everything happening beyond the walls of the hideout. Momo contributed where necessary, her responses measured but engaged, her presence steady despite the exhaustion lingering beneath the surface.

Eventually, she stood, setting her half-finished ice cream aside, her focus shifting back to their operations. "I need to check on the shipment status," she said, her tone neutral but firm. "I’ll be back shortly."

Shouto nodded, watching as she left, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to his ice cream.

Sero smirked, leaning back against the couch, his expression entirely too amused. "You know, you’re not subtle."

Shouto frowned slightly, glancing at him. "What?"

Sero gestured vaguely in the direction Momo had gone. "Your crush. The one the size of the sun."

Shouto exhaled slowly, pretending that his ears weren’t heating, pretending that he wasn’t about to regret this conversation. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sero laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, okay, sure. You just happen to stare at her like she’s the most fascinating person in the world for no reason."

Shouto didn’t respond immediately, focusing on his ice cream as if it were the most important thing in the room.

Sero leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting into something more thoughtful. "Look, I know Momo better than most people. She’s not the type to rush into things, and she’s definitely not the type to recognize feelings easily. But if you want to get anywhere with her, you need to be patient."

Shouto glanced at him, his expression unreadable but his attention fully on the conversation now.

Sero continued, his tone casual but sincere. "She’s like you in a lot of ways - she doesn’t think about romance unless it’s right in front of her, and even then, she’s probably going to overanalyze it before accepting it. You can’t just expect her to figure it out on her own."

Shouto considered that, his fingers curling slightly against his cup, his thoughts settling into something quieter, something more deliberate.

Sero smirked again, nudging him lightly. "So, if you want her to notice, you’re gonna have to make it obvious."

Shouto exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering toward the doorway where Momo had disappeared, his mind already working through the implications.

And for the first time, he wondered if maybe - just maybe - Sero was right.

*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*

The situation had spiraled far beyond what anyone had anticipated, turning what had once been a quiet ideological divide into an outright war of principles. The media had latched onto every development, amplifying the chaos, forcing heroes to take sides, making neutrality an impossibility. What had started as a disagreement had evolved into something that dictated the future of hero society, shaping policies, influencing public perception, and determining who would be remembered as defenders of justice and who would be labeled as traitors.

The heroes who remained loyal to the system had solidified their stance, refusing to acknowledge the vigilantes as anything other than a disruption to order. Agencies had begun enforcing stricter regulations, monitoring heroes more closely, ensuring that no one else defected. The Commission had tightened its grip, issuing statements that framed the vigilantes as reckless, insisting that their actions endangered civilians, warning that continued support for them would result in consequences. Some heroes followed without question, believing in the necessity of structure, trusting that the system could still be salvaged. Others hesitated, recognizing the flaws, understanding the reasons behind the split, but unwilling to abandon hero society entirely.

The vigilantes had adapted, shifting their operations, ensuring that their movements remained unpredictable, refusing to let the Commission dictate their actions. They had gained support, not just from civilians who sympathized with their cause, but from heroes who had chosen to remain in the system while quietly assisting them. Information flowed through hidden channels, resources were secured through discreet exchanges, alliances were formed in the shadows, ensuring that the underground remained intact despite the growing pressure.

Class A had fractured completely, their once unshakable unity reduced to strained interactions, tense exchanges, and unavoidable confrontations. Bakugou had refused to acknowledge the emotional weight of the split, throwing himself into hero work, ensuring that his focus remained on the missions rather than the people he had once considered family. Ochako had accepted her place within hero society, understanding that her circumstances left her with no real alternative, choosing to remain silent rather than engage in debates she couldn’t afford to win. Iida had reaffirmed his loyalty to the system, his family’s legacy keeping him grounded, his belief in structure making it easier for him to justify the decisions being made.

Izuku had made his choice, inching into the underground, committing himself to the vigilantes, ensuring that their operations remained functional despite the increasing obstacles. Kirishima had followed, struggling with the weight of his decision, but refusing to turn his back on the people who had once stood beside him without hesitation. Jirou and Kaminari had worked tirelessly to maintain connections, ensuring that information flowed, that movements were coordinated, that those who had chosen to support the vigilantes remained protected.

The conflict had escalated beyond words, beyond quiet disagreements, beyond the possibility of reconciliation. Heroes had resigned, stepping away from the system, refusing to be caught in the middle of something they no longer believed in. Others had doubled down, pushing for harsher measures, insisting that vigilantes needed to be stopped before hero society collapsed entirely.

The Commission had underestimated the fallout.

Chapter Text

The meeting had been called under the guise of unity, a desperate attempt by the Commission to reassert control, to remind pro heroes of their duty, to ensure that the growing fracture didn’t turn into something irreversible. The room was filled with tension, the weight of unspoken disagreements pressing into every glance exchanged, every stiff posture, every carefully measured breath.

The regulations had tightened, restrictions growing harsher, surveillance increasing, orders becoming less about protecting civilians and more about eliminating threats - threats that, until recently, had been their own colleagues. The Commission had made its stance clear: vigilantes were criminals, those who supported them were complicit, and any hero who refused to comply would face consequences.

The argument started the moment the floor was opened for discussion. Some heroes defended the new measures, insisting that structure was necessary, that the system couldn’t afford to bend, that vigilantes were only making things worse. Others pushed back, questioning the morality of hunting down people who had once fought beside them, pointing out the hypocrisy of enforcing laws that contradicted the very ideals hero society was built upon.

Jirou had remained silent at first, arms crossed, expression unreadable, listening as voices clashed, as justifications were thrown back and forth, as the Commission representatives attempted to maintain order. But the longer she listened, the more the frustration built, the more the anger settled, the more the realization hit that there was no salvaging this.

Then, finally, she spoke, her voice cutting through the chaos with something sharper than defiance.

"You keep talking about justice," she said, her tone edged with something dangerously close to disgust. "But all I hear is control."

The room shifted, attention snapping toward her, the weight of her words settling before anyone could respond.

One of the Commission officials straightened, their expression carefully composed, their voice measured. "Hero society cannot function without order."

Jirou exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her patience thinning with every second that passed. "Hero society isn’t functioning at all," she countered, her gaze sharp, her conviction solidifying into something unshakable. "You’re not protecting people - you’re protecting your own power."

The response was immediate, voices rising, arguments clashing, justifications thrown at her as if they could somehow change the reality of what was happening. But Jirou didn’t waver, didn’t hesitate, didn’t let the noise drown out the decision she had already made.

Without another word, she reached into her jacket, pulled out her hero license, and slammed it onto the table with enough force to make the room fall silent.

"I’m done," she said simply, turning on her heel, walking out without waiting for a response, without looking back, without giving them the chance to convince her otherwise.

The silence stretched for only a moment before Denki moved, his expression unreadable but his actions immediate, pulling out his own license and tossing it onto the table before following her without hesitation.

Then, one by one, the others followed.