Chapter Text
The front entrance haunted you.
Too white.
Too clean.
Too much like that room .
You could almost hear the mechanical hum of the machines again—the high-pitched lullaby of needles and metal restraints. The white ceiling behind your eyelids flickered like static—the memory of the cold stares, monotone voices, and the clipboard.
What if you escaped that hell just to go to another?
You bit your lip, drawing blood. The metallic taste seeped into your tongue, your heart racing at your internal question.
If you walked in, your life would be drastically altered. The wind nagged your red hair as if invisible hands were pushing you to get inside.
Go.
Go.
You sigh as you take slow steps—one step.
Then another.
Each footfall felt like betrayal.
Your body moved on autopilot. Left, right, left—as if stitched together by muscle memory, not intention.
You didn’t feel the ground.
You didn’t feel anything.
You were just... going.
A voice broke through the fog in your mind—an unreadable man approaching you with all the warmth of a scalpel.
You didn’t catch his name.
He gestured.
You nodded.
You followed.
You moved behind him like a marionette, joints stiff and detached.
It felt like someone else’s legs were walking—left, right, left, right—as the hallway stretched ahead like an execution march.
You turned a corner and saw it.
The door.
Tall. Heavy.
A gold plate etched with the words Principal’s Office .
The man went inside, first closing the door behind him, and you heard whispers that you didn’t bother to register.
The door opened again.
And there he was.
Small, smug, dangerous .
A little creature is sitting in a chair, looking at you, intrigued. You knew he was one of the products of the white room.
He gestured to the seat across from him.
You sat slowly, like sitting down might snap a trap.
His eyes flicked over your file like it was a holy text.
Then they lifted to meet yours, sharp and gleaming.
“Aki Rina,” he said, smooth and slow, like your name was a threat.
“Molecule manipulation is a strong power," his sharp eyes skimmed over the open file, and he became more serious.
"Let's break it down,” he continued.
His voice was too calm.
Too measured.
“Your quirk allows you control over molecules — the building blocks of everything surrounding us. You can alter their structure, manipulate nuclear forces, and even create entirely new matter. The physical world becomes your sandbox, treating everything as a game. Of course," he pauses, his gaze sharpening at your wrist.
He spoke as if narrating a lab report.
Not a person.
Not a life.
Just a weapon in a file.
"With limits as I can see," he remarks as he interlocks his fingers.
The silence wrapped around you like a thread pulled taut.
You exhaled.
Your eyes narrowed, cold anger crawling over your spine like frost. You didn’t flinch. You wouldn’t give him that. You sank into the chair, not from comfort, but to become immovable. If he wanted to study you, let him stare into stone .
You’d lived this story.
The file in his hands wasn’t ink—it was blood.
"Drawbacks,” he continued as he leaned forward to show interest in your weakness.
Of course.
“Nosebleeds. Memory loss. Headaches. Drowsiness. Changes in behavior…”
He paused.
The moment stilled.
“…and, of course—death.” The words hung like a bomb waiting to explode.
Your pupils dilated.
Icy blue swallowed crystal.
Your eyes narrowed into slits. A chill crawled over your skin like something in you flinched before you could.
The file flies away from the principal's hand, but he doesn't seem to care, still observing the girl. His gaze dissected her as if you were under the microscope—goosebumps crawled on your arms at his gaze.
"No other schools are mentioned in the file,” he says, snapping the folder closed.
“It says you were homeschooled and suddenly recommended by the government. That is interesting," he leans forward, curiosity invading his eyes.
But you already knew what game you were playing.
U.A. wasn’t a government puppet.
And that was your
in
.
A breath of freedom.
A minute out of the cage.
Just long enough to
make your move
.
"A captivating little thing, aren't you?" he asked rhetorically with a sly smile. He showed his actual color and his knowledge about you through his eyes.
Your eyes bore into his with practiced boredom.
"Yes, sir, it appears I am," you replied, your tone laced with feigned politeness.
You turned your head upwards, looking down at him and fixing him with a tired yet defiant look.
“ Would you like to add anything else, or may I leave now?”
He smiled, something smug and knowing twisting his lips.
"No, that’s all," he said authoritatively, his lips curling upwards as he sighed towards the door. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”
You pushed yourself out of your chair, your movements stiff as you stormed out the door.
You didn’t spare the principal another glance, but could feel his eyes glaring at your back like lasers. He leaned back in his chair as the door clicked shut behind you, smiling like someone who thought they’d won.
You stood before the towering doors.
For a moment, your hand hovered over the handle.
Another threshold.
The metal felt cold beneath your fingers, like memory.
You finally pushed it open.
And that’s when you felt it.
A presence behind you.
"Go somewhere else if you want to play at being friends," the man grumbled without even opening his eyes. His voice was rough.
Disinterested.
You caught a flash of yellow—messy, disorganized.
He didn’t look up.
You stepped into the room anyway.
Eyes brushed over you.
But you didn’t care.
Quickly, you found yourself sitting in front of a blond-haired boy who barely acknowledged you.
The man walked slowly to the front—slouched and wrapped in scarves—barely blinked.
"I'm your homeroom teacher, Shoto Aizawa," he announces with heavy-lidded eyes sweeping lazily over the students.
His voice was dry. Detached. Like he’d been up all night without a care in the world.
The classroom buzzed with murmurs, exchanging glances at their teacher's appearance and introduction. You barely acknowledge the scene.
With a resigned sigh, you drop your handbag beside your desk, shrug off your blazer, and fold into a makeshift pillow. Collapsing into your desk, you whine as you stretch over your desk, determined to steal a moment of rest from all the chaos.
Just a second.
Just a moment to breathe.
"It's kind of sudden, but put this on and go out to the field," Aizawa instructed, holding them a standard — issue gym uniform.
You blinked slowly.
The weight of the day cracked your spine.
You’d just sat down .
You groaned audibly, your frustration pouring out. You were ready to sleep off this day, but your plans were interrupted.
But you moved.
You always did.
You always follow instructions.
You stood up, raising your arms slowly and shoving your blazer aside.
Then your eyes caught his.
Blonde. Sharp. Pissed.
His glare deepened as soon as your eyes connected. His glare hit you like a match.
And for some reason—
You smiled.
Slow. Wicked.
Smirking at his obvious irritation, you stick your tongue out, savoring how his jaw tenses. He scoffed loudly, turning away with exaggerated disgust, while you rolled your eyes indifferently.
However, his shoulders were tense, and he couldn't help but feel curiosity towards the girl.
You caught it.
So did your quirk.
That slight chemical change in the air.
His tension. His curiosity.
He didn’t know what to do with you.
And that sparked something within him.
And that made two of you.
The brief interaction made your brain release norepinephrine, beating your heart faster as a surge of adrenaline took over.
A wicked smile took over your face.
You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but this guy ignited a fire in you, a need to prove yourself and rise to the challenge.
After changing into their gym uniforms, the students gather around their uninterested teacher.
The sun burned too bright, making you squint at the sight of your teacher.
Aizawa’s words take them by surprise: “ We’ll begin a quirk assessment test,” he announces flatly; however, his mouth twitches in amusement, his scarf coiled like a viper around his shoulders.
"What about the entrance ceremony? The orientation?" a girl asks, her voice laced with confusion, a tone too innocent, eyes clueless of the world's harshness.
Aizawa did not even bother to turn around and look at her. "You're going to become a hero. You don't have time for such leisure events," his dismissive tone was sharp.
You huff out air, crossing your arms tightly as irritation takes over your body.
You could’ve laughed at that.
Heroes?
None of them knew what the word really meant.
But you did.
Because in the world, there were no heroes.
Just survivors and statistics.
Your fingers played with the bands that adorned your wrist, the repetitive tinge of pain comforting your impatience.
They felt heavy.
Familiar.
Comforting, in a sick way.
You turned them, over and over, grounding yourself in the pain like it was prayer.
"U.A. Its selling point is how unrestricted its school tradition is. That's also how the teachers run their class," Aizawa states.
An unease could be felt as the class felt discomfort at his words.
"You kids have been doing these since junior high—physical fitness tests, where you weren't allowed to use your quirk. The country still uses averages from the results of students who do not use their quirks. It's not rational. The Ministry of Education is procrastinating," he states.
Your lip twitched.
The word rational meant something different in your world.
There was nothing rational about what happened in the Room.
There was nothing rational about carving children into weapons.
The word rational is a loose word that people use to their advantage.
He called on the first boy.
The boy stretches his hands over his head, exhaling slowly as he prepares.
Closing his eyes, he takes a big breath.
He raised his arm with a shout.
A flash of light.
The ball vanished into the sky with a sonic scream.
His muscles rippled with the effort as he straightened. A confident grin overtook his face as pride invaded his body.
Your eyes focus on him, unmoving.
You didn’t move.
You didn’t flinch.
The way your power works makes you tick like an obsessed beast. Whenever it felt threatened, it grew hungry for the challenge. It searched .
Your quirk knew he was well — trained. Even if his posture was terrible, there was an obvious sign of trained physiques.
It saw the different molecules in the palms of his hands compared to the normal ones in the human body. It tasted the molecules that burst from his skin.
Nitroglycerin.
Explosive.
Volatile.
Your mind analyzes his physique, looking for more answers and piecing things together. It mapped his musculature without permission.
Fighter. Hiker. Boxer, maybe.
His biceps were highly trained and strained. There were micro-tears in his biceps, consistent with overuse.
The whole class started getting rowdy, and their excitement spilled over at the boy's performance.
But your focus was unwavering. A slight blue glow surrounded you, your instincts rising at the challenge.
"You have three years to become a hero. Do you want to have that attitude?” his tone sharp as his gaze traveled from the students. Like a predator choosing its prey.
“All right. Whoever comes in last place in all eight tests will be judged to have no potential and punished with expulsion."
A collective groan travels all around her, but you barely notice. Your body was shaking with anticipation, your veins full of adrenaline, and your heart pounding.
A restless energy travels through your body, your limbs shaking with adrenaline. The challenge turned something primal in you, like a wildfire you couldn’t suppress.
A feral grin took over you.
Your blue eyes shone with determination. Your behavior changes drastically at the sound of a challenge. You were a predator, awakened by the competition.
"Last place will be expelled?! It's the first day! No, even if it wasn't the first day, it's too unfair!" the girl claims, distracting Aizawa.
You look down at the bracelets, fidgeting with the cold metal, grounding you. But as you glanced up, you could feel a hard thump resonating in your head, the dull ache blooming in your skull.
Your stern stare swept across the room, dissecting every person in the room, each person's body composition, strengths, weaknesses, powers, and feelings. Your head was overloaded with information, but you couldn’t stop.
When your eyes met Aizawa’s, his sharp gaze was fixed on you.
Your lips curl with a wicked smirk, daring him to acknowledge you.
He looked at you unblinking before sighting and shifting his gaze away." Natural disasters, significant accidents, and selfish villains. Calamities whose time can't be predicted. Japan is covered with unfairness. Heroes are the ones who reverse those situations. Suppose you wanted to talk to your friends at Mickey D's after school; too bad, for all the U.A. has done for three years is throw you one hardship after another. Go beyond. Plus ultra. Overcome it with all you got," he says with a smirk, daring them to rise to the occasion.
You stretch.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Your limbs hummed with a quiet ache—the kind you’d trained to ignore.
The first test was the 50—meter dash, which you would have won if this were a competition.
All you had to do was manipulate the air particles and create a pocket of low density that reduced the drag. You shifted the molecules on the ground for them to grip you, making you run faster, like a knife slashing through the ground. A wave of kinetic energy surged, helping you run faster. Once closer, you twisted some air particles into a dense stream that pushed you.
2.5 seconds.
The next test was grip strength, which you approached with calculated precision.
Your eyes gleamed, scanning the molecules dancing around you like an opportunity in waiting.
Slowly, you altered the density of your fingers like strong titanium. Air particles coiled around your wrist, forming a brace to stabilize your grip. Tendons and muscles shifted inside you, tightening with a robot — like efficiency.
Your lips curved with a demented grin.
How hard can you push before you break?
Your grimace widened, and your veins filled with adrenaline coursing through your body. Your heart was pumping at a fast rhythm in your chest. Your breaths were sharp and uneven, as if your body couldn't keep up with the thrill.
The final person stands in the middle of the field, looking nervous.
The thrill slowly escaped from your body, and there was a sudden change in her demeanor. The excitement thinned. You feel the thrill change into a weight of dread for the day.
You glanced back at the boy, uninterested.
Green hair.
Uneven steps.
Eyes that looked like they’d seen too many dreams die and clung to them anyway.
He stood in the center like a child facing a firing squad.
Your arms crossed, and your feet tapping at a comforting rhythm. Your gaze was heavy on him enough to give him chills, and he turned around and looked at you.
Your aura sends an accidental threatening wave to the poor boy, making his breath hitch and causing him to turn around. A breath leaves his mouth as he throws the ball.
Then—nothing.
Your eyebrows furrowed, and irritation flooded you at his action.
The ball arched into the air and flopped.
Pathetic.
You blinked.
Your brows pulled together.
"I erased your quirk," Aizawa declared, his voice cutting through the crowd's murmurs like a sharp blade. His words left a wondering in the air, cold and deliberate, as if anyone dared question him.
You tilted your head slightly, intrigued by her teacher's whole persona. You knew who he was in some way, but you just couldn't accept it, even if it made sense.
Denial at its finest.
You were liberated from the drowsiness provoked by the drug, yet this was your result. You understood everything; a hard breath escaped you.
Your mind screamed caution.
Your body froze.
Your fists clenched as you stared down at the metal cuffs still hanging loose from your wrists.
They weren’t there to stop you.
They were there to remind you .
Of course, he was your teacher. His power was enough to stop you; you didn't need anything else.
His presence sent cold shivers that licked your skin. A tremor invaded your core. Your fist was tightly clenched, the crescent mark of your nails biting into your palms. You breathed heavily to settle the hurricane of feelings inside you, but your thoughts couldn't. Your idea was like a ball of yarn, impossible to unknot. You glanced up, and your eyes looked like those of prey looking at the predator, and your predator was staring right back at you.
This man wasn't just observing you, dissecting you piece by piece.
"That entrance exam was not rational enough for even a kid like you to get accepted." Aizawa’s words are as sharp as a knife; each is a calculated strike.
You watched the green-haired boy flinch.
His hands clenched tighter.
For a moment, this test resembles a trial by fire, an exam designed to measure skill and desperation. His words strip fairness and your freedom flying away from you, leaving no room for rebuttal.
"From what I can see, you can't control your quirk, right? " he stated. His gaze was sharp and unyielding as a blade drawn from its sheath.
“Do you intend to become incapacitated and for someone to save you?” His words felt heavier than the air before the storm, cutting through everyone's hopes and crushing them into powder.
The silence that followed rang louder than any alarm.
You felt your heart tighten, like a kid who couldn't save himself in the darkest hour when the spotlight demanded courage.
Not in sympathy.
In recognition .
That was a dig at you.
His way of saying Are you ever going to stop waiting for someone to save you?
"That's not my intention," the boy stuttered, his voice like a fragile thread ready to snap.
You just stared.
You watched him closely, his green hair tousled like grass when the wind messed with it. His words were hesitant, resembling those who carried their dreams like fragile glass, always on the brink of shattering. You didn't envy him. No matter how noble, dreams were often crushed under expectations.
Aizawa moved like a shadow, and his scarf moved with the precision of a predator. In an instant, the boy was yanked towards him. His breath hitched as Aizawa looked over at him, almost threatening.
The boy felt anxiousness and fear invade him at his teacher's words and presence. He needed a way to demonstrate he could be a hero, too. He didn't work this hard to fail.
"Whatever your intention,” Aizawa said, low and measured, “I'm saying that's what those around you will be forced to do.”
His words landed like a hammer blow, heavy with an unspoken truth that settled into the poor boy like a thick fog. He didn't know why he felt like this all his life. He was accustomed to those words, yet he still felt the sharp pain in his chest. The surrounding air suddenly shifted into something colder and oppressive as reality was preparing for his words.
With a sigh, Aizawa let the boy resume, even if he expected him to be disappointed. He knew the boy had no capability. The boy trembled like a leaf, but was determined to step forward.
He step.
Shaky.
Tired.
And he threw .
The ball ripped through the air, light flaring in his eyes.
His finger cracked.
His eyes dared Aizawa to say something. He felt pain, but that didn't matter; all he needed was this win, and everything else was clouded.
"Teacher... I can still move," the boy said, his voice trembling, yet his eyes told a different story, full of determination.
He was like a phoenix rising from the ashes that weren’t cold yet. He reminded you of the first note of the symphony about to crescendo.
Your chest tightened.
He was the type of hero you despised the most but admired simultaneously.
You swallowed.
Hard.
There was something in him that unnerved you.
Not because it was dangerous.
But because it was impossible .
Your eyes locked on the boy, your thoughts a whirlwind of questions.
You couldn't decipher his strange determination that contrasted with his weak state, the peculiar aura he gave, and the chemistry in his brain was confusing.
He was like an unfinished song, and you couldn't bear to sit and wait to hear it.
His brain hid something otherworldly; it was as if many lived in one spark that felt alive in him.
His veins hid the world's secret, and you wouldn’t stop until you uncovered them. His soul was so immense that you were unable to grasp him.
You couldn’t stop looking at him.
At the wild, quiet chaos of him.
How many sparks lived in one boy?
Curiosity had you in its clutches for the first time, an insatiable hunger to understand the enigma before you.
He was a glitch in the universe, just like you.
And you couldn’t look away.