'Single-Quoted Italics' = telepathic thoughts

Bold Italics = ?

Chapter 1

I'm standing in the ashes of who I used to be,

but I'm faded away,

you know, I used to be on fire

~ Angel on Fire by Halsey

First POV

I stared at the girl in the mirror. Dressed in the standard grey and green uniform, my black locks were pinned back in my usual half up half down braid, completing the innocent high-school look. A silver metal bracelet wrapped around my right wrist, linking five small charms of a shuriken, a handgun, an ace of hearts, a serrated dagger, and a carved arrowhead.

Breathing deeply, I steeled myself for the day ahead, mentally reviewing my list for the day. I slung my school bag over my left shoulder on my way out. Locking the front door, my mind started to wander as I made my way to U.A. High School.

Ordinarily, I was supposed to have a certain peppermint-haired travel companion, but I was not the least surprised to be making the journey alone. Not only did the male teenager hold a considerable amount of contempt for my existence, but the travel arrangement had been ordered by the head of the Todoroki household.

'Yeah, that so wasn't happening. Honestly, is Endeavour really that blind to his children's disdain and contempt for him? It's practically oozing into our house.' A jovial voice said in my mind.

Glancing at the gun-shaped charm that had a faint green glow, I mentally replied, 'I'm pretty sure he knows, Leon. He just doesn't know what to do about it.'

'Or maybe he just doesn't care. Fireface is giving men everywhere a bad rep–'

'Are you excited for your first day of school, Miyuki-sama?', a soothing tone asked, smoothly changing the subject as I boarded the bus.

'I don't think excited is the right word for it, Ez.'

'You'll be fine, Miyuki-hime.'

'What Arty said! And remember, you'll have us either way! And all the peanut butter ice cream in the freezer!', jovial green chimed in.

'Peanut butter! Peanut butter!'

'That's right Akemi-chan! Peanut butter, peanut butter!'

Less than fifteen minutes later, I alighted at my stop. I made my way through the imposing overarching gates of Japan's top high school, appreciating the comforting metallic jiggle that followed with each step. I walked the familiar route to Nezu's office.

It was a surprisingly cozy, small room that was tucked into the middle of the large building. I had spent many long hours in that modest office, a majority of which was spent listening to lecture after lecture of imparted wisdom from the tiny rodent. Today was no different. Stepping out of the principal's office, I hurriedly made my way to my classroom. Though the meeting with Nezu was shorter than usual, I had still spent at least half an hour listening as he recited the terms to my admission into U.A., terms that I had already heard at least twice before today.

With less than ten minutes to the first bell, I slipped into the classroom for class 1-A. The classroom was already teeming with bright-eyed first-year students deep in the throes of socialisation. Without drawing any attention to myself, I moved to take up an empty seat at the back corner of the room.

Settling down, I instinctively surveyed my new classmates. Mostly silvers and some gold-

With a shudder, I stopped before the thought could finish itself. Biting my lip, I scolded myself for my stupidity. Even after all these years–

Before I could continue further, a loud commotion started from the front of the classroom.

"Remove your foot from that desk! Such an action is insulting to those who came to U.A. before us, as well as the craftsmen who made the desk!"

"Like I give a shit! What middle school are you from, you extra?"

Spiky ash-blond hair peeked from the head of a young boy slouched lazily in his seat. His feet were propped up on the desk. Standing next to him, a stout bespectacled male was zealously chiding the rebellious boy with evidently little success.

Intrigued, I homed in on the duo. The seated boy had a soul that glowed a familiar warm crimson. The glaring orb burned energetically with the occasional explosive spark, a far cry from the tiny speck of red that I had avoided once before. It was significantly fierier and warmer, and a stark contrast to the other boy's rapid surges of blue. Mesmerised by the contrasting bursts of red and blue, I missed the rest of my opportunity to observe the other colours in the room.

I was only broken out of my reverie when a gloomy man emerged from a puffy yellow cocoon, a man I was well-acquainted with. Aizawa Shota, otherwise known as the pro-hero Eraserhead. A rational choice for our homeroom teacher. The other alternative would have been… that woman. I mentally shuddered at the thought of the alternative, a much less logical choice in my humble opinion.

"Change into your gym clothes and head out to the grounds. You have 5 minutes.", Aizawa-sensei blandly instructed.

Rising with the rest of the class, I stumbled along at the back of the group as we made our way to the changing rooms.

Small cliques had already begun to form. There were only a few aloof outliers that seemed perfectly content in their solitude. Anxiety coiled in my stomach. I was abysmally bad at socialising with people. There was just something intimidating about meeting people that were not fleeting faces in the crowd. It felt more personal, more important. An enormous pressure sat on my shoulders to start such acquaintanceships on the right foot, or more specifically a normal foot.

But that wasn't possible, was it? Not with the weight of what you've had done… Your first attempt to reach out had made that clear. It failed spectacularly, didn't it? Just one more of the many that loathes your existence.

They had to like me. I wanted them to like me. I wanted to prove that there was more to me than a terrified victim, a pathetic child. I wanted someone, some reminder of– I had to win them over. But it did not help that all their colours were bright and hopeful, a bitter reminder of what my pale shadow used to be and what I was not.

I shuffled into the female changing room with the other girls. My fingers gripped tightly around tinkling metal on my wrist, seeking quiet reassurance as I stood in front of my assigned locker.

The shuriken glowed a faint purple, 'You'll be alright, Miyuki-sama. Just try saying hello. We're right here with you.'

With a deep breath, I turned around, only to be startled by a blindingly bright smile. "Hi! I'm Uraraka Ochako. It's nice to meet you!"

Slightly dazed, it took my overthinking brain a few seconds to find an appropriate response. "I-I'm A-Amaya Miyuki. It's nice to meet you, U-Uraraka-san?", I quietly stammered. That was slower than a normal reply should be. I hope she doesn't-

"Ah, no need to be so formal! You can call me Uraraka-chan or even Ochako-chan. I don't mind! Is it okay if I call you Miyuki-chan?" Another mega-watt smile electrocuted my already-distressed brain. I could not remember anyone being this nice to me, especially on the first encounter. How is she so bright?

Before I could think of an adequate response, an exuberant pink girl with two yellow protruding horns loudly exclaimed, "I wonder what Aizawa-sensei has in store for us. I bet it's gonna be Plus Ultra!" And with that, Uraraka's attention was drawn away, easily joining the group conversation.

Waves of disappointment washed over me.

How pathetic.

Changing hurriedly, I silently escaped before I could be pulled into another embarrassing moment. Walking quickly, I grimaced as I thought back to my disappointing failure. Cheerful orange nudged me gently. 'Don't be so hard on yourself, Mi-chan. At least you said hi!'

With a resigned sigh, I mentally replied, 'Mm, thanks Akemi-chan.'

Though the attempt was much appreciated, it did little to lift my spirits. It felt more like a consolation prize than anything else, a bare minimum. Not that there was anything wrong with doing the bare minimum, it was just another bitter reminder that it was all I was. The bare minimum.

Stepping out into the field, I threw all remaining thoughts to the back of my mind. There was no use pondering on it further. I had much bigger things to worry about.

Aizawa-sensei was probably going to make the class go through a series of tests to evaluate our current abilities. Knowing the walking gloom, the tests were probably deliberately constructed to give him the chance to observe our Quirks in action. He might even throw in an… incentive or two, to get the full picture. The deadpan man took his role as an educator seriously. Actually, he took everything seriously–possibly a little too seriously, but God-forbid irrationally.

Stopping a few feet from his position, I eyed the scruffy man with no small amount of caution. I was almost 100% certain of what he had in mind. It was my response to his plan that kept me in turmoil.

Theoretically, there was no reason for Aizawa-sensei to need my test results. One of the prerequisites of my U.A. admission had included very thorough assessments of my physical, mental and Quirk aptitudes. The results of the week-long assessment should have been circulated around the faculty or at least the key members of staff, Aizawa included. (A mere formality really, with the years and years of data that they had on me.) So technically, technically, it would be unnecessary, one could even say irrational, to undergo another round of pointless evaluations that was likely to be far simpler than what I had already accomplished weeks before.

As the last student entered the field, Aizawa started "That was far too slow. Speed up next time, there's no time to waste here at U.A.. But now that we're all finally here, we'll be doing a Quirk test."

Called it. A tiny bud of satisfaction bloomed in my chest at having anticipated the class agenda. It blossomed a bit more as I watched confusion spread throughout the class.

"What about the entrance ceremony? Or guidance sessions?"

With a tired sigh, Aizawa explained, "There's no time to waste on that stuff if you want to become heroes. U.A. is known for its 'freestyle' educational system. That applies to us teachers as well."

"50-meter dash. Grip strength. Standing long jump. Side-to-side stepping. Softball throwing. Seated toe touch. Upper-body training and Endurance running. You did all these in middle school, yes? Your standard no-Quirks-allowed gym tests. This country still insists on prohibiting Quirks when calculating the averages of those records. It's not rational. The department of education is just procrastinating."

Aizawa tossed a softball to ash-blond hair, asking, "Bakugo. How far could you throw in middle school?" So that was his name.

Explosive crimson perked up at the call of his name, "Sixty-seven meters."

"Great. Now try it with your Quirk. Do whatever you need to. Just don't leave the circle."

Standing within the white-lined circle, Bakugo stretched his arms. As his body executed a perfect softball pitch, I watched as explosive fire flared up in a blaze of yellow and red.

"DIE!", Bakugo shouted as the ball left his palm with a loud boom.

Turning his handheld device to the rest of the class, Aizawa declared, "It's important for us to know our limits. That's the first rational step to figuring out what kind of heroes you'll be."

But what if you don't deserve to be one?

All around me, a cacophony of noise erupted as everyone processed Bakugo's new record.

"705 metres? Seriously?"

"Whoa! This is awesome!"

"So, we can use our Quirks for real!? Man, the hero course is great!"

Oh no.

Having exceeded his usual explanation quota, Aizawa's patience had to be running low. Adding hyperactive naivety was just fuelling the grouchy fire, especially without a powernap. Powernaps were, quite literally, the only thing enabling Aizawa to function as normally as a man could get with his ridiculous schedule. Without it, the man was a malicious, cranky eighty-year old.

As predicted, weary grey flickered in annoyance. Long shaggy hair obscured Aizawa's face as he looked down in what looked to be quiet contemplation. A shroud of sinister energy encased his figure. I winced at what was about to come.

"Awesome… you say? You're hoping to become heroes after three years here and you think it'll be all fun and games?" Deadpanned eyes glanced upwards as its looming shadow invoked shivers of fear. "Right. The one with the lowest score across all eight events will be judged hopeless and will be expelled. Welcome to the hero course at U.A. High."

Glancing around, it was apparent that Aizawa's threat had achieved the intended result. Gloom that was comparable to Aizawa's natural scent had eclipsed the previously jubilant atmosphere.

I was still relatively certain that this was a deliberate ploy to sober up the class, so long as they didn't do anything else particularly stupid that is. Interestingly, it seemed that one or two other students had started to arrive at a similar conclusion. The bloom in my chest shrunk a little.

By the end of the second event, it had become exceedingly clear that in terms of pure physical stats, i.e. without Quirks, I was fairly above the class average. Taking away the students that had Quirk advantages for the specific events, I was still roughly placing at the top of the remainder. It was nice to know that the years of conditioning and training from my childhood and beyond had not been for nothing. But more importantly, this meant that there was no need to use my Quirk.

Tackling the remaining events was a lot less nerve-wrecking with that conclusion. It also gave me the chance to appreciate the colourful wisps of light that flared in exertion – a blue burst of speed, crackling yellow static, dark chaotic shadow and even a flex of ribbity-green.

I paused in wonder as a green-haired blob of nervousness stepped up to pitching field. His soul trembled with a delicate fragility, but it was no less dulled. It was unusual for a 15-year-old's soul to be so frail, like a growing child who had just manifested their Quirk, but it burned with a timeless, weathered zeal. It was almost as if his soul had recently been through some sort of rebirth. A most peculiar thing.

Narrowing solely on the boy, I watched as dark green flickered with a trailing glow. It flared as the boy swung his arm back, dark green trailing with a glow of different colours, only to be extinguished as weary grey seethed in annoyance. What–

That's impossible.

A person's soul was a reflection of their whole – their emotions, their stories, their everything. Souls swayed and flickered with every second of life lived, every felt emotion. Stories of happiness and sorrow left their marks, imprinting their lived experiences as healed scars or festering wounds. Dreams of gold warmed the soul, while hauntings of black bleached the soul to a frigid chill. Each person's soul was unique with behavioural characteristics that reflected their personalities and Quirks. They each glowed with a single colour, at most two.

And yet, this boy was a painting speckled with gold. A walking contradiction. Unforgivable.

The rest of the tests passed in a blur. Projecting the class results with sadistic glee, Aizawa revealed, "Time for the results. Also, I was lying about expelling someone. That was a rational deception meant to bring out the best in all of you."

My eyes swept the board with cool indifference. 17th place out of 21, not bad.

"Midoriya. Have Recovery Girl fix you up." Aizawa instructed, handing a permission slip to the green-haired boy before dismissing the rest of the class.

Midoriya? I stared back at the board in bewilderment. The only Midoriya in the class had a big fat '21' next to his name. Last place. An unforgivable impossibility.

As Aizawa walked off, he delivered his final instruction, "Amaya. See me after class."

Oh crap.

The clock on the wall ticked away as the room stood in silence. Aizawa sat slouched in his seat, arms crossed and eyeing me with no small amount of disguised disappointment. We had been stuck in this silent standoff for the last 15 minutes since I entered the office. Most of the other room occupants had left the room. The remaining few gave us a wide berth.

Grey flashed for the fourth time.

I sighed internally before starting. "You didn't need it anyway."

The man tsked in disapproval, "It's completely irrational for you to be here if you're going to continue like this."

"I agree."

After a couple more minutes of silence, I cocked my head to the side, asking "Would you rather I go all out?"

Ignoring the increased tension emanating from our mute audience, Aizawa's eyebrows furrowed at my cheek. "I'd rather you stop wasting my time."

He continued in a quieter voice, "You chose to be here– "

"I didn't." Sombre coral clashed with grey. "I didn't choose to be here."

Silence enveloped the room once more as we entered another stubborn battle of wills. The clock ticked louder.

I was fully exasperated, not because of this admittedly petty showdown, but because it had not been on today's agenda. Now I was late. "Fine. I'll try harder tomorrow. Can I go now?"

Before he could give a verbal response, I turned for the exit. The quelled burning of grey had told me enough. Rushing home, my mind raced as it modified today's list. The unanticipated addition had botched my careful planning. Scrambling to readjust, I quickly realised that even if I took the shortcut home, skipped my afterschool shower and delayed my report to later that night, I was most definitely late. I'd have to settle. Typical.

Gnawing my inner lip, I retraced my morning route. I was already late, might as well figure out a way to reduce the consequences of my tardiness. Maybe the master of the house would be called away on business if he wasn't already. But with my luck, I wouldn't count on it.

Stepping into the Todoroki household was less distressing than it used to be. The traditional architecture was reminiscent of my past cage, but not quite the same. Unlike the former, the Todoroki's was steeped in icy regret, instead of frozen malice, and was also not nearly as bleached of hope. Despite all this knowledge and having been a constant visitor for years, I still had to fight hard to suppress haunting memories.

Muttering a soft greeting to Fuyumi, I made my way to the back of the house. The hard thumping against exercise mats and low grunts of exertion steadily grew louder as I walked down the hallway. Steeling my nerves, I slid the shoji screen open, slipping into the training room.

"You're late." A burst of heat flared from the side. With an internal wince, I turned around to meet sharp turquoise eyes.

Todoroki Enji, otherwise known as the number 2 pro-hero Endeavor, was a very intimidating man, towering imposingly over my tiny self that stood no higher than the man's ribcage. As if to max out his intimidating factor, his eyebrows were furrowed and his bulging arms were crossed firmly. The fiery flames on his face licked furiously.

"My apologies, Aizawa-sensei wanted to meet with me after school."

His glare did not soften in the slightest. Voice still harsh and gruff, he pressed on, "You're not supposed to be on your own."

At Enji's subtle question, I glanced over to the sparring boy. Though he was pre-occupied with the 3-on-1 spar, I sensed a reluctant interest in our conversation by the entrance.

The soul never lies.

I turned back to the intimidating man, bravely meeting his glaring eyes to make my own subtle counter. "U.A. is only 25 minutes away. There was no need for him to wait for me. I can travel on my own." And cue, my second battle of stubborn wills of the day.

With a bearded flare, Enji raised his arm, stopping his son's spar. "Alright then, prove it."

As the previous sparring partners bowed in respect to one another, I stepped closer to the mat, undoing my white obi. Shedding my black uwagi jacket, I was left in a black sports bra and black zubon pants. I waited as my sparring partners made their way onto the mat.

Just two more for today.

Several bruising hours later, I stiffly adorned my discarded jacket. I had growing dark purple bruises all over, with a particularly throbbing one on my left side, a memento of having let down my guard while twisting into a dodge.

However, that was not the main reason for my tensed movements. (I was barely feeling any pain, thanks to the hard work of soothing yellow.) Swallowing a few sips of water, I waited for the room to clear out. When the room was mostly cleared, except for two others conversing on the opposite end of the room, I stiffly turned to mismatched eyes. They were incessantly drilling holes through my head.

"What do you want, Shouto?"

"What are you up to?"

Sidestepping that bombshell, I nonchalantly replied "Well, I have a dinner appointment in an hour or so that I need to get ready for."

"That's not what I asked."

Okay, so the third time's not the charm. Resigned to, hopefully, my second last interrogation of the day, I pointedly countered, "Then, what are you asking?"

Shouto bristled with impatience, "You didn't have to cover for me."

"I know, but I did anyway."

"Why?"

"I don't know." I really don't.

"Try again."

Tilting my head to the side, I peered curiously at the boy. With a slight smile, I tried to diffuse the tension. "You know, I think this might be one of our longest conversations, ever since our pact." Shouto didn't rise to the bait, steadfast in his pursuit for answers. "I'm really not up to anything."

Heterochromatic eyes dug deeper holes through my skull. "We've had this conversation before. I don't know what you're expecting me to say, but my answer has not changed." With a tired sigh, I told him, "Believe what you want Shouto, but is it so hard to believe that I wanted to cover for you?"

Turquoise-grey flickered unsurely, revealing hidden layers of warm kindness. If only the boy knew that his attempts to push me away were naively misguided. There weren't many things of this world that could stay hidden from my eyes.

An hour later, I stood waiting in the driveway, clean and dressed. I was wearing a black long-sleeved fit-and-flare dress that ended just above my knees. My hair had been styled in an intricate low bun. A silver sedan rolled into the driveway just as I slipped on well-worn ballet flats.

Locking up behind me, I met with the driver that was holding the back door open. "Good evening, Ojou-sama. Are you ready to go?"

The ride to the posh restaurant was made in comfortable silence. The driver, Takashi, was a respectful elderly man that was quickly approaching his seventies. He had been my designated driver since my rescue. Just one of the perks of my living arrangements.

I did not quite mind being under this man's vigilant supervision. It was preferable to the other alternatives. Takashi was less nosy, always keeping a polite distance to give me what little privacy I wanted to maintain.

His empathetic manner ironically made it more difficult for me to shut him out.

"Oh the wildflowers that bloomed

Ah, please tell me

Why do people fight

And hurt one another?

Oh the flower blooming nobly

What can you see from there?

Why can't people

forgive one another?

The rain passed and summer took on blue hues

All alone now

You trembled faintly

in front of me

Without saying a thing

When your friends wilt around you

What do you think?

With your leaves unable to speak

How do you convey love?

The summer sun clouded over

and the wind streamed by

The two overlapped.

I shall sing the proof that you lived

For the sake of those who have no name."

A quiet lull filled the enclosed space. "That was very good Ojou-sama." I could sense Takashi's soul flickering with calculated caution. Allowing for a wry smile, I stared at the elderly man through the rear-view mirror, "No need to be so worried, Takashi-san. I think you have enough grey hair as it is."

Coming to a red light, Takashi's eyes met mine. "With all due respect, I don't think I'll ever stop worrying about you Ojou-sama. That was a very sad song."

Red turned green. Our brief eye contact was broken as the car was spurred forward. I watched the moving lights that casted stretching shadows on leather seats. "I know. It came to me in a dream I don't remember."

Turning into the roundabout, the silver sedan was expertly manoeuvred to a halt. I watched as Takashi lifted the emergency brake. A small bud of anxiety settled in my stomach. "Are you going to report it, Takashi-san?"

I was left waiting for a response as Takashi got out of the car. The small bud bloomed with an icy surge. Opening the back door, Takashi replied, "A hobby is hardly a cause of concern, even an unusually talented one." Flashing me a gentle smile, he continued with a mischievous twinkle. "Don't be so worried, Ojou-sama. At this rate, you'll have enough white hair for the two of us." The blooming bud flooded with warmth.

"I'll pick you up in two hours. Enjoy your meal, Ojou-sama."

I followed an overly peppy hostess to the reserved private room. Before she could lead me into the room, the door was wildly flung open from the inside. A mop of messy pale blond hair ruffled in step with a jumping man. "Miyuki-chan! Princess!", the man exclaimed jovially before full-on glomping me.

Signalling the hostess's leave, I stood stiffly in the doorway. "Kisuke-san, could this not have waited for me to enter the room?"

"Nope!" Tightening the embrace, Kisuke cheekily whispered, "Admit it, you like this too." Giving in to the insufferable man, I relented with a soft hum, "It's good to see you too, Kisuke-san."

By the time we started in on our mains, our limited conversation had been exchanged for the tinkling of metal on porcelain. As far as I was concerned, today's checklist was complete. I had nothing else to update Kisuke and was more than ready to meet back with Takashi for the ride home.

Unfortunately for me, the annoyingly perceptive bug named Kisuke had other ideas. "Why the long face, princess?"

A part of me foolishly hoped that if I kept quiet, the conversation would end before it even started. But Kisuke was the very definition of persistent, the stubborn child that he was. Just relax and don't react.

"Okay… Is it the Todorokis again?" Don't react. "Your last check-up?" Don't react. "First day at U.A.?" Don't react… Damn it. "Oh ho, so it has to do with your first day of school. Is it boy troubles already?"

"It's not a boy. Stop making that face. You're supposed to be the adult here."

Blonde eyebrows and manic facial muscles rearranged themselves into a childish pout. "You're no fun."

"And you're a twelve-year-old. Where's Yoruichi-san? She forgot to give you your meds again."

Setting his cutlery down, Kisuke rested his chin in his palm. Grey eyes stared fondly at my weak attempt to avoid the question. Waving dismissively, he redirected the conversation. "She's away on a business trip. The usual. Come on, humour me. You know you can trust me."

Given my failed attempts earlier in the day, I did not have it in me to try avoiding another conversation. Not that I would have been successful anyway. For some reason, I was never able to hide anything from Kisuke, or any of his associates. "It was a foolish decision to have me admitted in the Hero course. General studies would have been a better choice."

"Why do you say that?" At the lack of response, Kisuke continued, "U.A.'s hero course is the best there is. The entire curriculum is taught by pro-Heroes, and it has top-notch security. You're safe there, princess."

Having lost my appetite, I replied vehemently, "So is General studies. And you can't guarantee that. It's foolish to put me in a position where I have to use my Quirk. You're endangering all the other students –"

"So, you'll learn. That's what the hero course is supposed to teach teenagers like you."

The nonchalant responses were grating my nerves. Meal long forgotten, I hissed "The other teenagers are not like me."

"No, they're not.", Kisuke admitted after a short pause. Raising his elbows onto the table, he rested his chin on linked hands. His grey eyes leaked with concern as they gave me undivided attention, "What happened, princess?"

Dropping my hands to my lap, I stared at the fine ridges that lined my palms. Ashamed of what I was about to admit, I forced myself to reply. As childish as the man could be, I trusted Kisuke. He listened.

"I did it again. It was before Aizawa entered the classroom. I was… surveying the class… observing the other students–"

"And? Did you do anything?"

Stunned by the casual reply, I stammered, "Well, no… I stopped before I could finish the thought–"

"So, what's the problem?"

Or maybe not. "The problem is that it happened. The stupid therapy obviously isn't working. I'm not getting any better. If I hadn't stopped–"

"But you are getting better."

The nonchalant interruptions were really grating my nerves. Filled with bottled up frustration, I started "It's been six years. How can you say–"

Before I could finish my sentence, Kisuke interrupted again, voice hard and factual. "Six years ago, you would have immediately started plotting extraction strategies and executed them to the T. Six years ago, you would not have stopped; you might have hesitated or deliberately avoided certain targets, but you would have ultimately given in. You've changed in the past six years. You're better, princess."

Kisuke's eyes were shadowed in a familiar frustration, a frustration that I didn't understand. Why wasn't it aimed at me? "That's not nearly good enough. I'm not healed." Why didn't he get it?

"That's… debatable. I'd say you're just about healed." Rolling his eyes, Kisuke added before I could interrupt him. "Obviously not as good as new. It would be foolish to equate healing to that. Our experiences, good or bad, make us who we are, especially the bad ones. You should know that. It's just a matter of patching up the wounds and moving on."

Picking up his steak knife once more, Kisuke continued, "By the look of things, your wounds, physical and mental, have been patched up. You're able to recognise right from wrong and act on them accordingly. Though technically, you've always been able to do the first part, it was acting on that recognition that was a bit of a problem, which I might add, is hardly your fault. But you're definitely capable of it now. You did it today didn't you? The only remaining bit is moving on."

Undeterred, I insisted, "We don't know for sure if I'm capable of it. I could slip up, make a mistake."

"And? So, what if it's not perfect? Most adults can't, don't and won't do it perfectly. There's no reason to expect a fifteen-year-old to do otherwise. No one is expecting that of you, princess."

Taking a break to swallow a mouthful of food, Kisuke affectionately rebuked. "Darling, you can't heal if you're always picking at your scabs. You can't move on if you're always fixated on what you did or didn't do. Reflect and learn from your mistakes. Don't drown in them."

The rest of the meal was finished in contemplative silence. Exiting the restaurant together, we watched as Takashi held the back door open. Just before entering the vehicle, Kisuke paused. Turning to me, he warmly patted my head before saying, "Have more faith in yourself, princess. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you were worth it. And I know, for a fact, that you are."

Oh… Then what would it mean if you're not here?

Author's Notes

The song is Euterpe by EGOIST. You might know it from the anime Guilty Crown. It literally took me so long to find a song that would work for this scene. Most of them sounded okay but the translated lyrics were like eh~ I wasn't sure if people would be bothered by misfitting lyrics... cause I'm not... Let me know in the comments?

Also, I think I've figured out a bit of scheduling thingy that would work. For now, I'll be posting every Saturday until... until. It lowkey pains me to do this cause I have like 10 chapters written already (I'm up to the Hero Internships now! How eggciting!), but I'm just really wary about my ability to write during the semester. Cause your girl is BUSYYYY. So yeah, gotta conserve the ammo or y'all will be hanging for like months... ehehe... Anyway, hope y'all enjoy! And let me know what y'all think about the lyrics thingy, I'll really like to know!

P.S. (and official disclaimer for the whole story) I do not own any characters except for my OCs (all the characters that appeared in Prelude I). All rights belong to the respective original creators, including Kohei Horikoshi (for MHA stuff), Masashi Kishimoto (for Naruto peeps), Tite Kubo (for Bleach characters) and Norihiro Yagi (Claymore badassery). I will likely not make a disclaimer like this for all my chapters because I personally think it's really obvious that I don't own anything of these wonderful characters. Plus this list will just get longer as this story is really just a starting point for this huge project/idea that I have going so yeah.

TL;DR: I am NOT that talented to come up with everything in this story. I'm struggling enough with the 6 that I've got. So kudos and credits to the actual pure talent that is the manga artists and original creators of the characters (and the main plot) that do NOT belong to me.