Chapter Twenty-Three : A Closed Door Meeting

"He's still under," Midnight said as she settled into her seat beside Aizawa, with Principal Nezu perched across from her. Thirteen entered quietly, closing the door with a soft click before joining them.

"The doctor said it cut into the bone in some places," Midnight continued, her voice steady, though a flicker of exasperation lingered. "They're doing what they can, but with Recovery Girl's help, he'll be good to go by tomorrow."

"Did he say anything at the hospital?" Thirteen asked, her calm voice betraying a trace of curiosity.

Midnight rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair. "Oh, plenty. He kept telling me he'd taken care of the matter at hand—and then he'd point to his hand." She sighed dramatically. "I think he repeated it just because I wasn't laughing."

Aizawa let out a quiet groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course he did."

Principal Nezu, perched primly in his chair with his paws folded, tilted his head ever so slightly. "A sense of humor can be an excellent coping mechanism," he said cheerfully. "And considering the circumstances, I'd say he handled the situation rather well. Injured or not."

Thirteen nodded, her gloved hands resting lightly in her lap. "From what I've read, he kept his focus despite the chaos and improvised effectively. He deserves credit for that."

"Improvised? Is that what we're calling it now?" Midnight quipped, though her tone lacked any real bite. "I'd call catching a razor-covered bat with his bare hand 'reckless,' personally."

"It worked, didn't it?" Aizawa interjected flatly, though his tired gaze betrayed the faintest flicker of approval. "He got the job done. Even if the clown did escape."

Midnight paused for a moment. "If you ask me, the real highlight was him talking to the press while half-conscious. Did you see the footage?"

Aizawa's brow twitched as he shot Midnight a look. "And you let him keep talking?"

Midnight shrugged, her grin widening. "What? It was good television."

"What did he say?" Aizawa groaned, already bracing for the answer.

Midnight smirked faintly, though there was a glint of disbelief in her eyes. "He was lucid… mostly. I think it was more the blood loss talking than overusing his Quirk. He kept muttering that he's hurt himself worse shaving, threw out multiple invitations for the clown to 'try again,' and—oh, my favorite—something about beating the tar out of Mr. Hands if he ever pops out of his portal again."

Thirteen sighed softly. "Provocative, but not as embarrassing. Despite the injury, his performance showed potential." She paused, her calm voice growing softer. "And… I think we all noticed he has a tendency to push himself too far."

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest. "That's something we'll have to watch. Students like that don't know where the line is until they're already on the ground."

Principal Nezu's sharp eyes glimmered with a knowing light. "I believe that's where mentors like you come in, Eraserhead. As for his injury…" Nezu's voice softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I suspect it will serve as a memorable lesson for him—one he'll carry forward into his future hero work."

Midnight smirked, shaking her head. "He has said multiple times on the way to the hospital that the scars will be 'cool looking'. If nothing else, it'll serve as a memorable headline. I've already had reporters asking about him. Someone even told me he has been rising the popularity rankings, and he's not even licensed yet."

Aizawa groaned again. "Fantastic."

Thirteen, ever even-tempered, glanced toward the window. "He'll recover quickly, but he'll need a bit of perspective on pacing himself. I'll speak with him about that."

Midnight rose to her feet, stretching languidly before flashing her colleagues a sly grin. "You can talk to him about pacing, Thirteen. I'll remind him what happens if he keeps making me worry."

"Midnight," Aizawa said warningly, though there was no real bite to it.

"Oh, relax," she purred, waving a hand dismissively. "I'll go easy on him. For now. I still have some time to make a hero out of him."

"Where do you think you're going?" Aizawa asked as she approached the door. "We still need to talk about the attack."

"Not much to talk about, Aizawa. Just some low-level thugs trying to spring a friend from prison."

"You're wrong," Aizawa cut in, his sharp gaze locking onto Midnight as he straightened in his seat. "It wasn't that simple."

Midnight paused mid-step, her smirk faltering just slightly. "What do you mean?"

Thirteen, still seated, folded her gloved hands and tilted her head thoughtfully. "I thought it was strange as well. If they were targeting the prisoner transport, they didn't act like it."

"Exactly," Aizawa said, his tone low and serious. "The vans were attacked, but not a single one was breached. The villains focused their efforts on the guards—the escort heroes—and not the actual transport. If their goal was to free the prisoners, why show no interest in the prisoners?"

Midnight's brow furrowed, her playful demeanor finally giving way to something sharper. "Now that you mention it… even that clown villain seemed more focused on hurting Clayton than anything else. I didn't see a single attempt to access the prisoners."

"And the traffic lights," Thirteen added quietly, her voice calm but deliberate. "I read it in the report that they were behaving strangely. They weren't malfunctioning; they were sabotaged. Someone wanted the guards scattered before the attack even started."

The room fell into a brief silence as the implications of Thirteen's words settled over the group. Principal Nezu, who had remained quiet up until now, finally spoke, his voice carrying its usual cheerfully unnerving calm.

"It seems we're looking at a diversion," Nezu said, his eyes narrowing in thought. "One that was deliberately designed to mislead us into believing the prisoner transport was the primary target."

Midnight crossed her arms, her expression darkening. "If it wasn't about the transport, then what was the target? Were we just in the way of something bigger?"

"The clown," muttered Aizawa. "He was the only one competent enough to get away, and he went straight for Derreks…"

"You think he was the target?" Nezu asked, his tone as casual as someone asking for a price of some handmade knick-knack at a swap meet.

Aizawa's gaze shifted toward Nezu, his expression grim but focused. "It's too much of a coincidence. The clown wasn't interested in the prisoners. That entire ambush looked sloppy… except for him and the traffic lights."

Midnight frowned, her playful nature completely absent now. "You're saying they orchestrated all of this just to hit one student? That's a lot of effort for someone still in training."

Thirteen folded her gloved hands thoughtfully, her calm demeanor unchanged, though there was a sharpness in her tone. "It's not the first time a student with a strong or unusual Quirk has been targeted. Derreks' abilities make him incredibly useful for reconnaissance and control—if they're watching him, they know that already. Plus, he is certainly one of our more high-profile students, there has to be at least one villain that took an interest in him."

"And they clearly knew how to push his limits," Aizawa added, his tone measured but grave. "The clown's weapon—a bat with razors—wasn't just meant to incapacitate. It was personal. Designed to maim, to shake him."

Midnight leaned forward, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest. Her lips curled into a scowl. "It feels like a message."

The room was a disaster zone. At least four screens were shattered, their cracked faces flickering faintly, and broken laptops lay scattered across the floor like casualties of war.

"You. Didn't. Even. Get. His FACE?" Bluescreen barked, her voice razor-sharp as she hurled the remains of a monitor toward the clown slumped in the corner, clutching his side with a wheezy, broken laugh.

"Hah… Hah…"

"Shut up!" she snapped, whirling on him with wild eyes. Her bright blue hair stuck out in frazzled tufts, making her look half-feral. "Do you have any idea how much money those goons cost me? They all demanded up-front payment, you moron! I'm still out, even though every single one of them got caught!"

She sucked in a shaky breath, fists clenching as her voice pitched even higher. "All that work… all that planning… and you only managed to hurt his hand?!"

The clown let out another rattling, broken chuckle, a sound that seemed equal parts amusement and resignation. His mask tilted up slightly, the featureless white surface catching the faint, flickering light of the ruined screens. "Hah… hah… hah…"

"I wouldn't be laughing, Chuckles," Bluescreen spat, advancing toward him with jittery, erratic steps, her fingers twitching as though they might throttle him on instinct. "Because I swear, if you don't tell me why you screwed this up—why you didn't just cut his face when you had the chance, I'm going to make sure you never laugh again."

The clown gave no answer. He simply sat there, slumped and grinning beneath his mask, as though the entire catastrophe had somehow been worth it. His silence only made Bluescreen's rage boil hotter, her chest rising and falling with shallow, furious breaths.

"Unbelievable," she hissed, storming back to what remained of her workstation. She shoved aside the broken pieces of a keyboard, slamming a fresh laptop down onto the table. "Damn that frog woman! She'll go to bed tonight thinking about how strong and brave her boyfriend is, and it's your fault!"

From the corner, the clown's quiet, wheezing laughter continued, faint but steady. Hah… hah… hah…

Bluescreen didn't look at him again. Her focus was on the screen, her manic energy channeled into the chaotic stream of data pouring across one of her few unbroken monitors. Plans, blueprints, surveillance footage—all revolving around one target. "Tsuyu… You will die, screaming and very unhappy…"