AN: So I heard you all like Interludes.

Anyway, I have no idea what is going on with FF. I have all of these stories posted on Alpha Oh 3 and Space Battles. Read them there! or join my discord to read there!

its funny that just typeing out those three letters together is auto censored, yet they cant get my chapters to display properly for weeks.

5hwtG5CjsP

[h2]Interlude 2: The Pursuit of Heroism[/h2]

Izuku Midoriya, Hero Student, 1-A Seat #18

The station is alive with movement. Hundreds of people shuffle past in every direction, some rushing to catch their trains, others lingering near vending machines or scrolling through their phones. The rhythmic chime of departure announcements echoes over the hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of suitcase wheels on tile.

I stand near the platform railing, my notebook open. This is one of the few places I can sort my notes in peace—public, yet impersonal. No one bothers a lone kid staring at pages filled with messy handwriting. Hero rankings, quirk evaluations, counter-strategies—if I can't be strong like All Might, I'll be the smartest strategist in the room.

A gust of wind kicks up loose papers, and I scramble to catch them before they disappear down the street. My fingers barely snatch the last one when I hear it.

"Tch, I knew I'd find you here, nerd."

My stomach tightens. Kacchan.

I don't turn around. I don't need to. I already see him in my mind—the scowl, the sharp red glare, the barely restrained crackle of his quirk, daring the world to challenge him.

"Ah—Kacchan!" I try to sound casual, but my voice wavers, betraying me. "What are you doing here?"

He shoves his hands into his pockets, the sparks between his fingers like a warning flare. "Like I need a reason. What, you hiding here 'cause you know you suck?"

I force out a laugh. "N-No! I was just—uh—taking notes…"

His gaze flicks to my open notebook. All Might's grin stares back at us from the page.

Kacchan scoffs. "Pathetic."

I don't argue. I just flip the page, keeping my head down. He doesn't get it. No one does. Why I keep doing this. Why I won't just give up.

Maybe I don't understand it either.

Then—chaos.

A crash behind us. Screams. The flash of a knife.

A man lunges forward, his eyes wild, desperate. He's coming straight for Kacchan.

I don't think—I move.

"Look out!" I throw myself forward, shoving Kacchan out of the way. We hit the ground hard, my ribs jolting from the impact.

I brace for pain.

But it never comes.

Instead, there's something solid in my hands. My fingers, white-knuckled, locked around the man's wrist.

What…? How am I…?

"Let go, you little twerp!" The thief thrashes, but I don't release my grip. I can't.

People scream. A woman shouts for security. The station hums with chaotic energy. My breath is uneven. My arms should be shaking. I shouldn't be able to do this.

I'm not strong enough.

I'm not a hero.

But I don't let go.

Then—a gust of wind. A pressure in the air, like the sky itself is bending.

A voice booms over the noise.

"Good work, young man!"

My breath catches.

All Might.

He's here. He stands above us, framed by the light, his cape billowing from the force of his landing. His presence alone seems to drain the fight from the criminal, and the man slumps in All Might's grip.

The station is silent.

All Might turns to me.

To me.

I can't move. I can't even breathe.

He smiles, and the world shifts beneath me. "Your actions today were truly heroic."

My heart stutters.

"Me? Heroic?" The words barely leave my lips.

"Indeed," he says, his voice warm and steady. "It's not the quirk that makes the hero, but the heart."

Something in me cracks.

The words settle deep, deeper than anything before. My chest is tight, my vision blurs.

Kacchan stares at me, wide-eyed.

I barely process it when All Might's hand lands on my shoulder patting me.

He looks ready to leap off, but…

I DIDN'T GET HIS AUTOGRAPH YET!

I reflexively grab his leg.

The rooftop is quiet.

Too quiet.

The wind hums as I clutch my notebook, my hands clammy. My heart is still racing. All Might—the All Might—praised me. Said I did something heroic.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is my chance.

I take a deep breath, my fingers shaking, and ask the question that has haunted me since I was four years old.

"All Might… can someone who's quirkless… be a hero?"

The wind stills.

For the first time since I've seen him, his smile falters.

His brows furrow, and he exhales, looking away. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks. "A hero… without a quirk?"

My chest tightens. I nod, gripping my notebook like it's the only thing keeping me together. "Y-Yeah… I mean, I know it's rare, but if someone worked hard enough—"

"Kid." His voice is softer now. Gentler. Like he's about to break something fragile. "If you really want to help people, there are other ways. You could be a police officer, a firefighter, even a doctor. There are plenty of admirable ways to save lives."

"B-but you said…it's not the quirk—"

"Kid, I thought you had something like a fast reflex quirk or whatever."

But it still crushes me.

I knew it. I knew it.

Even All Might—especially All Might—doesn't believe a quirkless person can be a hero.

I squeeze my notebook, my fingers digging into the pages. My throat burns, but I swallow down whatever stupid emotion is threatening to escape.

"I… I see," I manage, forcing a smile. "Of course. That makes sense."

All Might looks at me like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't. Instead, he sighs, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, kid."

Then he's gone, leaving nothing but wind and silence.

I stand there, my breath shaking, the weight of reality settling deep in my bones.

I'll never be a hero.

The days pass in a blur.

I go through the motions—school, home, more school. But my mind is stuck on those words. Find another way. Be a doctor. Be a cop.

But I don't want to be a cop.

I don't want to be a doctor.

I want to be a hero.

Even if it's impossible.

Even if no one believes in me.

But then—it happens.

All Might finds me again.

Not in a public space. Not in the middle of a crowd.

This time, he's looking for me specifically.

And the words he speaks break my reality.

"Midoriya," he says, his voice steady, unwavering. "It took me some self-reflection, but I realized I was wrong. I see in you a heart that surpasses the need for any quirk."

I freeze.

"That's why I am entrusting you with my power."

The world tilts.

"You… you mean…" My voice is small, afraid to hope.

"Yes," he says, smiling. "You will be the new symbol of peace."

It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense.

"You said I couldn't be a hero," I whisper. My hands shake. "You told me… I should be a doctor. A cop."

"I did," All Might admits. "Because I was afraid. I didn't want to give you false hope. I wanted you to be safe. But then I remembered how you moved without thinking. I saw you act when no one else did with my own eyes. You are a hero, Midoriya. You just need the strength to match your heart."

His words hit me harder than anything ever has.

For the first time in my life, someone—the someone—believes in me.

And maybe… just maybe…

I start to believe it, too.

And so, I throw myself into training. It's brutal. Grueling. I push myself harder than I ever have before, because I have to. Because for the first time in my life, I've been given a chance.

The gates of U.A. stand in front of me, and I take a deep breath.

This is it.

This is my story.

And I won't let it end before it even begins.

Some people command attention the moment they step into a room. They don't need to shout or throw their weight around; their mere presence bends the atmosphere around them, shifting the balance of power without effort.

Tanya Yamada is one of those people.

The friendships in Class 1-A form fast, built on shared ambitions, struggles, and the sheer, overwhelming reality that we are standing at the threshold of our dreams. Ochaco's endless optimism makes even the toughest lessons feel lighter. Tsuyu's steady pragmatism keeps us from getting lost in the rush of hero training. Even Shoto, with his quiet intensity, has an undeniable presence.

But Tanya—Tanya is different.

From the moment she speaks, her voice carries absolute authority. She expects to be obeyed, not out of arrogance, but because she moves through life as if control is second nature.

And somehow, I—Izuku Midoriya—am expected to stand beside her.

The day we vote for class president is the day she takes control.

It isn't a contest. Not really.

When the class descends into chaos, shouting over who should lead, it's Tanya's voice that cuts through the noise.

"Silence!"

Everything stops. Even Bakugo, who rarely listens to anyone, leans back with a scowl but doesn't interrupt.

Tanya organizes the vote with the kind of efficiency that makes it feel like she already holds the position. There's no posturing, no theatrics. Just a sharp mind and a presence that refuses to be ignored.

It should have been obvious that she'd win.

And yet.

A tie.

My name, next to hers, on the board.

I don't even know how it happened. I certainly didn't expect anyone to vote for me. Me, the boy who barely made it in, the one who still doesn't know if he belongs here. But before I can protest, before I can even think, an alarm rips through the school.

The panic is immediate.

Chairs scrape against the floor, voices rise in confusion, bodies press together toward the exits. The crowd surges in every direction, too many people, too little space. I freeze, my mind stalling as I try to process the situation.

Then—her voice.

"We need to make a bigger exit!"

I whip around. Tanya is already moving, her gaze locked onto me. Direct. Unshaken. Certain.

"You need to break open the wall!"

For a moment, I hesitate. But only for a moment.

Because there's something in her tone—a command, an expectation—that demands action.

So I move.

I push through the crowd, heart hammering as I reach an open space near the wall. My fingers clench into a fist. One For All surges through me, crackling under my skin. I take a deep breath and swing.

The impact reverberates up my arm, a shattering crack splintering through my bones, but the wall gives way. A path. An escape. The room floods outward into the open air.

My vision blurs from the pain, my breath ragged. The moment my fist lowers, Tanya steps forward, surveying the situation with a nod.

"Midoriya will be your class president," she declares, voice firm, final.

I stare at her.

"Uh, sure, I guess…" I manage, dazed.

She nods approvingly, already looking for Aoyama, who is missing in the crowd. It's done. Just like that. She decided.

And, for some reason, I don't mind.

We stand before Principal Nezu.

My stomach twists.

Destruction of school property. The breach of security. I am absolutely getting expelled.

I try to step forward, to take responsibility. It was my punch. My fault. But before I can speak, Tanya cuts in.

"Quiet, Midoriya."

Her tone is sharp, but not unkind. A warning.

She speaks with such certainty that I stop instantly, my mouth snapping shut.

And then she turns to Nezu, her demeanor shifting like she's been doing this her entire life.

She doesn't grovel. She doesn't panic. She negotiates.

With measured words, she reframes the event, diffuses any rising tensions, and before I fully understand what's happening—

We're dismissed.

Just like that.

I whisper, "Thank you, Tanya," because I honestly don't know what would have happened if I had tried to take the blame.

She glances at me, studying me for a moment, before giving a curt nod.

"Stay alert, Midoriya. We can't afford mistakes."

It should feel cold. Dismissive.

But it doesn't.

Instead, it feels like an expectation. A challenge.

The next few weeks change me.

Tanya Yamada is relentless.

Not cruel. Not condescending. Relentless.

She pushes me, correcting my posture with a tap to the shoulder when I slouch. She critiques my presence, insisting I stand like I mean to be here. She expects more.

And for some reason, I want to meet those expectations.

During class meetings, she makes decisions with ease, delegating tasks before I can even open my mouth.

"Midoriya, speak up more. Assertiveness is key in heroics," she tells me, her voice low but firm.

I nod, cheeks warming. Girls aren't exactly my strong suit, but Tanya isn't like the girls I've known before. She doesn't tease or fluster easily. She observes, calculates, and commands.

And she expects me to keep up.

So I do.

I start answering questions in class without muttering. I force myself to hold eye contact when I speak. Even my stance changes.

Somehow, in the quiet way that she operates, Tanya Yamada makes me want to be better.

One evening, as the sun sets, I find myself flipping open my notebook at our class president meeting.

Tanya stands across from me, her sharp gaze scanning the agenda.

"First item," she announces, "is the review of our training module effectiveness."

I start scribbling, but then—she leans in.

Her voice drops, just enough that it's meant only for me. "Midoriya, you need to speak up more."

I glance up, startled by how close she is.

"Uh—" I clear my throat. "Right. I'll try."

"Good." She straightens, crossing her arms. "And watch your posture. Heroes don't slouch."

I nod quickly, adjusting my stance before she can correct it again. My heart won't stop pounding.

I tell myself it's because of the meeting. Because of the work.

Not because of her.

But the truth is—under her scrutiny, under her guidance—I want to rise to her expectations.

I want to stand beside her.

I want to earn my place next to her.

And maybe, just maybe—

She'll see me the way I see her.

Tanya's training is relentless, and it reshapes me in ways I don't fully understand at first. My voice stops shaking when I answer in class. My posture straightens. Even when I talk to Ochaco and Tsuyu, my words don't stumble as much. The confidence she drills into me starts seeping into everything I do.

"See, Midoriya? What did I tell you?" Tanya smirks when she notices the little victories—when I don't flinch answering a question, when I don't hunch over in the hallway, when I meet Bakugo's glare without shrinking away.

"Thanks to you," I tell her, because it is. She's the one who shoves me forward when I'd rather hesitate.

"Heroes help each other, Midoriya." That smirk softens, just a little, before she marches off to her next objective.

She's not just changing me. She's changing the class. Every day, she's there—encouraging those who need it, shutting down anyone stepping out of line. She doesn't say much, but when she does, people listen. There's something about her that makes it impossible to ignore. Maybe it's the way her throat glows red when she gets serious, like she's about to breathe fire. Some of the guys start calling her "Dragon." I try to put a stop to it, but the name sticks. Thankfully she never heard about it.

And then comes the day of the USJ.

The training goes well. Really well. I manage to perform my rescues without breaking anything—bones, buildings, or people. That's a win in my book. I can't wait to tell Tanya—

Then the bus shuts down.

I frown, pushing my way to the front, looking for a reset button. Aizawa's already moving, peering outside like he's sensing something off.

"Something doesn't feel right."

The doors are forced open, and he steps out into the silent street.

That's when I see him. The teal-haired guy in the half-mask and casual clothes. A t-shirt? Jeans? It looks like he barely had time to throw on his costume. The hands draped over his back are… unsettling, but not the weirdest thing I've seen.

"Who's that?" Tanya asks beside me, sharp and wary.

I shrug. "Some low-ranking hero?"

I turn back to the street—and that's when I notice the other figure. A tall, smoky shape. Wispy fingers point at Aizawa, and a black pool swirls beneath him. Aizawa moves just in time, dodging back—but then the man turns his attention to us.

The bus shudders, the back of it tilting, vanishing—teleportation? Disintegration? It doesn't matter. We need to get out. Now.

Tanya is still looking back, unaware.

I grab her. Shove her forward. We leap out together.

Behind us, the bus disappears into the dark mist.

The mist follows, creeping toward us. I grab Tanya's wrist and pull, dodging it by inches.

"That's enough. Save your energy for All Might."

The rest is a blur.

Aizawa tells us to run. But what kind of hero abandons someone in need? What kind of hero would I be if I left him behind? Power demands responsibility.

I move.

I charge at the villains attacking Aizawa. My pinky snaps, but I take one down.

Tanya follows after me, trying to call me back. Then the teal-haired man sends something worse.

Nomu.

It's massive. Bulging, purpled skin, like it's been built for one thing: destruction. It roars—a deep, bone-shaking sound that locks me in place.

Then it leaps.

I can't move. I can't think. I see death barreling toward me—

Aizawa shoves me aside.

Nomu's punch connects. Aizawa is sent skidding across the ground.

I stare, frozen, as Nomu roars again, shaking me to my core.

My mind blanks as the bone-shaking roar echoes through the street again, rattling in my chest. I can feel it in my bones, pressing down on me, urging me to freeze. But I can't. Not now.

Movement catches my eye—a villain from earlier, struggling back to his feet. Aizawa-sensei is still fighting the Nomu. I can't let anyone interfere. I push forward, ignoring the screaming protests of my own body. My broken ring finger sends a jolt of pain up my arm as I slam into the villain, knocking him away.

I shake out my wrist, trying to ignore the throbbing pain, scanning for more threats. That's when Tanya's hand clamps onto my shoulder, her voice steady and urgent.

"We need to go."

"We can't just leave—"

"Yes, we can! We need—"

A shriek of agony rips through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of bone crunching.

Aizawa-sensei!

I whip my head toward him. The Nomu looms over his battered form, blood pooling beneath him.

And then—

"HAVE NO FEAR! FOR I AM HERE!"

Relief surges through me, filling my lungs with something lighter than air. If anyone can turn this around, it's All Might!

But—

Something's wrong.

His outfit. The same one he was wearing three hours ago.

Three hours. His limit. His body can't keep this up for much longer.

Even from here, I can see the steam rising off him. He's pushing himself past his breaking point.

"Izuku!" Tanya calls me back to reality. She's kneeling over Aizawa, pulling out bandages.

The most important part of being a hero is saving others. Not fighting.

I nod, forcing myself to turn away from the battle raging behind me. Every strike shakes the air, but I focus on what's in front of me—Aizawa-sensei, bleeding, his body broken. I press fabric against his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. The metallic scent clings to the back of my throat, making me want to gag.

I look at Tanya. She's cutting away at his shirt, gauze ready in her hands. Her movements are precise, methodical. I take a shaky breath. If she can keep her cool, so can I.

The sounds of battle behind me don't stop. I hear the impact of every blow, feel the force of them in my bones. My instincts scream at me to turn around, to help. But I can't. Not yet.

"Stay with me, Sensei," I say, voice hoarse. "You're gonna be okay. Just hold on."

His eyes flutter open, unfocused, filled with pain. I press harder on the wound. My fingers tremble, slick with his blood. I've read about this. I've seen it in movies. But nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it.

A cry pierces the chaos, high-pitched and raw.

No.

I don't turn. I can't. But I know. I know what's happening.

All Might is running out of time.

"Stay awake, Aizawa-sensei," I plead. "It's almost over. All Might—he's saving us."

A sudden surge of energy pulses beside me. A familiar red glow bathes the air. Tanya's voice hums, steady and rhythmic.

"Do ray mi—wake up, wake up."

Aizawa's breath hitches. The bleeding slows. We finish wrapping the bandages, securing a tourniquet around his arm.

"Izuku," Tanya says again, more forceful this time. "We need to move him."

I shake my head. "We can't just abandon—"

"Izuku!" Her voice cuts through my panic like a blade. "We will only get in his way!"

My fists clench. She doesn't see it. She doesn't see what I see.

All Might is giving everything. Fighting someone built to counter him. Someone with a Quirk designed to absorb his attacks. A perfect counter to One For All.

But not invincible.

"Your Quirk is only Shock Absorption—Not Nullification!" I yell, turning toward the battlefield. "That means there's a limit to what you can take! Right?!"

I can't move. I can't breathe. I watch as the titans clash again.

All Might's voice booms through the destruction.

"You may have heard this lesson before—but let me teach you what it really means to go beyond—"

He moves, faster than I can track.

"PLUS ULTRA!"

The impact shakes the ground.

It's over.

But—

No. No, it's not.

Smoke rises from All Might's form. He stands tall, unmoving. But that smoke—it's not from the battle. It's from him. The last bit of power he has left, fading.

"You have been bested," he says, voice firm but weaker than before. "Surrender, and we can end this now."

Shigaraki twitches. His fingers flex, grasping at the air—

A black mist swirls around him.

No!

I lunge forward, calling on One For All. "Sir, he can disintegrate anything on touch—"

Fingers close around my throat. My breath catches, my body lifted off the ground.

I kick, struggling against the grip tightening around me.

I can't breathe.

I can't—

This—this isn't what was supposed to happen.

"You… All Might, you will kneel before me and beg me to spare this child… or else there will be one less student for you to brainwash."

The villain's voice is deep, guttural, dripping with malice. My vision is starting to blur, but I still see him—All Might, standing just a few feet away. His usual bright, reassuring smile is gone. His eyes flick toward me, then to the teal-skinned villain, then to the black mist swirling ominously in front of us.

"I said KNEEL!"

Tears well up in my eyes. I can't help it. I don't want to die. I just wanted to help. I just wanted to be like him.

And then, just as the world starts to go dark, a high-pitched wail cuts through everything.

I hit the ground hard, coughing, gasping for air. Tanya stumbles, but before I can react, All Might is moving—an explosion of force and speed, his kick sending shockwaves through the air.

Black mist. A portal. And then—

Screaming.

The villain's voice twists into something raw, agonized. I force myself to lift my head, body aching.

My heart stops.

Tanya is in his grip—his fingers wrapped around her throat just like they were around mine. But something's wrong. She isn't just choking—her body, her throat, her very skin starts to dissolve into flecks of light, like she's coming apart at the seams.

The portal vanishes.

A horrible sound tears through the battlefield—the villain, roaring in pain. His arm—his whole arm—is severed at the elbow, floating in the air as blood spurts from the wound.

Tanya crumples.

No.

No, no, no—

I scramble toward her, my mind screaming at my body to move, to do something. My hands press against her throat, against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to keep her here.

Stay with me. Please.

Her eyes—there's something in them, something glowing, something golden—she stares up at me, lips barely moving.

"Midoriya…" Her voice is faint, weaker than I've ever heard it. "Do… better."

And then her eyes flutter shut.

The world blurs. I can barely breathe, barely think past the sound of my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. I clutch onto Tanya tighter, afraid that if I let go, she'll slip away completely.

Then—

The air splits open.

Black mist swirls around us, portals appearing like gaping maws in every direction. I snap my head up in panic. The villains—they're screaming. The one with the severed arm is clutching the stump, writhing, his face twisted in agony.

Then I see it—hands. Too many hands reaching out from the void, clawing, grasping, pulling them in.

They're retreating.

"No—wait!" I try to move, try to grab Tanya and get away, but the portals keep multiplying, surrounding us in an instant.

And then—

The ground is gone.

We're falling.

Wind rushes past my ears as gravity takes us. My stomach lurches, my arms tightening around Tanya's limp form. My breath catches in my throat as I look down—nothing but open air.

This is U.A.

I see the towering buildings, the training grounds, the distant silhouettes of teachers rushing toward us—but we're too high, too fast—

There is nothing but green below us, Ectoplasm multiplying into a net.

We fell into it, jerking us to a sharp halt. The sudden stop makes my vision explode with stars, my arms nearly slipping from around her—but I don't let go. I won't let go.

The ground rushes up as we're lowered down, other teachers moving in a blur. Present Mic. Midnight.

The second we touch solid ground, I collapse to my knees, panting, still clutching Tanya's motionless body. Hands grab at me, trying to pull me away, but I won't let go.

"She needs—she needs help—" My voice cracks. "She—she saved me—"

There's movement all around me, voices shouting orders, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air. But my vision locks onto her.

Tanya.

Her pale skin, her torn uniform, her too-still chest.

She isn't moving.

And for the first time in my life, I feel utterly, completely powerless.

School has been canceled for the next few days. Everything blurs together—the hospital, the heroes, my mom holding me so tight I can barely breathe.

I barely remember any of it.

But I remember turning off my phone after the first night—too many people asking what happened, too many people wanting answers I can't give. Not yet. Not when I don't even know how to face myself.

Because this—everything—is my fault.

I break out of my mom's grip before she can stop me, ignoring her teary protests. I have to see Tanya. I have to know she's okay.

The nurses don't want to let me in at first, but I beg—plead. I need to see her. The one who saved my life.

The one who got hurt because of me.

I sit in the hospital waiting room, my fingers tapping against my knee, trying to ignore the way my whole body aches. The nurses only let me in because I begged them. I need to see her—the one who saved my life.

The TV drones on in the background, news anchors talking over each other, the chaos of their words blending together into a storm of accusations and speculation. My eyes stay locked on the screen, even though every flickering image makes my stomach twist. The reporters' voices are sharp, slicing through the air like a blade.

"Once again, All Might rises above the ashes of uncertainty, a beacon of hope in the midst of U.A.'s glaring oversight," one anchor declares, his tone laced with a mix of reverence and condemnation. "The question remains: how could such a prestigious institution fail to protect its students?"

I flinch. My breath catches, and the weight of those words presses down on me like a boulder. We were supposed to be safe. U.A. was supposed to be the one place where we could grow, where we could train to be heroes without fearing for our lives. But then the attack happened.

Even though the reporters paint All Might as victorious, all I can see is him on the ground—vulnerable. His body curled inward, shaking, human in a way I never wanted to believe possible.

"His unwavering spirit is the very essence of heroism," another reporter adds, her face glowing with admiration. "Despite the attack, All Might once again proves why he is the number one hero."

"Unwavering spirit..." I whisper the words under my breath, my hands clenching into fists. They don't see what I see. They don't feel the way the ground shook beneath us, the way fear spread like wildfire through the students, through me. They call it a triumph, but all I remember is the raw terror.

The footage replays on the screen—All Might fighting, debris crashing around him, people screaming. He's smiling through it all, but I know better. I know what I saw. There was something else behind that grin. Something the cameras didn't catch.

Weakness.

"Where are you, All Might?" My voice is barely above a whisper. My phone sits in my lap, the screen dark, unanswered messages glaring back at me. No replies. No calls. Just silence.

It doesn't make sense. He's always there, always pushing forward, always telling me to believe in heroism. But now, when I need answers, when I need to know he's okay—nothing.

My heartbeat quickens, a tangled mess of concern and frustration.

I used to think he was untouchable. That nothing could shake him. But the attack proved otherwise.

"Is U.A. still the premier institution for budding heroes, or has this attack exposed a fatal flaw in their security measures?" The question lingers in the air, another anchor throwing fuel onto the fire.

Fatal flaw.

The words echo in my head. My gut twists.

"Was it our fault? Were we too complacent? Too reliant on All Might to shield us from reality?"

The screen shifts, cutting to a press conference. The officials from the Hero Public Safety Commission stand rigid, their faces unreadable as they promise tighter security, increased measures, better training.

But all I can think about is how quickly everything fell apart.

"Heroes aren't invincible," I realize, the thought settling over me like a lead weight. "They're just people... and people can break."

I reach for the remote, silencing the TV. The waiting room falls into silence, the only sound the faint beeping of monitors down the hall.

The clock on the wall ticks forward. It's time.

Pushing myself to my feet, I head toward the hospital corridor, my steps slow and deliberate. The scent of antiseptic fills the air, cold and sterile, mixing with the underlying heaviness of illness and quiet suffering.

I swallow hard. I don't know what I expect to find when I see her.

But I know I have to.

I owe her that much.

I notice her before she sees me. Mita Mano. Tanya's caretaker. I recognize her from the news, from the brief times I caught sight of her hovering over Tanya like a protective shadow.

"Miss Mita?" My voice barely rises above the hush of the empty corridor.

Her eyes snap toward me, and suddenly, the hallway feels smaller, as if the walls have pressed in just to trap me here. The anger in her expression is immediate, palpable, and I can't even blame her for it.

"All her life, she has spent trying to be a hero to others." Her words hit like a punch to the ribs. "Her heroics were meant for someone worth saving."

I flinch. I have no defense. No words that could lessen the weight of what she's saying.

"I hope you prove her right."

Then she's gone, leaving me standing there, frozen. I don't know how long I stay like that, but eventually, my legs move again.

I have to prove her right.

I have to make this better. Somehow.

Outside her room, I hesitate. Tanya Yamada's name is printed on a clipboard affixed to the door, stark and impersonal, as if she's just another patient. Just another name. But she's not. She's more than that.

I take a breath to steady my nerves, though it does nothing to calm the storm inside me, and push open the door.

She's there, lying still, unnaturally still, beneath the pale sheets. Tubes and wires twist around her like vines, attaching her to machines that beep in steady, mechanical reassurance. She should be yelling at me right now, berating me for my stupidity, my recklessness. Instead, she's silent.

I pull up a chair beside her, the scraping of metal against the floor too loud in the hushed atmosphere of the room.

"Hey, Tanya," I whisper, unsure if she can hear me. "It's me. Midoriya."

My voice feels small, swallowed up by the steady beeping of the heart monitor. I stare at her, trying to will her to move, to react, to do anything.

"I… I'm sorry." My stomach twists painfully. "I'm so sorry."

I want to say more. How her advice has helped me. How much I still need her guidance. How I don't know how to keep going without her sharp, cutting observations. But my throat closes up, and the words won't come.

Tears sting at my eyes. I try to hold them back, to stay composed, but the floodgates open before I can stop them.

"You were right about everything."

The heart monitor doesn't react to my confession. It just keeps beeping, indifferent, oblivious.

I hesitate before reaching out, my hand hovering over hers. I'm afraid to touch, afraid to disturb the fragile peace she's wrapped in.

"Everyone's going to be so worried about you," I murmur, my voice shaking. "Ochaco, Tsuyu, Kyoka… they're all trying to figure out what happened. We're all pulling for you. You have to wake up soon."

The door opens, and I stiffen, but it's just a nurse. She checks the monitors, adjusts a few things, and offers me a small, sympathetic smile before leaving as quietly as she came.

"All Might once talked about self-sacrifice," I say, more to myself than to her. "He said there's no greater act a hero can perform. But you shouldn't have had to sacrifice yourself for me. It should have been me."

The guilt gnaws at me, sharp and unrelenting. What good is my power if I can't protect the people who matter?

"Please, Tanya," I whisper, my voice barely audible now. "Fight this. Come back to us. I need you to keep pushing me, to keep telling me what I don't want to hear."

I finally let my hand settle over hers, gripping it lightly. Her skin is cool against mine.

"You're the Dragon of Class 1-A," I say, a weak, desperate laugh slipping out. "You can't be taken down by something like this. Not you."

The silence presses in. The heart monitor continues its rhythm.

I stay there, holding her hand, talking to her, willing her to wake up, until the nurses tell me I have to leave.

As I step out of her room, the weight of her absence settles in my chest like a stone. But so does the determination.

Whether she can hear me or not, I'll keep talking. Keep fighting. Keep pushing forward.

Because somewhere, beneath the coma-induced silence, I believe she's listening.

Waiting.

Planning.

Getting ready to wake up and remind us all why she's the strongest among us.

Mita Mano, Caretaker, Former Sidekick 'Joyful Fist'

The steady beep of the heart monitor fills the hospital room, a metronome for the anxious rhythm of my thoughts. Beep. Tanya's alive. Beep. But she's hurt. Beep. I am going to strangle someone. The whole place smells like antiseptic, like someone took a bucket of bleach and said, 'Yes, this is the perfect atmosphere for guilt and misery!' My nose wrinkles as I glare at the machines keeping Tanya tethered to this world.

Machines. Machines everywhere. Hooked up to her, blinking, beeping, making her breathing sound mechanical instead of human. Oh, and the scars—angry red things carved into her pale skin like some kind of grotesque battle trophy.

I hate hospitals.

And I hate seeing my girl like this.

"How are we supposed to afford all this?" I mutter, mostly to myself, because that's the kind of question that makes my head spin and my wallet cry. My hands grip the fabric of my skirt, my nails digging in because—oh, that's right—I can't punch medical bills into submission.

"Please, Ms. Mita."

I turn sharply, because oh, I recognize that voice. Sitting on a stool like the world's tiniest mafia boss is Principal Nedzu. His fuzzy little paws are neatly folded, his beady little eyes filled with infinite wisdom or corporate-level scheming, I can never tell. "Let me assure you, U.A. takes full responsibility for what happened. We will cover all medical expenses."

I narrow my eyes. "Responsibility? That doesn't change the fact that my girl is lying here because of—" I wave a hand toward Tanya's unmoving form, my throat tightening before I can finish the sentence.

Nedzu blinks at me. Like, actually blinks.

And that's not fair, because blinking should make a person look at least a little uncertain, but this damn rodent just looks patient.

"And where is Aizawa?" I demand, because when in doubt, redirect the anger to someone else. "Shouldn't he be here?"

"Mr. Aizawa is in intensive care," Nedzu replies smoothly. "As is the Hero who stepped in to assist. They're both receiving the best care possible."

Intensive care.

I exhale, the fight draining out of me like someone popped a balloon filled with rage. Fine. Fine. At least they're suffering for it too. I check my watch—oh, great, time has abandoned me yet again. The other kids are probably running wild. "I have to get back to the orphanage. The other children…"

"We will contact you if her condition changes," Nedzu says, his voice as placid as ever.

And that's that.

I stalk down the hospital corridor, trying to shake the sterile stench off me like a wet dog shaking off water. I check my watch again—yep, I've spent entirely too long here, and I just know one of the kids back at the orphanage has probably tried to build a rocket launcher out of kitchen supplies. Again.

A nurse trundles past with a cart full of clinking vials, and the sound scrapes against my nerves.

"Miss Mita?"

Ugh. I know that voice.

I turn, and there he is—Izuku Midoriya, standing in the hallway like a kicked puppy with guilt written all over his stupidly earnest face.

Ah. The boy Tanya nearly died for.

Before I can stop myself, the words spill out. "All her life, she has spent trying to be a hero to others." My lips curl, my voice going sharp. "Her heroics were meant for someone worth saving."

Midoriya flinches. Just a little.

Good.

I turn away before I can see whatever noble nonsense is brewing in that hallow green head of his and make for the exit.

The sliding doors part, and the cold air slaps me in the face like nature itself is telling me to calm down. Rude. I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the hospital's artificial sterility and focus on the comforting chaos waiting at home.

And then, of course, because this day wasn't bad enough, I hear his voice.

"Frau Mita, a word if you please?"

Oh, great. Fantastic. Because what I really wanted today was a villain monologue.

I slow my pace but don't turn immediately. Gotta set the stage, after all. Finally, when my face is blank and my heart has accepted its fate, I meet the gaze of him.

Fryderyk Gottschalk.

The man looks like he was designed to loom. Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in dark leather like an extra from some overly dramatic period drama. His white hair catches the light just so, and his red eyes—oh, those things burn.

His scowl vanishes behind a practiced smile, the kind that screams, I am lying through my teeth but in a charming way.

"Mr. Gottschalk," I say, matching his fake civility. "What brings you here?"

"Is it so wrong for a grandfather to be concerned about his kin?" His voice is light, but it's the kind of lightness you hear before someone drops an anvil on you.

"Concern is one thing," I snap, arms crossing. "But let's not pretend you've been the doting grandfather. You disappeared for years, and the second she starts living her dream, here you are?"

I subtly glance around—plenty of people. Cameras. Good. He won't try anything here.

"I did some background checks after you left," I say sweetly, tilting my head. "You have a rather prolific history with the HPSC."

His smile slips just a fraction. Oh, I love that.

"Ah, but blood is thicker than water, Frau Mita." He steps closer, voice dipping into something conspiratorial. "And I have resources that could aid her recovery… if only you'd allow it."

Oh, we're doing this dance.

"Your 'resources' come with strings attached, Mr. Gottschalk," I say, voice like iron. "Tanya's not another girl for you to manipulate and marry off."

He sighs like I'm some difficult child throwing a tantrum. "Manipulation?" He laughs. "That is rather rich, coming from you."

Oof. Direct hit. Okay, fine, maybe I do know how to twist a few arms to get what I want, but I do it for good reasons.

His gaze sharpens, but he straightens, brushing off his coat like I'm just some dust on his sleeve. "Very well. I see you are beyond reason. But remember, I am her flesh and blood. I will not be kept from her indefinitely."

"Remember this," I fire back, stepping forward with a very bright, very sharp smile. "Tanya may share your blood, but she has a family. One that doesn't demand anything from her except her happiness."

He stills. Oh. Oh, I got him with that one.

"She's mine. And I'll protect her from anyone—family or not."

I don't wait for his response. I turn, my coat whipping behind me, and walk away.

The wind is cold, but the chill running down my spine has nothing to do with the weather.

Tanya's battles aren't just fought on the battlefield.

And not all villains wear masks.

Kyoka Jiro, Hero Student, 1-A Seat # 12.

Everything feels off-kilter, like someone tilted the whole damn world just a little too far to the side. The air in the auditorium is thick, buzzing with unspoken thoughts and half-formed fears. We're packed onto these uncomfortable benches, too close, too still.

The cops at the front don't look happy to be here. Their expressions are all tight-jawed professionalism, but even they can't hide the weight behind what they're about to say. One clears his throat, his voice cutting through the silence.

"Your bus encountered an... anomaly after leaving the USJ."

Anomaly. Right. That's a nice, sterile way to describe absolute chaos.

"Subsequently, there was an incident involving two students."

A shift. The collective inhale of breath. Every muscle in my body goes tense.

"Midoriya Izuku and Yamada Tanya."

I swear my heart skips a beat. Tanya, who always seems untouchable, like nothing could ever really hurt her. And Midoriya, who throws himself into danger so recklessly it's like he thinks pain doesn't apply to him.

"They reappeared on school grounds moments after the portal's manifestation. Both were injured."

The word injured barely scratches the surface. The image flashes through my head—Tanya, usually so composed, limp and broken. Midoriya, his face hollow, his uniform streaked with red. A moment frozen in horror, something none of us were ready for.

"Where is Midoriya now?" Someone asks, barely more than a whisper.

"Absent."

A single word. A hundred possible meanings. My hands tighten into fists. Absent. Missing. Gone.

My thoughts spiral, colliding into each other too fast to process. Tanya's ability to see sound—did it make her a target? And Midoriya—why isn't he answering? Why does it feel like we're missing something huge?

"Please," the officer says, like it's actually an option, "remain calm while the investigation is ongoing."

Sure. Like that's possible.

The police leave, but the weight they dumped on us stays. The tension is thick, pressing against my skin, humming in my ears.

"Did you see Midoriya? He looked like he barely made it out."

"And Tanya… I didn't think anything could take her down."

I pull out my phone. My hands shake slightly as I type.

Are you okay? What happened? We're all worried.

The three dots pop up for a second. Then they vanish. No reply.

Momo leans toward me. "Jiro, did Midoriya say anything?"

"Nothing." The frustration makes my voice sharper than I intend.

"He's not picking up his phone either," Uraraka mutters.

The silence that follows is suffocating. No one knows what to do. No one knows what to say.

And then—

"Kyoka!"

I look up fast. My parents stand just outside the doorway, their faces tense with worry. I barely have time to react before I'm up, weaving through the room toward them.

"Mom, Dad, I'm fine."

Mom doesn't look convinced. She pulls me into a hug that's just a little too tight. Dad places a firm hand on my shoulder.

"Let's go home," he says, his voice steady but careful.

I nod, letting them lead me away. The ride home is a mess of fragmented news reports and my parents murmuring back and forth. I pick up bits and pieces—All Might was there. A villain. No real answers.

"Can you believe what's happening to this city?" Dad mutters. "U.A. used to be safe."

"Is it still?" Mom asks. "Should we let Kyoka go back?"

"Of course, it is," I snap, too quick, too defensive.

Mom doesn't look convinced. And maybe that's fair.

That night, I stare at my phone, waiting for Midoriya's name to pop up with a reply. The chat keeps buzzing, but no real answers come.

Tomorrow, I think.

But even as I close my eyes, sleep feels like a long way off.

The evening news flickers across the living room wall, casting shadows that stretch and twist like something out of a horror movie. My parents and I sit in silence, watching as the anchor rattles off every grim detail about today's disaster at U.A. The footage keeps looping—All Might, muscles straining, eyes burning bright red, standing against a backdrop of wreckage and panic.

"Another villain attack," Dad mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. "This is becoming too common."

Then Mom shifts beside me, her tone just a little too careful. "Kyoka, we've been talking, and... we think maybe you should transfer."

I freeze. My grip tightens around the remote, and it slips from my fingers, clattering onto the floor. "You can't be serious." The words leave my mouth before I even think, sharp and fast. "I've worked too hard for this!"

"Darling, it's not safe," she pleads, reaching for my hand, but I pull away. My heart pounds against my ribs.

"Safe?" I snap. "No one becomes a hero because it's safe. I want to be out there, stopping these attacks, not running from them!"

Dad opens his mouth, but I barrel forward before he can get a word in. "Being a hero isn't just about fighting villains—it's about standing up when everyone else is too scared to move! It's about proving we can do something, that we can help!" The words spill out of me in a rush, driven by something hot and desperate. "If I back down now, what kind of hero does that make me?"

Mom and Dad exchange a look, the kind that says a whole conversation is happening in silence. Finally, Dad exhales. "Alright. We'll talk to the principal about the security measures."

My shoulders drop slightly, relief washing over me. "Thank you." They don't fully get it—but they trust me enough not to fight it. That's enough for now.

Later, lying in bed, I can't shake the feeling that none of this is close to over. My phone screen lights up with the class group chat—message after message, everyone looking for answers that don't exist.

"Where are you, Izuku? What happened out there?" Mina's text stands out among the flood of worried emojis and question marks.

I hesitate before typing, fingers hovering over the screen.

"Guys, give him some space. He'll reach out when he's ready."

I don't know if I believe it, but it's all I can say.

I turn over, trying to find sleep, but my mind won't stop racing. Every time I close my eyes, I see Tanya and Izuku, blood and exhaustion written across them. The unanswered questions pile up, shifting in the darkness like ghosts that won't leave me alone.

"Tomorrow," I whisper into the quiet, my voice barely a breath. "Tomorrow we'll figure it out."

But even as I finally drift off, that sinking feeling lingers, heavy and unshakable.

The setting sun filters through the curtains, casting long golden streaks across the dinner table. I push rice around my plate with my chopsticks, but my stomach twists too tight to even consider eating. The whole day's been a fog—conversations slipping through my fingers, minutes stretching too long, thoughts running in circles that never lead anywhere.

"Kyoka, honey, you've barely touched your food," Mom says, her voice cutting through the haze.

"Not hungry," I mutter.

Dad watches me carefully. "Have you heard anything from your classmates?"

"Nothing yet," I say. But before I can spiral any further, my phone buzzes against the wooden table.

I grab it immediately, breath catching. A message. Izuku.

Finally.

I scan the words too fast, rereading, trying to make sense of it all. Tanya's hospital address. A request to let Toru know. The guilt woven through every sentence—I got in All Might's way, Tanya saved me, it should've been me—like he's trying to take the weight of the world and fold it into a single text.

Mom says something, but it barely registers. My hands shake as I forward the message to Toru.

"Kyoka?" Dad's voice is gentler now, worried.

"Toru," I whisper, but it's the only word I manage before my vision blurs. And then it crashes over me all at once, a tidal wave of emotions I've been holding back, and I can't stop the sobs that shake my whole body. My parents are there in an instant—Mom's arms wrapping around me, Dad's hand steady on my back.

"Sweetheart, what is it?" Mom asks, panic creeping into her voice.

"T-Tanya… she saved Izuku… she got hurt because of him." The words tumble out between gasps for air.

Dad murmurs something soothing, but it barely reaches me.

"Can we see her? Please, can we go see her?" The desperation in my voice surprises even me, but I don't care.

"Of course, sweetheart. We will," Dad promises. And in the middle of all this—between the fear and the exhaustion and the heartbreak—I feel the tiniest spark of relief.

Later, curled up in my bed, I stare at the ceiling. The group chat keeps buzzing, but I don't have the energy to check it. My mind is stuck on Tanya, on Izuku's guilt, on the way today unraveled like a song with no resolution.

The hospital looms ahead, stark white and sterile, a fortress of chrome and antiseptic. The closer we get, the harder my heart hammers. My parents walk on either side of me, silent, steady—my anchors in a sea of uncertainty.

"Ready?" Mom whispers, squeezing my hand.

I nod, even though I don't think I'll ever be ready for this.

The door glides open with a quiet whoosh, revealing a room bathed in weak afternoon light. Machines beep in soft, rhythmic patterns, their monotony filling the silence. Tanya lies in the middle of it all, pale against the crisp sheets, bandages wrapped around too much of her. The sight of her like this knocks the air out of my lungs.

"Hey, Tanya," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper as I step closer. "It's me. Kyoka."

She doesn't stir. My stomach tightens.

She looks peaceful, but not in the way I want. Her face, usually so full of sharp wit and quiet confidence, is still, too still. The bandages on her chest and neck stand out starkly against her skin—reminders of everything she went through, everything she survived.

"Still fighting, huh? Even in your sleep," I say, forcing out a weak laugh, but it feels wrong in the heavy quiet of the room.

Mom hesitates, reaching out but stopping short. "Do you think she can hear us?"

"Maybe." I want to believe it. "But even if she can't, we should still talk to her."

Dad steps forward, his voice steady. "Then let's fill this room with love and hope. Tell her about your day, your dreams. Let her know she's not alone."

So I talk. About school. About the dumb things Kaminari did today. About how everyone's waiting for her to wake up. My parents join in, their words weaving into mine, filling the room with warmth, with reassurance, with something—anything—to keep her tethered to us.

As the day slips into evening, I stay by Tanya's side, my fingers curling around her hand, her skin still warm beneath my touch. The machines keep beeping. The world keeps turning. And I hold onto one promise like a lifeline.

"I'm here, Tanya," I whisper. "We all are. So come back to us soon."

And then we wait, hoping, in the quiet hum of room 203, for a miracle.

Nedzu, Principle of U.A.

"Rest assured, we're implementing additional security measures as we speak," I told the concerned parent on the other end of the line. My voice was steady, a calm lighthouse amid their storm of worry. "Yes, your child's safety is our utmost priority. We will do better." A click ended the conversation, and a heavy sigh escaped me as I placed the receiver down, the weight of responsibility pressing into my temples.

I leaned back in my chair, the smooth surface of the desk offering cold comfort to my hands. The attack played over in my mind like a broken film reel, each frame a testament to our vulnerability. Villains... they had infiltrated our defenses, turning one of our own robot drivers against us. A marvel of technology, reduced to an instrument of chaos. The route change, meant to be a safeguard, had been our downfall.

The silence of the office was shattered by the memory of the distress call, students teleported away, all except for two brave souls and their teacher. One student, Izuku Midoriya, currently bore the mantle of One For All—that incredible power passed down from All Might himself. The very thought made my heart race with both pride and fear. We were this close to losing the torch of heroism.

I rose from my seat, pacing the confines of my office. A picture of All Might and Aizawa on the wall caught my eye—both now lay in intensive care, their bodies mangled from the battle. All Might, ever the symbol of peace, had pushed his quirk beyond its limits. His heroism was as boundless as it was costly. And Aizawa, only alive thanks to the first aid administered by those two students under his charge.

All Might was only alive because of the villain taking a crippling blow from Tanya's quirk and choosing to retreat.

My steps halted at the window, the view of the school grounds bittersweet. Tanya Yamada, was fighting for her life. She was always so full of calculated fire, but now she lay comatose after throwing herself in harm's way for Midoriya. That selflessness clashed with her usual cold demeanor, revealing the complex tapestry of her character. Her brilliant mind, and her uncanny quirk—now silenced in the void of unconsciousness.

I remembered watching her practice, her throat aglow with mesmerizing hues. It was nothing short of a spectacle, yet here she was, paying the price for wielding such a gift. The risk she took, the strain on her quirk organ, it was a stark reminder of the stakes these young heroes faced.

"Principal Nedzu," a voice broke through my reverie. I turned to face the door, where Midnight stood with a look of concern. "Are you alright?"

"Perfectly fine," I lied smoothly, my tail twitching with agitation beneath the desk. "Just lost in thought."

"Understandable, after everything that's happened."

"Indeed," I replied, returning to my desk. Deep within, a primal instinct stirred, urging me to defend my pack. But no, I had to remain poised, strategic. The villains thought they could rattle us, outsmart us? They were mistaken. I would not allow myself to succumb to my baser instincts. This was a game of intellect now, and I refused to be bested.

"Get me the latest update on the students' conditions," I instructed, my resolve stealing once more. "And inform Cementoss I'll need his input on some plans. It's time to fortify our haven."

"Right away, sir."

As Midnight left, I sat there amidst the quietude of my office, listening to the faint echoes of determination that filled the halls outside. We would rise from this. We had to. For them, for our future, for the peace that seemed ever so elusive in our world of heroes and villains.

Another day, more concerned parents.

The receiver clicks as I finish reassuring another mother. I lean back in my chair—too big for my small frame—and let out a sigh. Papers flutter across my desk from the force of my breath. Another reassurance given, another promise made. The routine is exhausting.

I inhale deeply, forcing myself to focus. The attack replays in my mind, a puzzle demanding to be solved. How did they break through our security? The villain's skill with technology is disturbing. Hacking into one of our robot drivers with such precision is no small feat. That kind of access suggests something unsettling—they were on-site.

A voice interrupts my thoughts. "Principal Nedzu," Midnight says, peeking through the door, her face hesitant.

"Yes?" I reply.

"The news… they say they got footage of the attack."

"Show me." I have already watched what I was able to piece together from the nearby security cameras and the bus's own camera, but more information is power.

The screen flickers to life. The camera shakes, capturing the chaos. All Might is a force of nature, his fists striking like lightning against the Nomu. The camera cracks, the image spiderwebbing before cutting to black—right as All Might delivers his final blow.

I pause, my mind already working ahead. They didn't capture his moment of weakness—his shrinking form, his barely restrained exhaustion. A close call, but the public won't see it. People are already dismissing that moment as fake. Convenient disbelief.

"Should we prepare a statement?" Midnight asks.

"No," I say, already thinking of more pressing matters. "We have work to do."

I spread out the blueprints on my desk. The new dormitories—our next step in protecting our students. Cementoss will handle construction, reinforcing the walls, integrating security into every layer. No villain will breach these halls.

My fingers trace a line leading to the reinforced safe room. A growl rumbles low in my throat. A simple instinct, old and buried, but still there. My students are my pack, and someone tried to harm them.

"Sir?" Midnight's voice pulls me back.

I shake my head, smoothing my expression. "Apologies," I say, suppressing the instinct. "Inform Cementoss that the blueprints are ready. Construction must start immediately. Emphasize the urgency."

"Right away, Principal."

She leaves, and I glance back at the screen, now dark. The fight is over, but the battle is ongoing. They threatened my students. They will not get another chance.

I sit back in my chair, calming down with my eyes closed. It would not do to tear apart my desk.

I let my mind shift to the next issue: the U.A. Sports Festival.

A showcase of our students. A proving ground for their abilities. An event that will be broadcast to the entire country.

It is both an opportunity and a risk.

This year, the festival carries more weight than ever. Villains have proven bold enough to strike at U.A. itself. The public needs reassurance, a display of strength and control. Our students must show that they are not victims, but future heroes.

Yet, one student will be missing from the arena.

Tanya Yamada.

I pick up the latest medical report. She remains in the hospital, stable, but unconscious. Her body rejected sedatives and reacted aggressively to quirk suppressants. Doctors managed to stabilize her condition, but the full extent of the harm is still unknown.

Her quirk is powerful. Unique. Unstable. Dangerous. She has trained it, yes, but with so many unknowns, she remains a question without an answer.

And yet…

I glance at the document beside me: the revised U.A. Sports Festival plan.

It is… surprisingly well-structured.

The Student Council proposed a series of small adjustments—suggestions taken from none other than Tanya Yamada and Izuku Midoriya.

I let out a soft chuckle. Of course.

The report outlines safety concerns, ways to improve student preparedness, and ideas for a more practical demonstration of hero skills. Tanya's input focuses on logistics, risk management, and long-term benefits. Midoriya's suggestions? Strategies to allow underdogs a chance to shine.

It is a fascinating contrast.

One is a strategist, always looking ahead, anticipating dangers before they arise.

The other is an idealist, pushing for a system where effort and determination matter more than natural-born strength.

Both mindsets have value. Both will shape the future of hero society.

If they survive long enough to do so.

I sip my tea, considering my next steps.

The Sports Festival must continue. It is a statement, a declaration that U.A. will not bow to threats. But Tanya…

She cannot compete. Not like this.

Perhaps I should arrange an alternative. A way for her to participate—without compromising her recovery.

Her mind is too sharp to waste in a hospital bed.

I turn to my computer and begin drafting an email. The hospital, the HPSC, the board of education…

I will find a way.

The festival will go on.

And Tanya Yamada's influence on U.A. will not be ignored.

As I begin confirming the various events and plans, a new notification catches my eye—a medical update regarding Tanya Yamada. I open it immediately.

A specialist has been called in.

I skim through the details, my focus narrowing on the name. Dr. Nisesake Kaichi. It's unfamiliar, but a quick glance at his credentials shows an impressive background. A quirk specialist, experienced in high-risk cases involving complex biological interactions.

I pause, considering.

Tanya's condition has proven difficult, her body rejecting standard treatments. If this doctor is as competent as his record suggests, she may yet recover. Perhaps even in time to avoid losing the momentum she's built.

A flicker of something—not quite relief, but close—settles in the back of my mind.

It would be a shame for her to fade away before she's had the chance to truly prove herself. Her mind is sharp, her instincts refined. The hero course is filled with hopefuls who throw themselves forward with reckless idealism, but Tanya is different. She calculates. She strategizes.

Losing her would be more than a tragedy. It would be a waste.

I close the report and glance toward the calendar. The sports festival is coming, whether she's ready or not. The world moves forward, but I will make sure that, if she wakes, she will not be left behind.

For now, all I can do is wait.

I turn back to my work, but the thought lingers.

Fryderyk Gottschalk, Kind Old Man

The phone's sharp, grating ring shattered the fragile silence of my hotel suite. I exhaled through my nose, already bracing for more incompetence. Every day, every damned hour, something required my attention. Even with an ocean between me and the heart of my empire, problems still followed me like shadows. I reached for the receiver, my fingers curling around it with slow, deliberate force.

"Ja?" My voice was rough, low, a warning wrapped in a single syllable.

"Boss," came the hesitant voice, thick with nerves. Ludwig. "The Tombovs… they're pushing into our territory. And they've got some new weapons a—"

I closed my eyes, willing down the frustration curling hot in my gut. Of course, the moment I turned my back, my supposed lieutenants allowed the world to fall apart. Did none of them understand the weight of responsibility? The delicate balance of power?

"Ludwig," I said, my voice a blade honed to precision. "I gave you that position because I believed you could handle it. Prove. Me. Right."

"Yes, boss! I won't fail again!" He was too eager, desperate even.

"You'd better not," I spat, slamming the receiver down. The dull click was unsatisfying. I should have handled this myself. Should have never trusted others to hold the line in my absence.

I turned back to the mess of papers sprawled across my desk. The HPSC. A bureaucratic nightmare wrapped in red tape, its tendrils woven through Japan's entire system. Their laws were nothing more than a slow, strangling noose. Adoption. It should have been simple. Tanya was my blood. But here, I was an outsider. In Germany, I could simply ask and they would cut through the paperwork like a hot knife through flesh. Here? They choose to drowned me in it.

I ran a hand down my face, exhaustion creeping in. Verdammt. These laws were absurd. They'd rather let Tanya rot in some orphanage than return her to her rightful family. They saw her as some political loose end, a child born of bloodlines too powerful to be ignored.

"Nein." I whispered, gripping the desk so hard my knuckles went white. "They won't keep her from me. I won't let them."

The ink-stained papers blurred before my eyes as memories clawed their way in—Japan, a lifetime ago. I could still smell the cherry blossoms, the scent mixing with the faint bitterness of sake. My daughter had been so young then, so determined. I remembered the way she looked at him.

Her husband.

The villain.

The king of the Japanese underworld, a man whispered about in the darkest corners of society. His empire spread through the Yakuza, but he was something beyond even them. He did not just own the underworld—he ruled it with an iron grip. They called him Kurogami—the Black God. To the heroes, he was an unknown and unstoppable force of destruction. To the criminals, he was a legend, a nightmare, a king that could not be overthrown.

And my daughter had chosen him.

"Papa," she had told me, standing beside him with a fire in her eyes. "This is what I want."

And I had given my blessing. Because that is what our family did—we took what we wanted, and we built legacies that lasted beyond us.

The underworld had never seen an alliance like ours before. The Gottschalks of Germany and the Yakuza of Japan. A bond sealed not just in blood, but in power.

And then… everything had burned.

Not in the way I expected. Not from betrayal. Not from a war between syndicates.

From something worse.

I had thought my daughter was untouchable, wrapped in shadows, protected by the strongest man I ever knew. But when she lay in that hospital bed, giving birth to Tanya, she was just another woman—mortal, fragile.

The heroes called it collateral damage.

A villain attack.

A rampage through the city, tearing through buildings, streets, hospitals—her hospital. And the so-called "heroes"? They fought their battles like reckless children, never caring for the lives caught in the crossfire.

By the time the dust settled, my daughter was dead, and Tanya… my Tanya was just a helpless infant, crying in the arms of a nurse.

No one even knew who she was.

A princess thought a peasant.

Kurogami did not weep. He was not the kind of man who wept. But the war that followed—that was his grief. His vengeance. The streets of Japan ran red for a year. Every villain responsible, every hero who hesitated, every bureaucrat who shrugged and called it an unfortunate accident—they all paid in blood.

And then he was gone too.

Disappeared. Some whispered that he let himself fall, that he had no reason to fight anymore. I do not know if that is true. I only know that by the time the smoke cleared, Tanya was alone. My granddaughter. My last link to them both.

I had thought she was never born. For fifteen long years.

And these fools dared to stand in my way.

If that doctor didn't call…

"Quirk Marriages," they used to call it. A system built on strengthening bloodlines. But now? Now, they twisted those same laws to keep her from me. Outlawed, and invalid. The marriage never even happened, they say.

I pressed my thumb into the ink pad, leaving another smudged fingerprint on the adoption papers.

"Your documentation is insufficient, Mr. Gottschalk," the bureaucrat's voice rang in my mind. Cold. Detached. "Japan's laws are clear."

Clear as a battlefield at midnight.

"You would keep a child from her family over this?" I had asked, my voice sharp as a dagger.

"Regulations must be adhered to."

"Then regulations be damned."

I pushed back from the desk, pacing, my mind racing. Tanya was out there, trapped in a world of power struggles, caught between politics and control. And I was here, pushing papers while she suffered.

The pen in my grip snapped.

"Mr. Gottschalk?" A voice broke through my thoughts. One of my men. He handed me a phone.

"What is it?" My voice was sharp, but my mind was already moving.

One of the Yakuza lieutenants I had briefed of my presence in the country again. He never called without reason.

"Your granddaughter. She's in the hospital."

The world stopped. My grip tightened. My heartbeat slowed.

"Where?"

"Musutafu General."

The moment I heard the name of the hospital, I was already moving. The legal papers on my desk, the endless bureaucratic nonsense, all forgotten. They fluttered to the floor, useless scraps of ink and empty words. The only thing that mattered now was Tanya.

The air outside was thick with city stench—exhaust fumes mixing with the remnants of rain—but I barely noticed. My thoughts were a storm, a cacophony of rage and fear twisting in my gut. Tanya was hurt. My blood. My last remaining link to my daughter.

And they had the audacity to stand in my way? To think some flimsy laws and government edicts could keep me from her?

No.

I had watched my daughter walk into a world of shadows with her head held high. I had let her marry a monster because she wanted power, and I had told her to take what she wanted. She had taken it all. The Demon's wife. The queen of the underworld.

And then they killed her.

Not in an assassination, not in the blood-soaked wars between syndicates, but in a hospital bed. Helpless. Mortal. Fragile.

I had underestimated how cruel the world could be.

I would not make that mistake again.

The drive to Musutafu General was a blur of red lights and honking horns. It wasn't fast enough. Nothing would be fast enough. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a curse against those who had let this happen.

The moment I entered the hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic clung to my skin, dragging me back to memories I had tried to bury. I loathed these places. Hated how they smelled of weakness and whispered of final moments. But I pushed that aside. I had no time for ghosts.

A woman in a crisp suit stepped forward. The sharp gleam of an HPSC badge caught my eye before she even opened her mouth.

"Mr. Gottschalk, this is highly irregular—"

"Save it," I snapped, my voice cutting through the air like a knife. "I know what you think of my daughter's marriage, but Tanya needs help now. I have resources—"

"Your family's reputation precedes you," she interrupted, arms folding across her chest like she could bar me from my own kin through sheer will alone.

That was their mistake. Thinking they could stop me.

"Damned bureaucracy," I muttered under my breath, already planning, already calculating. They thought paper walls could contain me? That a badge could stop me? They had no idea who they were dealing with.

The HPSC might control the surface, but the underworld was built on debts and blood oaths. There were older powers in Japan than their petty laws, and I had spent a lifetime bending them to my will.

I moved past her before she could try to stop me. The hospital was a maze of whitewashed walls and muted conversations, but I had been navigating labyrinths my entire life. I walked with purpose, my footfalls silent against the polished floor.

A young nurse noticed me hesitating near the records room.

"Excuse me, sir, are you lost?" she asked, suspicion flickering in her gaze.

I smiled, just a little, pulling on my gloves as discreetly as possible. "Ah, mein apologies, just looking for the restroom," I said, feigning mild confusion.

She glanced at me, then back at her clipboard. The moment her attention shifted, I slipped through the door.

The records room was dim, the glow of computer screens casting pale light across the desks. I wasted no time. My fingers danced over the keyboard, searching for Tanya's file. The system flickered, names scrolling past too quickly, but I kept my focus.

"Come on, where are you…"

And then—there.

Room 203.

I memorized it in an instant. Then, with careful precision, I wiped the keyboard and mouse, leaving nothing behind.

"Old man or not, Fryderyk, you've still got it."

The halls blurred around me as I moved toward Tanya's room. My thoughts sharpened, turning from immediate obstacles to the broader game.

Who hurt her?

My granddaughter was no fool. She was sharp, calculating. I had seen it in her eyes the first time I laid eyes on her. A mind far too old for her years. A predator's mind.

Someone had tried to break her.

They would regret it.

I reached Room 203. A nurse lingered nearby, flipping through a clipboard.

I softened my expression, let my voice drop into that low, persuasive timbre. "I'm just here to check on a patient before leaving for the day," I murmured, my quirk wrapping around my words like silk.

She blinked, hesitated—then her eyes dimmed as she nodded. "Of course, Dr. Right inside."

I stepped past her with a quiet, "Danke."

They never resisted.

The doorknob was cold against my palm. I turned it slowly, the click of the latch sounding far too loud in the silence.

Then I stepped inside, and everything in me went still.

Tanya lay on the hospital bed, pale against the stark white sheets. Tubes and wires twisted around her small frame, the steady beeping of the heart monitor filling the room with its rhythmic intrusion.

Bruises bloomed across her arms, dark reminders of the violence she had endured. Scrapes marred her skin.

My fists clenched at my sides, leather creaking as my gloves protested the strain.

"Who did this to you?" My voice was low, filled with a rage that burned deep in my chest.

They had hurt her.

They had tried to break her.

Steal away my daughters legacy.

My. Legacy.

I would break them in return.

I leaned down, brushing a kiss against her forehead. Her skin was cool beneath my lips, her breath shallow. My granddaughter. My blood.

"Opa will make them pay."

My mind was already moving, already calculating. I had enemies everywhere, but I also had allies. And the most dangerous of them all was a man who ruled a small part of the underworld from the shadows currently.

A dangerous man. A man who had once stood biding his time, waiting for his chance to claim the throne.

A man who owed me.

I would collect that debt.

I turned away from Tanya's bed, my mind sharpening into a blade. There would be blood for this.

As I stepped toward the door, I cast one last glance at my granddaughter's still form.

"Du bist nicht allein," I murmured, the words a vow carved into my very soul.

Not alone. Not while I still drew breath.

Whatever it took.

Whatever the cost.

I would see her restored. And I would see her enemies ruined.

And woe to anyone who stood in my way.

Toru Hagakure, Hero Student, 1-A Seat # 16

The air at U.A. felt… weird. Like when a party ends, and everyone's just standing around, not sure whether to stay or go. The halls were full, but they felt empty at the same time. It was all in the way people moved—slower, quieter. Not much talking, no excited energy buzzing around. I hated it.

Tanya's seat was empty.

I didn't even realize how much I had gotten used to her being there until she wasn't. It was like someone had yanked the anchor off a ship, and now we were all just drifting. I ran my fingers along the edge of my desk, feeling the smooth surface, like that would help me focus. It didn't.

Kyoka sat next to me, staring at that empty seat too. "Can't believe we're back here without her," she muttered.

I didn't like how her voice sounded. Like it had lost some of its usual bite. I wanted to say something to make her feel better, but my own voice came out flat. "Me neither." I fiddled with the hem of my sleeve, then tried to sound more upbeat. "At least we'll see her after school, right? That's something."

The bell rang, loud and jarring in the quiet room. Nobody moved at first. It was like we were all waiting for someone to tell us what to do next.

Then the door opened.

I turned my head, expecting a sub or maybe even some random staff member. Instead, a figure stepped inside, wrapped in bandages from head to toe like he had escaped from a mummy movie.

For a second, nobody spoke. Then I heard someone whisper, "Is that…?"

Aizawa.

A collective inhale passed through the class, like we had all just seen a ghost. I could feel my heartbeat speed up. I wasn't even injured, and I still thought there's no way he should be here.

"Mr. Aizawa!" someone called, probably the most obvious thing to say, but hey, we were all thinking it.

He waved a hand at us, like we were being too loud, even though none of us had actually said anything else. "Quiet," he rasped, his voice rougher than usual. "My ears are still ringing."

If it was supposed to be a joke. Nobody laughed. Well, except Kaminari, who let out a nervous chuckle before realizing he was the only one and immediately shutting up.

Aizawa shuffled toward his desk, moving like every step was a bad idea but taking them anyway. Izuku's bandaged arms caught my attention. He was staring at Aizawa too, probably seeing the same thing I was—how messed up they both looked.

Then Aizawa sighed and leaned on his desk. "Take this as a lesson, there are things…" he said, and I thought he was about to drop some serious wisdom on us. But then he frowned, tilted his head like he was reconsidering, and muttered, "Scratch that. You still need to take care of yourselves."

That got a couple of snickers.

But he wasn't done. "Today's lesson is all paperwork." He gestured vaguely toward the desks, his movements stiff. "Since All Might can't make it, I'll be handling it."

All Might wasn't here? That sent another ripple of unease through me. I glanced at Kyoka, and she met my eyes. She was thinking it too. What's going on?

"The essays you all turned in before the attack," Aizawa continued, "should be in your desks. You're going to read them out loud."

Oh no.

My stomach did a little flip. I had barely remembered writing mine—had I even taken it seriously? I peeked at my desk and saw the paper there, mocking me.

Across the room, Sero raised a hand, looking just as uncomfortable as I felt. "Uh, sir, isn't that kind of… personal?"

Aizawa's gaze swept across the class, sharp despite the bandages. "If you feel embarrassed about what you wrote," he said, voice as blunt as ever, "then maybe you shouldn't be heroes."

Oof.

Nobody argued after that.

I swallowed hard and looked at my paper again. I had written about why I wanted to be a hero. How I wanted to be seen. How I didn't want to be invisible forever.

Was that embarrassing? Yeah, a little.

But Aizawa wasn't wrong. Being a hero meant putting yourself out there, even when it was uncomfortable. Even when it hurt. Even when you didn't know if people would get it.

I glanced at Tanya's empty seat again.

Maybe that's what she'd been doing all along.

Todoroki's voice cut through the heavy air like a blade, sharp and clean. "Will she have to read hers when she returns?"

She being Tanya. Tanya Yamada, absent yet everywhere, her essay lying untouched on Aizawa's desk, like a ghost waiting to be summoned.

Aizawa-sensei hummed, a low, almost bored vibration that somehow carried weight. "No," he said, the word settling over the class like dust in a silent room. Then he turned his gaze to Midoriya. "Izuku will read hers... He promised, after all."

And just like that, the room's atmosphere shifted. Not the dramatic, sudden kind, but a slow, creeping unease that crawled up my spine. Like when you realize you're walking alone at night and hear footsteps that shouldn't be there. Izuku tensed, his fingers curling against the desk like he was bracing for impact, then forced out a shaky but determined, "Yes, sensei."

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Of course, Tanya had something planned. Even when she's not here, she's still five steps ahead.

One by one, my classmates stood, their voices carrying their truths into the open air. Iida was first, because of course he was. His speech was as straight-backed and noble as the guy himself, full of family duty and expectations, a path set for him before he even knew how to walk it.

Then Uraraka, her cheeks pink as she admitted that, yeah, she wanted to help people, but she also really just wanted to make sure her family didn't have to struggle anymore. That took guts, saying it out loud. Dreams weren't always about heroism and grandeur. Sometimes, they were built on survival.

The more people read, the heavier the air became. Everyone carried something. Some buried it beneath ambition, others wrapped it in humor, but no one had just wandered here. We had all fought—some battles louder than others.

Then Bakugo stepped up.

I felt the shift before he even opened his mouth, like the crackle before a thunderstorm.

"Being a hero isn't about saving people or any of that crap!" he barked, his voice slicing through the room, raw and aggressive. "It's about winning! Always being on top! And I'll be damned if anyone else thinks they can stand in my way to number one! Victory above all else!"

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Of course that was his take. His words were like a punch to the gut, full of fire and defiance, but missing… something. He stormed back to his seat like a king returning from battle, head high, gaze daring anyone to challenge him.

Aizawa's voice came next, dragging the moment back into perspective. "That's quite a philosophy," he said evenly. "Let's take a moment to reflect on it as a class. If anyone has questions or comments, raise your hand. Bakugo, be prepared to hear feedback from your peers."

Several hands shot up immediately.

Bakugo twitched, barely holding back his usual explosion. "Racoon eyes," he grumbled.

Ashido snapped upright. "Excuse you? I have a name!"

"Pinkey, then."

"No, fuck you! This is an attack on your whole philosophy!" Ashido shot out of her seat, pointing a dramatic finger at him. "You're always so focused on being the best and proving yourself. But what exactly makes you the best? Would you rather chase after a purse snatcher instead of helping someone in need? That's not what being a hero is! Heroes save people, not just show off their strength!"

Bakugo opened his mouth to fire back, but Ashido steamrolled right over him.

"And by the way, my name is Ashido. Jerk."

I half-expected Bakugo to detonate right then and there, but Aizawa was watching, and the dude actually swallowed whatever explosion he had brewing. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned, eyes locking onto Kirishima. "Shitty…" He paused, forcing the words out like they physically pained him. "Kirishima."

The redhead slammed his hands onto his desk, grinning like Bakugo had just handed him a Christmas present. "You're really improving, man!" he beamed. "But maybe you should take a step back and relax a bit. Remember what Red Riot always says: 'To be the best, you need the help of others and to lift not just with your arms, but your heart!' Mina's got a point—you make it sound like you're alone at the top, but that's not how it works! If you push everyone away, who's gonna be in your corner when you need them?"

Bakugo's eyes flickered, his jaw tightening, but for once, he didn't fire back.

Then his gaze swung to me.

"Hey, Invisogirl." His brow furrowed like he was struggling to remember. "Haka… something."

I sighed. "Invisofist. But I appreciate your effort."

I tapped my fingers on my desk, considering my words. "Your drive could come off as selfish," I admitted, "but honestly, I think you just need to work on how you say things. Like Tanya told you last week—before, you know." I trailed off, because of course we all knew. The whole room went a little quieter.

Aizawa, sensing the mood shift, cleared his throat. "Alright, we're moving on to the next essay."

And then it was Midoriya's turn.

He walked to the front like he was walking into a battlefield, clutching his paper like a shield. His voice was soft at first, but the words… the words hit harder than any punch.

"I admire All Might," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Because he saves people with a smile. No matter how hard things get, he's there... and I want to be like that too."

His fingers trembled, but he kept reading. "I know I have a lot to learn, but I promise... I'll… do better."

Silence.

Not the kind Bakugo's speech had left, heavy with unsaid challenges, but the kind that settled in your chest. The kind that hurt.

Aizawa let the moment stretch, then nudged him forward. "Your turn. Pick someone to comment."

Midoriya scanned the room before landing on Uraraka.

She smiled, thoughtful. "You told us before you wanted to be a hero that makes people smile, but… is that just because of All Might?" She tilted her head. "All Might's different from the other heroes. Are you trying to be him, or do you want to be your own kind of hero?"

Midoriya blinked. Like the thought had never once occurred to him.

Sato chimed in next. "All Might isn't my favorite hero, but I get it. I learned a lot by modeling my cooking after famous chefs. But at some point, you gotta make the recipe yours, you know? Maybe All Might's the starting point, but the hero you become has to be you."

Midoriya nodded, slow, like he was absorbing their words.

Then Tokoyami raised his hand—or, well, Dark Shadow did, guiding his arm upward.

"You must become one with the darkness," Tokoyami intoned, dramatic as always. "Your abilities bring only pain when you resist them. You must use that pain to push forward!"

Dark Shadow, far less poetic, just chuckled. "He means you should get a trainer, dude. The upperclassmen do mentoring on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

And somehow, despite the heaviness of the class, I found myself smiling.

Dark Shadow nodded while Tokoyami gave his quirk a wary glance. "Revelry in the Dark," he murmured, his voice low and distant.

Aizawa didn't let the moment sit. He never did. His tired voice cut through the room like a dull blade. "Midoriya. Read Tanya's essay."

The air seemed to thicken. Izuku stiffened, his bandaged hands trembling slightly as he wiped at his tear-streaked face. With careful fingers, he unfolded Tanya's essay, crisp and neat, just like she always was.

"The Pursuit of Heroism."

The title alone felt heavy, like it belonged to someone greater than us. Someone larger than life.

For a long time, Tanya was that person. The one we all looked to, the one who never wavered. The one who always seemed like she had everything figured out. Until she was bleeding out in front of us, broken and gasping, and none of us could do a damn thing to stop it.

Izuku swallowed hard and began to read.

"Heroism is not about blind idealism. It is not about charging forward recklessly, nor is it about being the strongest person in the room. A hero is not simply someone who fights villains. They are the ones who bring order to chaos."

His voice was quiet at first, but the words carried weight. Tanya's weight. Her belief that the world wasn't kind, that nothing changed unless people forced it to.

A hush settled over the class. No one dared to move.

"It is easy to be strong. It is much harder to be precise. I seek to refine myself, to ensure every action I take serves a purpose."

The words hit like a gut punch. Tanya had always talked about control, about structure. She hated unpredictability, but she still jumped headfirst into battle when it mattered. And now, because of that, she was in a hospital bed instead of sitting here with us.

He read more and more of her essay, "A berserker will tear through their allies to destroy their enemies. A hero who lacks control does not simply fail. They become the very threat they were meant to stop."

Izuku's grip tightened on the paper, and when he reached the next section, his voice grew stronger, more sure.

"It is not enough to simply defeat villains. One must ensure that their defeat does not create more problems than it solves. A true hero understands that victory is not just about winning, it is about winning in a way that upholds justice, ensures safety, and prevents further harm."

A lump rose in my throat. Tanya never let us see her struggle. Not once. Even when she was exhausted, even when we knew she was pushing too hard, she stood like nothing could touch her. Like she was invincible.

But she wasn't.

She had almost died.

Izuku's voice didn't shake anymore. He read Tanya's words with the kind of respect that bordered on reverence, like he knew how important they were.

"Heroism is more than strength. More than talent. More than ambition. It is a duty, a burden that must be carried with unwavering resolve. The world does not need reckless dreamers or selfish opportunists; it needs pillars of stability, individuals willing to sacrifice everything to ensure peace and justice prevail. What good is a hero that puts others in danger? No, a hero must not get in the way of society, but advance it."

"I will become the hero this world needs. This is my purpose. And I will see it though—no matter the cost."

Silence.

Not the awkward kind. Not the kind that comes when no one knows what to say.

This was the kind of silence that pressed down, that filled the room. The kind that made you feel something deep in your chest, even if you didn't have the words for it.

Tanya wasn't here. But in this moment, she was.

She had never felt so present.

I clutched my own essay, fingers curling around the paper. It felt small compared to what we had just heard.

Tanya had nearly lost her life for this—this idea, this belief in something greater. And now, she was lying in a hospital bed, fighting her way back.

The least we could do was live up to her words.

AN: The rewrites. Are Over.

The Pursuit of Heroism

By Tanya Yamada

[h3]The Call to Excellence[/h3]

Heroism is not about blind idealism. It is not about charging forward recklessly, nor is it about being the strongest person in the room. A hero is not simply someone who fights villains. They are the ones who bring order to chaos.

It is easy to be strong. It is much harder to be precise. Strength without control is as dangerous as the threats heroes claim to fight against. A berserker will tear through their allies to destroy their enemies. A hero who lacks control does not simply fail. They become the very threat they were meant to stop.

The world does not reward those who act without consideration. History has proven that those who leap forward without strategy, who act on emotion rather than calculation, do not last. A hero's purpose is not to fight for glory or to indulge in power. It is to ensure that when the dust settles, society is still standing.

That is why a hero must pursue excellence, not just in power but in discipline. The pursuit of heroism is not about proving oneself the strongest, the fastest, or the most talented. It is about becoming the person that others can rely on, the individual who remains steady when everything else falls apart.

[h3]The Imperative of Order[/h3]

A hero's duty is not simply to defeat villains. Victory at any cost is not victory at all. It is not enough to overpower an opponent; one must ensure that their defeat does not create more problems than it solves. A hero must act in a way that maintains stability, preventing further harm rather than causing collateral damage.

Society depends on structure. Laws exist for a reason. Heroes are not above these laws—they must embody them. A hero who disregards structure in the pursuit of personal justice is no hero at all. A hero who creates chaos under the guise of righteousness is nothing more than another problem for society to solve.

It is not enough to be powerful. A hero must be effective. A true hero understands that their role is not to impose their will upon the world, but to safeguard the systems that keep it from falling apart.

This is why heroes must train relentlessly—not just in combat, but in judgment. The power to fight means nothing without the wisdom to know when, how, and why it should be used. The ability to act must always be tempered by the responsibility to consider the consequences.

[h3]The Pursuit of Victory[/h3]

A hero's success is not defined by how many battles they win, but by what remains in the aftermath. The greatest test of a hero is not their ability to fight, but their ability to ensure that their victory leads to lasting safety.

A reckless fighter can destroy an enemy, but a true hero will ensure that destruction does not breed more enemies. A hero's role is not just to stop immediate threats, but to prevent future ones. Winning a fight means nothing if it only escalates the conflict, if it fuels resentment, or if it leaves the innocent suffering in the crossfire.

A hero must be able to look beyond the battlefield. They must think beyond the moment. It is not about proving one's own strength, nor about claiming personal victories. It is about ensuring that society as a whole is safer, stronger, and more stable than it was before.

A hero who only knows how to win fights is no hero at all. A hero must win in a way that upholds justice, ensures safety, and prevents further harm.

[h3]Conclusion: The Cost of Heroism[/h3]

Heroism is more than strength. More than talent. More than ambition. It is a duty, a burden that must be carried with unwavering resolve. The world does not need reckless dreamers or selfish opportunists; it needs pillars of stability, individuals willing to sacrifice everything to ensure peace and justice prevail.

What good is a hero that puts others in danger? No, a hero must not get in the way of society, but advance it.

Heroism is not a title. It is not a reward. It is not a privilege. It is a responsibility. It is the promise that when the worst happens, someone will be there to ensure that it does not happen again.

I will become the hero this world needs. This is my purpose. And I will see it through—no matter the cost.