I lived in a small studio apartment—barely enough space for one person, but it was mine. The layout was simple: a closet to store my clothes and bedding, a single room that served as both bedroom and kitchen, and a tiny bathroom tucked off to the side. There was no real furniture. Just a neatly folded Japanese futon I rolled out each night, and a worn rug where I'd sit to eat or greet the cold floor in the mornings.
I didn't have much, but I'd learned to make do. I spent only on what was necessary—food, toiletries, a few school supplies here and there. I wasn't being frugal out of habit; I was being careful. I had no one else to rely on.
I'd come from the orphanage, having lost my parents when I was around a year and a half old. I didn't remember them—just their names and a blurry warmth that I sometimes convinced myself was real. Even so, I still had their last name: Moshizuki. It felt too formal, too heavy, so I usually just told people to call me Emi. Few ever got close enough for names or honorifics to matter anyway.
When I reached middle school, I applied for a sponsorship program—one that helped orphans aiming to be heroes. If accepted, the program would provide small stipends and housing support, but there were conditions: maintain good grades, perform well on fitness assessments, and keep a clean record. Only students who showed promise were considered.
I was one of the lucky ones. Or maybe I was just determined enough to seem promising.
Becoming a hero wasn't a dream to me. It was a purpose.
I wanted to save people—not just from villains, but from the feeling of being lost, unwanted, or invisible. I wanted to be the person I'd needed when I was a child. A role model. A light at the end of the alleyway. I wanted to prove that no matter where you came from—no family, no money, no title—you could still become someone important.
I remember walking to and from school as a kid, passing store windows with old TVs playing the news. I'd stop every time when the broadcast showed pro-heroes swooping in to save the day. It never got old.
Heroes didn't care about status or background. They saved everyone. And I wanted to be one of them.
Not for fame. Not for recognition. But for the little kid standing alone in front of a convenience store window, believing—even for a second—that someone like me could grow up to be strong enough to save the world.
Maybe one day I will.
The gates to U.A. loomed over Emi, blinking her pink eyes at the building, like a towering promise. Or maybe a warning. Either way, it made her stomach twist. Not from fear—she was past that. This was what she'd worked for. Every sleepless night, every lonely walk home from training, every carefully rationed meal so she could save enough for support gear—it was all for this moment.
She took a deep breath. Her blonde hair blew in the wind in her low pigtails she always wore, the air smelled clean, crisp, and heavy with potential.
Around her, the other examinees buzzed with nervous excitement. Some in groups, some alone. She moved with quiet focus, hand brushing the strap of her support gear bag slung over her shoulder, gaze scanning the crowd.
That's when she saw him.
He stood near the side, arms crossed, expression set in a scowl. Ash-blond hair spiked out wildly like a flame refusing to be tamed. His red eyes swept over the crowd like they were all beneath him. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The way people kept a few paces of distance from him said everything.
Bakugo Katsuki, she realized. She'd heard his name in middle school gossip, even from the more serious kids who didn't normally care about that stuff. They went to the same school but was in a different class than him. Supposedly a powerhouse. Ruthless. Explosive—in every way.
Their eyes met, briefly. Emi gave a polite nod.
He didn't return it.
His gaze slid past her like she wasn't even worth acknowledging.
Huh, she thought, not offended, just amused. Guess I know where I stand.
Still, her gaze lingered a moment longer. There was something about him—something raw. Untouched. A furnace burning behind his scowl.
Then she turned and walked through the gates.
⸻
The auditorium hummed with the voices of dozens of students. Emi sat quietly near the middle, fingers resting on her lap as she listened to Present Mic's animated explanation of the exam. Her eyes flicked across the rows in front of her until she spotted Bakugo again—sprawled in his seat like he owned the place, chin tilted high, lips curled in a half-snarl of impatience.
He looked like someone who knew he'd already won.
Cocky, she thought. But maybe he's earned it.
"…an error? That's shocking coming from such a prestigious school!" a boy with glasses suddenly called out, his arm shooting up as he interrupted the presentation.
Present Mic smoothly ignored him and kept going. Emi didn't speak up—she never did, unless she needed to. But she was taking everything in, calculating, focused. This wasn't just an exam. It was her chance to change everything.
⸻
Practical Exam – Battle Center B
The gates to the mock city slammed open.
"GO GO GO!" Present Mic's voice rang out, and the mass of examinees surged forward like a flood.
Emi ran silently, arms pumping, breath steady. She broke off from the main group quickly, using bursts of compressed wind from her hands to speed up her movement. She kicked off the ground and launched herself upward, flipping into the air with a controlled twist of wind.
A mid-size robot appeared ahead—three wheels, two arms, and a glowing sensor eye.
She didn't hesitate.
"Gale Breaker!"
A sharp burst of air slammed into the bot's side, knocking it off balance. She dashed in low, hand flicking out to unleash another gust that snapped its sensor right off. Sparks flew. One down.
Nearby, explosions cracked through the air like thunder.
She turned just in time to see Bakugo leap from a rooftop, hand outstretched. A fiery blast erupted from his palm, blowing a robot's head clean off. He landed with a roll, came up snarling, and blasted the next one without missing a beat.
He didn't see her.
Or maybe he did and just didn't care.
Their paths crossed a few minutes later—briefly. Emi landed near a cluster of bots, dispatched one with a twirl of wind and a spinning kick, only to turn and nearly crash into someone else mid-strike.
Bakugo.
They both stopped short, standing a few feet apart, surrounded by smoking metal.
He gave her a look—sharp and dismissive. "Tch. Stay outta my way, weakling."
Emi blinked, startled by the hostility. Not hurt, just… surprised. "I didn't realize the battlefield belonged to you."
He didn't answer. Just turned, blasted off with a BOOM of air, and left her in the dust.
Rude, she thought, but a small part of her was… intrigued.
There was no denying his skill. But she'd be damned if she let him walk all over her.
⸻
The dust had settled. The zero-point robot had come and gone, and Emi had avoided being crushed by sheer instinct and air pressure alone. She'd seen some kids rise to the challenge and others panic. She held her own—not flashy, but effective.
As the examinees left the testing site, Emi spotted Bakugo again in the crowd. He walked with the same intense scowl he always had, hands shoved in his pockets. A few students glanced at him warily. He ignored them all.
He didn't look at her.
Emi exhaled, letting her muscles relax for the first time in hours. She felt sore, but solid. Not victorious, but hopeful.
If he gets in, I'll deal with him. If I get in… I'll make sure he remembers my name.
The envelope was heavier than she expected.
Emi sat cross-legged on her futon, still in her school sweats, the familiar quiet of her tiny apartment wrapping around her like a blanket. She held the letter in her hands, fingers curled tightly around the edges. Her heart hadn't stopped racing since the mail slot clattered earlier that afternoon.
The U.A. stamp glared back at her like a challenge.
She didn't open it right away. She breathed.
And then, carefully, she slid her thumb beneath the seal.
The letter unfolded, and a small disk slid out and clinked gently onto the floor. She blinked, then picked it up.
The disk clicked. A moment later, it lit up.
"YO!" boomed a familiar, energetic voice. "This is Present Mic comin' at you with some awesome news, Emi Moshizuki!"
She stared, wide-eyed. The image of Present Mic winked into existence in midair, glitchy but full of personality.
"You kicked some serious tail in that entrance exam, kid! That wind Quirk of yours? Flashy and smart! Your mobility, control, and use of the environment were top-tier!" He held up a dramatic scoreboard behind him. Her name sat proudly in third place for the practical exam.
Emi Moshizuki – 3rd Place.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Not only did you wipe out the bots like a pro," he went on, "but you also scored high in rescue evaluations—supporting injured students while still staying active in the battle zone. You showed solid judgment and control under pressure."
Then his expression softened, just slightly.
"You're the kind of student we're proud to accept into U.A.'s Hero Course. Congratulations!"
The recording ended. The disk blinked off and went silent.
Emi didn't move at first.
She looked at the scoreboard again.
Third.
Only two people ranked above her—and judging by the explosion she saw during the exam, she had a pretty good guess who was in first. Still, third place. Out of hundreds of examinees.
A slow smile curved on her lips. Not loud, not boastful. Just… proud.
She whispered to herself, "I did it."
⸻
Elsewhere…
In a nice house across town, Bakugo Katsuki stared at his letter.
He was first. Of course he was.
He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Third place had caught his attention.
Emi Moshizuki, the name read. He remembered her wind Quirk. Controlled, efficient. She didn't hesitate. Didn't panic. And—unlike most—she didn't fawn over him or cower.
Hmph. He scoffed under his breath.
We'll see if she can keep up.