The envelope was plain—white, thin, and unassuming.
Satoru found it on the dining table after school. No gold trim, no seal, just his name typed cleanly across the front: Kojima Satoru.
He stared at it for a long moment, then picked it up with both hands.
It was lighter than he expected.
---
Keiko came home to find him sitting at the table, the letter unopened.
"You gonna read it?"
He didn't look up. "Already know what it says."
She frowned. "Don't be dramatic. You put in a lot of work."
"I'm quirkless."
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Still. You tried."
He opened the envelope slowly, deliberately. Slipped out the folded letter inside and scanned it in silence.
His eyes didn't even reach the second paragraph.
"We regret to inform you..."
He stopped reading.
---
He didn't say anything at dinner. Their mom noticed, of course. She always did.
"Rough day, sweetheart?"
He nodded.
She offered a soft smile. "Not every flower blooms in spring."
He looked down at his rice.
"I wasn't expecting a miracle," he murmured.
"But you were hoping," Keiko said gently.
He didn't answer.
---
That night, he sat in his room, knees pulled to his chest.
He'd trained. Studied. Sacrificed time and sleep. Learned everything he could about rescue tactics, patrol etiquette, basic self-defense. He'd mapped traffic patterns, studied field medicine, and pushed his body until it broke.
He thought—maybe, just maybe—that effort would be enough.
It wasn't.
He wasn't.
---
But instead of tearing the letter, he folded it back up neatly.
Slid it into a clear sleeve in his notebook.
On the page beside it, he wrote:
> "March 28th U.A. result: rejected. Reason: no quirk."
He stared at the words. Then, under it:
> "So what now?"
His hand hovered for a while.
Then, in slower strokes:
> "Train smarter. Keep studying. Find another way."
---
The next morning, he woke up at dawn.
His body felt heavy. His heart, heavier.
But he put on his shoes anyway. Grabbed his notebook. Went jogging.
Two blocks. Then three.
Still winded. Still aching.
But still moving.
---
Later that afternoon, he sat outside the library with a stack of books beside him.
One of them had a section on historical vigilantes—those who operated outside the system but helped all the same.
He read the chapter twice.
Then opened his notebook again.
> "There are heroes who never went to U.A. There are paths they don't teach."
He underlined it.
Twice.