Here I am.
Standing at the gates of U.A. University, the most prestigious hero school in the country. No, not just the country. The whole damn world. The media calls it a beacon of justice. A cradle for the heroes of the future, and a PR factory for the politicians.
For me, it's a means to an end.
The campus loomed over me like a fortress—sleek towers of reinforced glass, automated surveillance drones humming overhead, everything screaming wealth, power, and control. You could practically smell the funding in the air.
What I was looking at now? This was just the tip of the iceberg. The shiny facade for tourists and journalists. The real testing grounds—the combat zones, the training facilities—those were buried deep within the guts of the university.
I stepped forward, the main building's automated doors sliding open with a hiss.
Inside, it was all polished marble floors and sleek lighting.
At the security checkpoint, I handed over my high school ID and my exam ticket. The attendant scanned my exam ticket with a blink of red light and carefully looked at my high school ID before nodding me through.
Examinee No. 1548.
Thousands of applicants for the Hero Course, and yet not even a hundred of them would make the cut.
I was assigned to Testing Room 204. The second floor. The written exam comes first, and the practical exam would be later. Makes sense. Sort the thinkers from the meatheads before some dumbass trips over their own shoelaces and splits their skull.
I made my way upstairs, passing clusters of examinees on the way. Some carried themselves with confidence. Others faked it with twitchy grins and loud laughter. None of them mattered. They were just a group of faces I'd forget before lunch.
Room 204.
I opened the door and walked in without ceremony.
White walls with rows of desks arranged in a strict grid. Each desk had a number and a nameplate. No personalization or room for any distractions.
I found my spot in the center seat of the fourth row and sat down. A black pen and a mechanical pencil had been laid out for each of us.
Around me sat losers who couldn't even control their own nerves.
Girl with electric-blue hair in front of me? Tapping her foot under the desk. Anxiety. Antler boy to the right? fiddling with his collar like it's choking him. Panic response. To my left? Some poor bastard already half-soaked through his shirt, gripping the pen like it was going to run away from him. Desperation.
They were all terrified.
I wasn't.
The proctor shuffled in, some bureaucratic stiff in a wrinkled suit and a burnt-out stare. Might even be a washout who failed the Hero Course ten years ago and never got over it.
The papers were passed out. Thin booklets, stapled in the top corner. There were only ten questions, each of them asking you to write answers in and justify it.
And as I read the first few, I saw it for what it was.
It wasn't a test of knowledge. They weren't asking what I knew, they were asking who I was. Or at least, who I could pretend to be.
As I skinned the rest of the questions, I could already hear the answers they wanted: self-sacrifice, empathy, duty, accountability.
I could give them everything they wanted, but that would be too perfect, and they'd figure out that I was acting.
My lips curved upward as I started jotting down answers. I could feel the atmosphere in the room shift—pens scratching, breaths held, chairs creaking under pressure.
But not mine.
My hand moved steady, deliberate.
What does being a "Hero" mean to you?
Being a hero means choosing to bear weight no one else can carry: responsibility, consequence, and the risk of failure. A hero stands in the gap between chaos and peace, and doesn't flinch. It's not about glory. It's about resolve, the determination to protect, to act, and to keep standing even when no one's watching.
If you saw a villain escaping while civilians were in danger nearby, what would you do?
I'd go after the villain. If I let them escape, they'll just hurt more people later, maybe even kill. Stopping them now prevents future casualties, and that matters more than reacting emotionally in the moment. I trust that the civilians nearby aren't helpless, and if I can neutralize the threat quickly, I'm saving lives beyond just the ones in front of me. One move now can stop a hundred problems later.
You're rescuing civilians in a burning building. You can save three people in one room or one child trapped in another. Who do you choose and why?
The child. It's not even a question. You see a kid alone in a burning room, crying for help, and your body just moves. Instinct kicks in. You don't think in numbers. You think in urgency, in innocence. That kid hasn't even had a chance to live yet. If I can give them that chance, I will. Every time.
You're chasing a villain who just injured your friend. If you catch them, do you prioritize capture or revenge?
Revenge would be the first thing on my mind. I'd want to hurt the villain. But that's why I'd focus on capture. Because justice isn't served through rage. Revenge doesn't make anyone safer. Getting the villain off the streets does. I'd do what's necessary. And save the satisfaction for later.
What motivates you to become a Hero, even knowing the risks?
Admiration. I want to be someone that people look up to. Someone they talk about, remember, follow. I won't pretend it's purely selfless, because I think part of being a hero is being seen. And I want to be seen doing something great.
Name a Pro Hero you admire and explain what you would learn from them.
Eraser Head. He's the opposite of the type of hero that I want to be, but that's not a bad thing. He doesn't chase fame. He acts decisively, even when no one thanks him. From him, I'd learn the value of presence—how to control a situation without dominating it. How to turn logic into power.
When you imagine failing as a Hero, what does that failure look like to you?
Losing a fight I should have won, and people getting hurt because of it. That's what terrifies me. That my miscalculation, my arrogance, or my hesitation could cost lives. Not my pain. Theirs.
What would you do if, one day, the world decided you weren't a good hero—even if you kept saving people?
I'd ignore them. The crowd doesn't define the truth. They'll cheer one day, crucify the next. I'd prove them wrong, not by yelling louder, but by being undeniable. I'd keep doing my job, better than before. Let the work speak for itself. Sooner or later, they'd have to acknowledge it, even if they hate me for it.
When you picture yourself saving someone, what do you hope they'll feel?
Relief. Safely. Awe. I want them to breathe again because I showed up. I want them to look at me and realize they were never really in danger. I want to be unforgettable, not just because I saved them. I want my presence to make the fear vanish.
What kind of legacy do you want to leave behind as a Hero?
I want to be remembered long after I'm gone. More than just respected—revered. A legend people whisper about. I don't want to match All Might, I want to surpass him. I want to be the kind of hero that future heroes model themselves after.
I capped the pen with a quiet click and leaned back, hands folded, eyes drifting up to the ceiling.
Let them read that. Let them think about what kind of person they just got a glimpse of.
Not perfect. Not pure.
But unforgettable.