"Are you sure you have everything?" Mom asked for the fourth time as I adjusted my tie in the hallway mirror.
"Yes, Mom."
"Notebooks? Pens? Lunch?"
"All accounted for."
"What about your phone? And your emergency contact card? And—"
"Mom." I turned to face her, catching the worry lines creasing around her eyes. "I'm seventeen, not seven. I can handle one day of school."
My little disappearing act two days ago had really done a number on her. When I'd finally gotten home, she'd been pacing the living room like a caged animal, probably five minutes away from filing a missing person's report. The guilt hit me harder than I'd expected—seeing her that scared over someone like me.
Today was Monday morning, school started in thirty minutes, and I'd spent the better part of an hour convincing her I could find my way without a chauffeur. Having your parent drop you off on the first day? Unless you rolled up in a luxury car, that was social suicide. I may have been mentally older, but I still had to live in this seventeen-year-old body surrounded by teenagers.
The irony wasn't lost on me—going from college-level coursework back to junior high felt like the universe's idea of a cruel joke.
She bit her lip. "I know, I just... this is your first day back in a normal routine. What if something happens? What if you have a panic attack? What if someone recognizes you from the news and—"
"Then I'll handle it." I squeezed her shoulder. "And if I can't, I'll call you. Deal?"
She took a shaky breath and nodded. "Okay. But promise me you'll be careful. And if anyone gives you trouble—"
"I'll handle it responsibly. No unnecessary violence, no showing off, no drawing attention to myself."
"Good boy." She smoothed down my collar even though it was already perfect. "I'm proud of you for doing this. I know it can't be easy."
She was right about that. Walking into a classroom full of teenagers who'd known each other for years, being the odd one out, pretending to be someone I wasn't sure I'd ever been—the whole thing made my stomach churn. But it was necessary. I needed normalcy, a paper trail, and preparation time for the U.A. entrance exam. Plus, Mom clearly needed to see me living like a normal teenager instead of wandering around like some vigilante vagrant.
After another round of lectures and approximately fifty photos with her ancient camera—me in my school uniform, wearing an expression that screamed 'literally anywhere else would be better'—she finally let me escape.
"My son's first day back at school!" she'd said through happy tears, snapping yet another picture. "I need to document everything!"
"See you tonight, Mom."
"Have a wonderful day, sweetheart!"
The walk to Aldera Junior High took fifteen minutes through quiet suburban streets lined with small houses and convenience stores. It was the kind of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else's business, which explained the curious stares from people watering their gardens or walking their dogs. Great. More attention.
Aldera itself was a modest three-story building with a small courtyard and the kind of worn-down charm that screamed 'decades of budget cuts.' Students in navy blazers clustered around the entrance—some laughing and chatting with easy familiarity, others looking like they'd rather be literally anywhere else.
What struck me most was the diversity. Weird hair colors, unusual eye shapes, strange skin textures, faces that defied conventional anatomy. I was pretty sure I spotted someone with tentacles for arms having a completely normal conversation about weekend plans. No room for traditional prejudices here, I guess.
I took a deep breath. "Well, no point standing here all day."
The hallways were controlled chaos. Students rushed past in clusters, their voices creating a constant buzz of conversation. Lockers slammed, teachers shouted reminders about assignments, and somewhere in the distance, someone was getting scolded for running.
The main office was easy to find—just follow the signs and trail of harried-looking staff. A middle-aged woman with wire-rimmed glasses looked up as I approached.
"You must be Takumi-san," she said with a practiced smile. "I'm Mrs. Sato, the vice principal. We spoke with your mother yesterday."
"That's right. Thank you for the late registration accommodation."
"Not a problem. Given your unique circumstances, we're happy to help." She handed me a thick folder. "Schedule, school map, locker assignment, student handbook. You'll be in Class 3-B with Mr. Hayashi."
I flipped through the schedule. Standard stuff—Mathematics, Japanese Literature, English, Science, Social Studies, Physical Education. They'd placed me in advanced sections for most subjects.
"Your mother mentioned you were academically ahead before your absence," Mrs. Sato continued. "We've placed you with the graduating class. If the material is too easy or difficult, please let us know."
"I'm sure it'll be fine."
After getting directions to my homeroom, I made my way through hallways that were filling with students. Curious glances and whispered conversations followed me, but I kept my expression neutral. Just another new kid, nothing to see here.
Room 3-B was on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard. I paused outside the door, took a breath, and knocked.
"Come in!"
Mr. Hayashi was a thin man in his forties with tired eyes that suggested years of dealing with teenagers. He looked up from his desk as I entered.
"Ah, Takumi-san. Right on time. Class, we have a new student joining us today."
Twenty-plus pairs of eyes turned to stare at me. Fantastic.
"This is Takumi Rei," Mr. Hayashi continued. "He'll be finishing out the year with us before moving on to high school. Please make him feel welcome. Would you like to introduce yourself?"
I stepped forward, scanning the faces. Most were unfamiliar, but two stood out immediately.
In the middle section, looking like he wanted to disappear into his chair, was Izuku Midoriya. Green eyes wide with what looked like shock.
And two seats in front of him, slouched with his feet up on his desk like he owned the place, was Katsuki Bakugo. His red eyes were locked on me with an intensity that could melt steel.
*Well, this should be interesting.*
"I'm Takumi Rei," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I'm seventeen, which I know is old for this grade, but I've been away for a while. I like music, writing, movies, and food. I hate loud noises, bullies, and people who think they're hot shit because they won the genetic lottery. Questions?"
A girl in the front row raised her hand. "Where were you? If you don't mind me asking."
"Family issues kept me away from school. But I'm back now."
Not technically a lie.
"Any other questions?" Hayashi asked.
Several hands shot up.
"What's your quirk?"
"Are you single?" This earned giggles and a raised eyebrow from the teacher.
"You look older than seventeen. Is that quirk-related?"
Before I could answer any of them, a voice cut through the chatter like a thunderclap.
"YOU!"
Every conversation died instantly. Students twisted in their seats to look between Bakugo and me like they were watching a bomb about to explode.
Which they probably were.
Katsuki Bakugo had shot to his feet so fast his chair clattered to the floor. His palms were already crackling with small explosions, his face a mask of disbelief and rising fury.
I smiled politely. "Hi, neighbor. Long time no see. About eighty-six hours, give or take?"
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
"Transferring in. Didn't you hear the teacher?" I glanced at Mr. Hayashi, who looked like he was reconsidering his career choices. "This is Class 3-B, right? Or did I accidentally walk into fight club?"
"You—! You can't be here!"
"Why not? Public school, last I checked."
"This is MY school! MY class!" He jabbed a finger at me. "You're supposed to be anywhere but here!"
"Wow. And people say I have a god complex."
A few students choked on their laughter. Even Midoriya looked like he was fighting a smile.
"Bakugo!" Mr. Hayashi snapped. "Sit down and stop shouting!"
"Like hell! This guy—he's—!"
"Here to attend school," I cut in smoothly. "Look, I know it's shocking that someone as amazing as me would share a classroom with mere mortals, but let's try to keep the explosions metaphorical."
Bakugo's hands sparked violently. "I swear, if you open your mouth one more time—"
"You'll what? Throw a tantrum? Blow up a desk? Tank your GPA?"
"You bastard!"
"Bakugo!" Hayashi's voice cracked like a whip. "One more outburst and you're getting detention before the day even starts."
Bakugo looked ready to argue—his jaw clenched, fingers twitching—but years of barely restrained self-control won out. With a growl that belonged in a zoo, he yanked his chair upright and slammed into it, arms crossed, eyes burning holes in my skull.
"Fine. But I'm watching you, Takumi."
I made my way to an empty seat—conveniently located right behind him. "Right back at you, Sparky."
The class lost it. Even the serious types couldn't hold back anymore. Mr. Hayashi massaged his temples like he felt a migraine forming.
"This is going to be a long semester," he muttered.
I dropped into my seat and pulled out my notebook, casually ignoring the death glare burning into my back. From my right came a whispered voice.
"Ken—uh, Takumi?" Midoriya hissed, trying not to draw attention. "You're really in our class?"
I gave him a subtle thumbs-up.
"Holy crap," he breathed. "This year's going to be insane."
He wasn't wrong.
---
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