The Hero Public Safety Commission had a habit of smiling through paperwork.It was the kind of smile that came with budgets attached, the kind that didn't need teeth—only results.
The boardroom on the thirtieth floor gleamed like an apology for everything it would later approve.
Holographic displays showed U.A.'s recent data: telemetry curves, behavioral markers, Quirk resonance maps.One of those lines—steady, elegant, impossible—belonged to Renya Kurotsuki.
A woman in a charcoal suit adjusted her glasses. "Subject K displays synchronized resonance with ambient emotional data across training sessions," she said, voice clean as distilled air."Not contamination. Coordination. He is not spreading energy—he's organizing it."
A man across the table raised an eyebrow. "Meaning what, exactly?"
"That the room behaves better when he's in it," she said. "Even unstable quirks show smoother control. Measurable calm."
Silence. Then another voice: "And we're worried about this because…?"
Kurobane leaned back in his chair, not smiling. "Because stability is power when it stops needing permission."
The woman glanced at him. "Agent Kurobane, your field reports show continued sympathy for Subject K. I assume you're aware the Council is moving toward Observation Tier Three."
"That's not observation," Kurobane said. "That's a leash with Wi-Fi."
She ignored the jab. "Tier Three means proximity monitoring and reactive telemetry. We'll embed sensors during the next evaluation."
Kurobane folded his hands. "If you're going to provoke him, make sure you understand what you're provoking."
"He's a student," someone said. "Not a god."
Kurobane almost smiled. "The last god I met believed that, too."
▪ U.A. — Afternoon
The announcement came during third period.An all-school evaluation—live-streamed to limited audiences, sponsored quietly by the Commission under the banner of transparency and civic engagement.
Aizawa read the memo with the stillness of someone trying to disbelieve a migraine into submission.Present Mic, peering over his shoulder, muttered, "They really said 'live feedback'? That's just 'stress test' in PR language."
Aizawa grunted. "And they added a data clause. External telemetry allowed."
"That's new," Mic said.
"That's dangerous," Aizawa corrected.
He looked across the classroom. Renya was writing quietly, black pen gliding through equations like someone making peace with math.To the untrained eye, he was fine.To Aizawa, who measured stillness the way others measured time, he was too fine.
He knew that look: students who had already decided what they would and wouldn't show.
Later, when the bell surrendered, Renya stayed behind."You read the notice," Aizawa said.
"Yes," Renya said. "Public evaluation."
"Commission's idea."
"Everything efficient is," Renya said.
"You'll be monitored," Aizawa told him. "More than usual."
Renya didn't flinch. "Good. I like audiences that lie about objectivity."
Aizawa watched him a moment longer. "If they push, don't push back. Make them think you're predictable."
Renya nodded. "Predictable things are the easiest to lose track of."
Aizawa almost smiled. "Exactly."
▪ The Commission — Evening
Kurobane stood by the window in his temporary office.From here, the city looked obedient. Streets aligned. Lights pulsed in civic rhythm.
He held a tablet that wasn't supposed to leave secure channels. On it: Renya's quirk signature, mapped against crowd emotion metrics from the last demonstration.He didn't need to read the numbers. He could feel the pattern, like a hum beneath the glass.
He set the device down, rubbed his temples, and whispered to the empty room, "They're turning you into data, kid."
A soft knock interrupted. The woman from the boardroom—Dr. Imai—entered, immaculate as punctuation."They approved the integration," she said. "Telemetry implants hidden in environment sensors. Non-invasive."
"Non-invasive," Kurobane repeated. "You mean invisible."
"If he reacts abnormally, we'll know."
Kurobane looked at her and said nothing. She took it for agreement.
When she left, he opened his ledger again and wrote:They call it safety. I call it curiosity armed with a camera.
He closed it before guilt could read over his shoulder.
▪ Renya — Night
He walked home through wind that smelled of electronics and quiet decisions.The air tasted different since the announcement—anticipation laced with rumor.
U.A. students whispered about the evaluation like it was a festival.He knew better. Festivals had winners. Evaluations had survivors.
Aki met him at the door, apron dusted with flour, eyes bright but worried."You heard?"
"Yes."
"They're broadcasting it."
"I know."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
He thought for a moment. "Attention is just another weather pattern. It passes."
She frowned. "You say that, but you hide from storms."
"Storms hide from me," he said, too quickly. Then, softer: "I'll be careful."
She set a bowl on the table. "You always are. That's what scares me."
They ate in silence, except for the hum that never truly left the apartment.The square under the table glowed with low restraint.He tapped it once, like a heartbeat of agreement, and the glow steadied.
▪ Aizawa — Midnight
His office lights were off, but he wasn't asleep.He sat by the window, watching the city's veins glow through fog.
He knew the Commission's smile; he'd seen it turn into shackles before.They didn't hate power. They hated autonomy.
He thought about his class—bright, loud, impossible—and about Renya, the quiet one whose restraint was starting to sound like a language only silence could speak.
He whispered to the darkness, "Don't make me have to protect you from the people who claim they're protecting everyone."
The darkness, polite, didn't answer.
▪ The Commission — Later That Night
Dr. Imai stood before a large display.Telemetry feeds pulsed from U.A. in real time—heartbeat overlays, temperature shifts, ambient resonance charts.She watched one line more than the others: Channel R-17.The pattern was too precise to be noise.
It rose and fell like a thought breathing.
She smiled—the small, careful smile of science discovering faith."Stability at will," she murmured. "Imagine the applications."
From the doorway, Kurobane said, "That's the problem. Everyone does."
She didn't turn. "You're afraid of what he might do."
"I'm afraid of what you'll do trying to find out," he said.
▪ Renya — Dawn
Sleep refused to be convincing, so he gave up.He sat at the edge of the bed, eyes open to a sky half-blue, half-deciding.
The whisper hadn't returned—not since the night at Ground Gamma—but its shape lingered.He could feel it whenever someone thought about him too hard.
The city hummed—buses, servers, human breath—and in that hum was something new: attention turned into architecture.
He could almost hear it: They're watching you. They think you're safe because you look contained.
He stood, exhaled, and let the square under his feet flatten to the size of a coin.Then smaller. Then gone.
"They'll measure what they can see," he said quietly. "So I'll stop being visible."
He looked toward the kitchen where Aki slept against the warmth of early light.He whispered, "You stay human for both of us."
She didn't stir, but the square near her pillow glowed once—agreement, or promise, or prayer.
▪ Kurobane — Same Morning
The meeting agenda hit his inbox at 05:00 sharp.Subject: Evaluation Oversight — Heroic Behavior Simulation.Attached: a script of questions to ask if Renya deviated from expected output.
He deleted it unread.Then he wrote a one-line message to his superior:Observation sufficient. Intervention unnecessary.
He didn't wait for the reply.
▪ U.A. — That Day
Students gathered in the courtyard, uniforms pressed by nerves.Cameras hung from drones like judgment pretending to be curiosity.
Aizawa's scarf fluttered once. "Remember—evaluation doesn't measure worth. It measures comfort with discomfort. Don't play to the cameras."
Renya stood among them, ordinary as shadow at noon.Kaminari nudged him. "Ready to be famous?"
"Fame is just surveillance with better lighting," Renya said.
Kaminari blinked. "You say the creepiest smart stuff, man."
"Occupational hazard," Renya replied.
The first drone adjusted focus.Renya exhaled.The square flickered—so faint no sensor should have noticed.
In the Commission's monitoring suite, a red indicator blinked.Dr. Imai leaned forward. "He's live."
Kurobane didn't look up from his coffee. "He's alive. Difference matters."
She smiled that practiced, bureaucratic smile—the one that gave the chapter its name."The Commission appreciates your optimism, Agent."
He looked at the screen, at the faint pulse steadying across the data field, and murmured,"It's not optimism. It's warning."
The city began to hum with cameras, curiosity, and consequence.U.A. dressed its students in purpose.The Commission adjusted its smiles into something sharper.
And far below all that noise, in a rhythm too small to chart, something ancient practiced patience.
Because power didn't need to speak to be heard.It only needed the silence to listen.