Morning settles over Musutafu like a veil of pale gold. The city hums with purpose — cars, chatter, advertisements shouting promises from walls — but all that energy fades at the edge of the hill where U.A. High stands.
The building is clean lines and wide glass, everything about it deliberate. A place designed to tell the world: order lives here.
I stop at the gate. Wind brushes against the metal, carrying the scent of ozone from the barriers that guard the campus. Even the air feels trained.
Two guards glance up from their posts. One squints at the clipboard in his hand, the other pretends not to stare. The first clears his throat. "Name?"
"Kazen Arashi."
His expression freezes for a fraction of a second. Recognition or warning — I can't tell. He waves to a second security point. "Mr. Aizawa will meet you at the courtyard."
I nod and step through.
The walk is long, quiet except for the soft rhythm of my steps on the stone path. Everything here feels distant — trimmed grass, walls painted too bright, students' laughter spilling from open windows like a language I've forgotten how to speak.
Aizawa waits near the fountain. His scarf moves slightly in the morning air; his hair is tied back, his eyes half hidden behind exhaustion.
"You came," he says simply.
"You made it sound like a choice."
"That's the trick," he replies, starting to walk. "We pretend it is."
We pass a group of students training on an open field. One boy propels himself forward with explosions from his hands; another hardens his skin to steel. Their energy is raw, messy, alive. They look at me as I pass — some curious, others cautious.
Aizawa notices the glances but says nothing. "They'll stare. You're new, older, and unregistered. To them, that's three reasons to watch."
"Do they always look at strangers like prey?"
"Only until they realize who the hunter is."
Inside, the air shifts from sunlight to artificial brightness. The halls smell faintly of polish and electricity. Posters line the walls — smiling faces, slogans about justice, courage, teamwork.
All words I've heard before in another lifetime, wearing a different uniform.
Aizawa stops outside a glass room. "The principal wants to see you."
"Nezu."
He nods once. "Don't underestimate him. He smiles, but he measures everything."
The door slides open. The scent of tea greets me first — floral, calm, almost mocking. Behind a wide desk sits a small, white-furred creature with round ears and intelligent eyes. He looks at me like a scientist observing an anomaly.
"Ah," he says in a cheerful voice that doesn't match the weight behind his gaze. "You must be Mr. Arashi."
"You must be the one who runs this place."
Nezu laughs softly. "Run? No. I guide. U.A. runs on its own spirit."
His words are kind, but his tone is that of someone who has already read the ending and is watching it unfold. "Aizawa speaks highly of your restraint. That's rare for someone with… your reputation."
"I don't have one."
"Not officially," Nezu replies, eyes glinting. "The Commission keeps its records locked tight. But we both know a secret only stays quiet until someone decides it's worth shouting."
He pours tea into two cups, gestures to the chair opposite. I sit. The chair is too small; the gesture is intentional.
Nezu continues, "You understand why we're cautious. Power without registration is… unsettling. But Aizawa insists you're not a threat."
"He's wrong," I say.
The principal pauses mid-sip. "Oh?"
"I am a threat. Just not to you."
Aizawa's brow tightens, but Nezu smiles wider. "Honesty. How refreshing."
He leans forward, folding small paws together. "Then tell me, Mr. Arashi — why come here?"
"To stop being hunted."
"By the Commission?"
"By everyone who thinks they can own me."
The room stills. The hum of electronics seems louder for a moment before Nezu nods slowly. "You seek freedom, then."
"I seek silence."
"Silence is expensive here," he murmurs. "But perhaps we can bargain."
The meeting drifts between questions and evaluations — origin, ability, temperament. I offer truths selectively, half answers that sound complete. Nezu listens with patient delight, as though every lie is another piece of an interesting puzzle.
When it ends, he sets down his cup. "I'll allow your entry. Not as a student yet, but as an observer. Aizawa will oversee your integration."
"Integration?"
"You'll train, watch, learn. The Commission believes control is ownership. We prefer to teach control as discipline."
Aizawa sighs. "Translation: you're being tested."
"By who?"
"Everyone," Nezu says pleasantly. "But mostly yourself."
The courtyard again. Students swarm the grounds, laughter bouncing off walls. Aizawa walks beside me, scarf dragging behind him like fatigue made tangible.
"You didn't tell him everything," he says.
"Would you?"
"No. But Nezu already knows what you didn't say."
"Then why let me in?"
"Because he wants to see what you do when given permission to exist."
We reach the edge of the training field. The air is thick with energy — quirks activating, the metallic scent of ozone, the echo of impact. It feels alive, chaotic, unrefined.
A girl with pink hair and goggles waves cheerfully from across the field. A boy with spiky blond hair glares at me like he's already chosen rivalry. I recognize none of them, but they all fit the same mold — young, ambitious, desperate to prove they belong.
Aizawa's voice pulls me back. "If you stay, they'll test you. If you leave, the Commission will follow. Either way, you're in someone's sight."
"Then I'll move faster than they can look."
He almost smiles. "You'll fit right in."
Evening arrives slow and amber. From the dorm balcony, I watch the horizon bleed color into shadow. The city below glows like veins beneath skin.
For the first time since awakening in this world, I feel something close to stillness. Not peace — just the pause between storms that doesn't yet have a name.
The laughter of students drifts upward from the courtyard, the sound of a life I once thought impossible.
I close my eyes. The wind brushes my face, carrying the faint smell of metal and rain — like the memory of the sea.
"Let's see," I whisper, "what kind of world you've built behind your walls."
Behind me, somewhere far off, alarms ring faintly in the city — sharp and brief, swallowed by distance.Even here, the world never really stops moving.