The next morning breaks gray, the kind of color that makes you forget the sun exists.U.A. stands quiet, soaked in fog, its towers blurred against the sky.
Aizawa doesn't show for class. Word spreads fast — emergency meeting, Commission interference, something about "license discrepancies." The teachers whisper; the students speculate.
I don't ask. I already know who it's about.
Training is cancelled, so the class drifts — some to study rooms, some to the cafeteria, others to gossip. I stay behind in the gym, sitting on the cold floor, breathing evenly. The stillness feels earned.
Footsteps echo from the entrance.Bakugo appears first — fire-eyed, always moving like the world owes him space. "So," he says, "what's your deal, anyway?"
"Meaning?"
"You show up outta nowhere, no registration, no Quirk type, no records. You throw air like it owes you rent. You think that's not suspicious?"
"Everything's suspicious when you can't control it."
He smirks. "You're not scared of me."
"Should I be?"
That almost makes him laugh. "You talk big, but I can smell it — you hold back. Why?"
"Because you're not my enemy."
That stops him. His grin fades. For a heartbeat, there's something like understanding — a warrior recognizing another who's been through a different kind of war.
Then he snorts and turns away. "Whatever. Just don't get in my way when the real fights start."
He leaves. The echo of his footsteps lingers long after he's gone.
Later, I find Midoriya in the common room, surrounded by open notebooks and too much caffeine. His handwriting's a storm of arrows and diagrams — everything from quirk mechanics to movement analysis.
"You document everything?" I ask.
He looks up, startled. "Oh— uh, yeah! Helps me learn. Helps me remember."
"Remember what?"
"Everyone," he says simply. "Their moves, their habits, their limits. It's important to know people, not just fight them."
He offers a sheepish grin. "You probably think that's weird."
"No," I say. "It's human."
He studies me for a moment. "Do you… remember people? From before?"
"Yes."
I don't tell him how many are gone.
Midoriya nods, maybe understanding more than he should. "If you ever want to be part of this — really part of it — you'll have to let people remember you, too."
"Names are weight," I say quietly. "They bind you."
"Yeah," he replies, "but they keep you from disappearing."
Afternoon.The sky clears halfway, sunlight cutting through the fog like slow knives. I walk the perimeter of the training field, tracing its edges. The air carries the faint tang of ozone from yesterday's test.
Voices drift across the grounds — snippets of ordinary conversation, laughter, irritation. Small lives, full of small storms.
I find Uraraka balancing on the training bars, her hair catching light. She waves when she sees me. "Arashi! You're hard to find."
"I move where it's quiet."
She hops down, brushing dust from her gloves. "You're like Aizawa — always brooding. You even talk like him."
"Bad influence, maybe."
She laughs. "He says you're doing well. That's rare praise."
"Or warning."
Her smile falters slightly. "You don't trust anyone, do you?"
"Trust is a luxury I ran out of."
She studies me for a moment, then says, "Then start small. Trust that we're trying, at least."
Her simplicity disarms me more than any fight could.She jogs back toward the dorms, leaving her words behind like a note I didn't ask for.
Evening.The fog returns, heavier. The air feels different — thick with pressure that isn't weather.I sense it before I see it: surveillance. The faint hum of a drone's rotors, disguised under wind.
I look up.A shadow perches on the roofline — humanoid, not machine. Watching. Waiting.
I focus, the world narrowing to heartbeat and breath. The storm under my skin stirs, alive, ready.The figure moves — just enough for me to glimpse the insignia on their arm: Hero Public Safety Commission.
"Persistent," I murmur.
A voice filters down, distorted by a voice modulator. "Kazen Arashi. You're still off the record. You can make this easier."
"Easier for who?"
"For everyone."
"Then tell 'everyone' to stop sending hunters."
Silence. Then: "You're being given a chance to cooperate."
"And if I don't?"
The figure hesitates. I already know the answer. They fade into the mist, gone before I can blink. But the tension lingers, like an aftertaste of fear left in the air.
Hours later, I sit on the dorm roof, knees drawn up, coat brushing against the cold tiles. The city stretches below, quiet and vast.Aizawa's voice joins me from behind. "They came again."
"You knew?"
"I always know."
He drops beside me, tired but alert. "Nezu's buying time with paperwork, but the Commission won't stop. You've become an argument they can't afford to lose."
"And you?"
"I don't care about their politics. I care about results."
"You sound like them."
"I sound like a man who's trying to protect his students from the system that made him tired."
He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to.
We sit in silence for a while. The lights below flicker; somewhere far off, a train hums across the horizon.
"Do you ever regret it?" I ask.
"Teaching?"
"Choosing this life."
A pause. "Every day. But I'd regret walking away more."
His answer lodges somewhere between respect and pity.
He stands. "Get some sleep, Arashi. Tomorrow's another test."
"Of control?"
"Of choice," he says, walking off into the dark.
The fog thickens as night deepens. I stay a while longer, watching the slow heartbeat of the city.
People. Names. Memories.Things I swore I'd stop collecting.But they're already taking root here, whether I want them or not.
"Names worth remembering," I whisper, trying the phrase out loud. "That's how it starts, isn't it?"
The wind moves against my palm, warm, almost human.
Below, the Commission's drones trace faint red circles through the fog. Watching. Recording. Waiting.
I let them watch.
Because sooner or later, they'll have to learn — the harder you try to contain the air, the faster it slips through your fingers.