I stop in front of the doors of the building. My legs feel like lead, and my right eye twitches uncontrollably the more I think about the next couple of hours.
Kindergarten.
I actually have to go back to kindergarten.
The word alone makes me want to throw myself into oncoming traffic.
I glance back toward Inko, who's sitting in that same beat-up green car, waving like she's sending me off to war. Her face is bright with that kind of energy only morning people and liars have. I can see her mouthing, You can do this! like I'm about to face the final boss instead of a room full of toddlers.
Her enthusiasm's sweet, really. Misguided, but sweet. She probably thinks I'm nervous about being teased for being quirkless. Which, sure, makes sense… if I were actually five.
But that version of Izuku Midoriya's gone. Dead. Dissolved. Overwritten. Whatever word makes it sound least horrifying.
No, my legs are heavy for an entirely different reason.
I hate kids.
Like, deeply. Existentially. They're tiny, sticky agents of chaos. Loud. Gross. Prone to spontaneous crying. And apparently immune to the concept of volume control.
I tried to convince Inko to let me stay home "for recovery." You know, to "process my diagnosis." But apparently when a normally hyper-social child suddenly turns introverted overnight, that's a red flag. She started hovering, worried I'd fallen into depression.
So here I am, being marched back into hell.
The kindergarten doors loom over me, painted bright yellow with a rainbow arching across the top. The sign reads MUSUTAFU KINDERGARTEN in bubbly letters, each one mocking me like it knows exactly how much I hate this.
I sigh, adjust my tiny backpack, and step inside.
The smell of crayons, floor polish, and faint despair fills my nose.
It's all painfully familiar. This classroom. These walls. These tiny cubbies with each kid's name written in bubble letters. Izuku Midoriya, my name now, scrawled in messy handwriting on the third one from the left.
The door slides open, and immediately a chorus of shrieks hits me.
"Deku!"
Oh god, they call me that even now.
A group of kids swarm me like I've just returned from war. A boy with black hair and round glasses waves excitedly, another with messy brown hair shouts something about crayons, and one small girl tugs on my sleeve, babbling about her new pencil case.
I plaster on a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Uh… hey, everyone."
"Where were you yesterday?" one kid asks.
"Sick," I lie easily. "Had a bad case of existential dread. Very contagious."
He tilts his head. "Huh?"
"Nothing. Wash your hands."
Before I can escape, the teacher, Miss Arai if stolen memory serves, walks over. She's exactly like I thought she'd look. The more time I spend in this world the more I suddenly remember things but it's never a full thought. Always hazy. She greets me with a warm smile. "Good morning, Izuku! Feeling better today?"
"Yeah," I say. "Good as new."
"Wonderful! Everyone was worried about you."
I doubt that, but sure.
The morning starts off the same as always(?): introductions we've probably all done a dozen times, name tags shaped like stars, and a song about sharing that makes me want to lie down and stop existing.
I sit cross-legged on the mat, surrounded by children who are half my height and yet somehow twice as loud. Which is strange. I don't remember Izuku being particularly tall for his age. I wonder if it has something to do with quirks.
It's bizarre. Everyone treats me like they apparently always have, like I'm supposed to be this kid who's known them all his short life. They remember things I don't: a playdate, a toy I apparently loved, a story about a class pet I helped name. I nod and smile when they bring them up, but inside I'm reeling.
It's like watching someone else's memories being projected onto my life.
Snack time rolls around. I unwrap a small sandwich that Inko packed with way too much care. It tastes good. Too good. Mom food. Real mom food. It stings a little.
Katsuki Bakugo, small and already angry-looking even at five, walks by with his entourage of tiny followers. He glances at me briefly, snorts, and mutters something I can't catch. Probably something explosive and charming, as always.
I ignore him. I'm not in the mood to start the Great Quirkless Kindergarten War. Inko told his mom before I could stop her. Not that I would even if I could. That woman needs someone to lean on, but obviously it couldn't have taken long for him to find out as well.
Instead, I focus on finishing my juice box, which, by the way, is apparently designed by sadists. I poke the straw in and immediately spill apple juice all over the table. Perfect.
Miss Arai rushes over with napkins. "Oh no, it's okay, Izuku! Accidents happen!"
I stare at the sticky mess and sigh. "Yeah. That's the theme of my life right now."
She blinks, unsure how to respond, and decides to just pat my shoulder before moving on.
Recess finally comes. Freedom. The air outside is cool and bright, filled with laughter and the occasional flash of someone's quirk lighting up. Little bursts of fire, sparkles, and stretchy limbs. All very cute until someone loses an eye.
I wander toward the fence and lean against it, staring up at the sky.
It's weird being here. The colors are too bright. The sounds too sharp. It's a world made for wonder, and all I can feel is the distance between me and everyone else.
But when I glance back through the window, I catch sight of Inko again. She's talking to a teacher, hands fidgeting with her purse strap, eyes soft but tired. She didn't want to leave on my first day back. So there she is. Still here.
She's trying so hard.
I let out a slow breath. "Alright. Let's make this work."
Because I might not belong here, not really, but she doesn't deserve to lose another son.
So yeah. I'll play the part. For now.
I push off the fence and head back toward the chaos of the playground, muttering under my breath. "Step one: survive kindergarten. Step two: figure out how to make this life suck a little less."
The wind catches my hair, the sun warms my face, and somewhere a kid screams because he ate sand.
Welcome to my new normal. Recess is just a bunch of bullshit happening all at once.
I take a slow lap to assess the damage. One kid is climbing the outside of the slide like a confused gecko. Another is licking the metal pole which is a fascinating science experiment I'd really rather not supervise. A third is face-first in the sandbox. Chewing. Not eating. Chewing. Like he's trying to unlock a hidden flavor profile.
I sigh. Time for triage.
"Buddy, shoes go on your feet, not your hands." I reattach the Velcro and push him along his way. "You! Spit out the sand. No, you can't turn it into bread. I promise the cafeteria already tried."
Gecko loses his grip and yelps. I catch him under the arms just before he brains himself on the gravel. He blinks up at me, stunned.
"Gravity exists," I inform him. "It is not your friend."
He nods solemnly and immediately sprints to the swings, where he tries to stand on the seat.
Damn kids, man.
I'm not here to be anyone's hero. But I can't just let children get hurt around me. Even if it would give the world a little peace and quiet. Besides, what else am I gonna do? Play tag? With a bunch of sugar drunk 9 year olds? I'd rather die.
That's when the temperature ticks up, just slightly.
Bakugo and his gaggle of leeches peel off the jungle gym and head my way. Not subtle about it, either. They move like a migrating pack fueled by one very proud brain cell. A couple snicker. One points at me like he's spotted a rare Pokémon.
At first, they just look confused, like they can't figure out why I'm not orbiting their sun. Then Bakugo opens his mouth.
"Oi, Deku. You go deaf or something? Everyone's playing over there."
Cocky little shit.
I scan the yard out of habit. Miss Arai is occupied with two kids who fused their art projects into a paper hydra. Good. Someone's watching while I handle this.
I fold my arms. Raise an eyebrow. "Crazy. I was just thinking how peaceful it was."
One of the leeches gasps like I insulted royalty. Bakugo's grin sharpens.
"What, you scared? Thought you liked chasing me around."
"I liked making sure you didn't explode near toddlers," I say. "Subtle difference."
He snorts. Tiny sparks crackle in his palms. More show than threat. "Please. I can control it."
"Sure," I say. "Which is why your hands smell like a gas station."
Two of his followers giggle before remembering they're supposed to be scary. Bakugo shoots them a look, then locks eyes with me again.
"You got a problem, Deku?"
"Only if you start flashing fireworks next to the swing set." I nod toward the littlest kids pumping their legs and shrieking joy into the sky. "You singe a preschooler's eyebrows and Miss Arai will have you drawing apology cards till graduation."
He steps closer, chin lifted like he's posing for an action figure box. "Why're you acting weird?"
There it is. The question I've been dodging since I walked in.
I shrug. "I'm busy."
"Doing what? Babysitting?" He waves at the chaos like he owns it. "Come on. We're gonna play heroes."
I glance at the slide. Gecko Boy is preparing a face-first descent.
"Yeah. I'm playing the boring one. Safety Man. His power is preventing concussions."
"Lame," Bakugo declares.
"Effective," I say, stepping past him to lock the slide gate before someone rockets into a lawsuit. I glance back. "You wanna play hero so bad? Help me stop these animals from turning into cautionary tales. Call it training."
The entourage murmurs. Bakugo clicks his tongue.
"Heroes fight villains," he says.
"Heroes prevent disasters," I say. "Fighting's what you do after you fail at preventing."
For half a second, something thoughtful flickers in his eyes. It vanishes fast, burned off by pure five year old bravado.
He smirks. "You talk big for someone who won't ever get a quirk."
Didn't think he'd not go there. Honestly, I'm surprised it took this long.
"Don't need a quirk. What I do have is a brain. You should try using yours. Start by not blowing up next to the seesaw."
His jaw tightens. Sparks pop louder this time. I shift my weight, already calculating how to block him if he drifts too close to the toddlers.
Miss Arai calls from across the yard. "Hands to ourselves, friends! Play safe!"
Bakugo's eyes flick toward her, then back to me. He leans in just enough to be smug without giving her anything to yell about.
"Fine. Play Safety Man. Just don't cry when the real heroes leave you behind."
"Thanks for the tip," I say. "Now use your royal influence and tell Stretchy Arms to stop slingshotting off the slide supports. He's about to learn what a sprain is."
Click of the tongue. Chin jerk. He stalks off. Two leeches scramble after him. One lingers, glances at the slide, then bolts to catch up.
I exhale slow.
The next ten minutes are pure crisis control. I deflect a rogue soccer ball from smashing into a window. I redirect two kids on the brink of war into a very specific, extremely structured game of tag. Which breaks down almost immediately because what kid cares about rules I guess.
I earn three extremely sticky high fives.
Whoo. Yay. Go me. Living the dream.
Bakugo pretends not to look at me. He absolutely looks at me. Twice, he tells kids to knock it off right after I do. Once, he stands near the swings, glances at his sparking hands... then doesn't.
Progress, I guess. He doesn't have the firepower at this point to do any real damage anyway.
Recess winds down. Miss Arai claps, calling us in. A chorus of groans rise out of the gaggle of infants. I gather my 'crew', which consists of the more troublesome children, and start herding them to the doors.
As we pass, Bakugo bumps my shoulder. Not hard really. Just enough to gain the attention he so desperately desires for some reason.
"You're slow," he mutters.
"Only when I'm carrying your workload," I mutter back.
His teeth flash. It's not a friendly smile. But it's not totally unfriendly either.
"Race me."
"I'll pass. Recess is over. And even if it wasn't, I'm still busy preventing tragedy."
"Scared cat," he sing-songs.
"Hungry," I say.
He snorts and strides off, entourage in tow.
Didn't think he would, but he actually helped keep the chaos in check. I figured he'd bully me or avoid me altogether. But aside from one or two pokes, he wasn't awful.
He's a good kid. Guess I showed up early enough that he doesn't totally hate me yet. Makes sense. With how close Inko and his mom are, Deku and Bakugo were probably best friends at this point. Right up until someone decided I'd never get a quirk. Whether that be god, the mangaka himself, or All For One, doesn't really matter.
The cafeteria sounds like a zoo swallowed a metal drum. Fluorescent lights buzz. Trays clatter. Someone near the milk cooler is negotiating for pudding and looking pretty serious about it.
I try not to do a double take as I realize the cooler is actually filled with milk. Like one from an office. What else can you expect from my life?
I pick a corner table and sit alone.
Inko's bento looks like a postcard. Rice pressed into little stars, neat rolls of tamagoyaki, two bite-sized meatballs. A cherry tomato positioned like a warning light. The seaweed smiley face is a bit much, but I eat it anyway.
It'll take me a while to get used to how Japanese home cooked meals taste, so I better start now. Not that any of this is nasty in the first place. No. It's just different. But that's all it really needs to be to remind me of my situation.
It takes maybe a minute before Bakugo drops his tray across from me like he owns the air between us. The curry smell hits like a punch. His satellites swarm the rest of the seats without hesitation. Of course they sit here. Muscle memory maybe? The original Izuku probably sat with him every day.
They eat like only kids can. Which is to say focused chaos. Round Glasses is all elbows, rice grains stuck to his eyelashes like confetti. Cowlick chews with his mouth open and still manages to ask questions between bites. A girl with sparkly star stickers on her cheeks drums her straw against her milk. Shark Backpack keeps glancing at Bakugo for cues, then at me like I might spontaneously combust. Sleeves-Too-Big peeks at my bento like it's rare wildlife and he's afraid to spook it.
Bakugo says nothing. Just eats, eyes locked on me like he's waiting to see if I'll blink first. I don't. I peel a mandarin and pop a slice in.
Then the questions start.
Round Glasses leans in. "Is it true? You're really quirkless?"
"Yup."
Cowlick squints at my hands. "What's it like, no powers?"
"Like showing up to a costume party in regular clothes," I say. "Awkward, but you still get cake."
Sparkle Stickers frowns. "Is it a disease?"
"Nope. Doctor says I'm the classic model. No extra features. Very fuel efficient."
Shark Backpack raises his hand like we're in math class. "Can we catch it?"
"Only if you never wash your hands," I say, nodding at his sticky fingers. "Soap is your friend."
Sleeves-Too-Big blinks. "Does it hurt?"
"Not really. It's like being left-handed in a right-handed classroom. Sometimes annoying. Never painful."
They mull it over like I just dropped ancient wisdom. Round Glasses pokes at his curry again. Sparkle Stickers tries to stick a star sticker to my bento; I slide the box away half an inch and it lands on the table. She gasps like I did a magic trick.
Two tables over, a milk tower collapses in slow-motion disaster. I catch ours before it copies, just one finger, steady. Shark Backpack nods like I saved a village.
The noise fills back in. Metal clinks, chairs squeak, someone's juice pouch goes pop.
Bakugo finally speaks.
"You said you don't need a quirk."
I set my chopsticks down so he knows I'm not playing. "I did."
He squints. "Everyone needs a quirk. Especially heroes."
There it is. The thesis of a brat who believes he already has the world figured out. Kid, I don't even have the world figured out.
"A quirk's a tool," I say. "Useful. Powerful, yeah. But a tool isn't a plan. People are plans."
"That's stupid," he says. "Heroes fight villains. You need power to win. All Might has power."
"Sure. He also has training, timing, tactics, and a spine. So do firefighters. So do paramedics. So does anyone who runs toward danger instead of away."
Round Glasses nods hard. Shark Backpack copies him. Sparkle Stickers raises her milk like a toast. Then drinks and forgets why.
Bakugo doesn't nod. His fingers tap his tray. Pop-pop. Sweat glints at his temples.
"No hero has no quirk. None. Every single one has something. That's the point."
"Every pro on TV, sure," I say. "But being a hero isn't just TV. It's being useful in a way that keeps people alive. That starts before powers. That starts with being ready."
He leans in. Voice low. "You're a liar."
I blink. "About what."
"You said you don't need one. You do. You can't be a hero without a quirk. All Might is the best. He has the best quirk. That's how it works."
Cowlick glances between us like it's a tennis match. Sleeves-Too-Big freezes, eyes wide.
I keep my voice calm. "Then change how it works."
He scoffs. "You can't change rules."
"People wrote them," I say. "People can write new ones. In the meantime, I'll train."
He snorts, louder this time. "Train what? Your nothing power?"
"Strength," I say. "Speed. Balance. Breathing. Eyes. Ears. How to move. How to think. How to keep people from getting hurt before fists fly. How to take a hit and stand up anyway. If I get a quirk, I'll use it. If not, I'll still be better tomorrow than I was today."
"Talk is cheap." Does he even know what that phrase means?
"Good thing I'm not charging," I say. "I'm running after school. Pushups at home. Pullups if I find a bar. Maybe a dojo."
He looks at me like I said I'm going to flap my arms and fly to the moon.
"You sound crazy. And stupid."
Sparkle Stickers whispers, "Crazy in a cool way."
He cuts her a glare. She slurps her milk, suddenly fascinated by her straw.
He turns back to me, jaw tight. "You can't. Agencies won't take you. Teachers won't let you. Villains'll crush you. Heroes have power. Extras don't."
I meet his stare. "Extras become heroes when they stop waiting for permission."
He laughs once, sharp. "Liar. You'll cry when you get left behind."
"Crying won't help. Action will." I say softly, but heavy enough that even Shark Backpack feels it. I pick up my chopsticks again. "Eat. You burn calories arguing."
He doesn't move. Just watches me like I'm a dumbass who doesn't realize I'm a dumbass.
Round Glasses clears his throat. "What's a dojo?"
"A place where they teach you how to move on purpose," I say. "Like that," I nod at his chopstick grip and then point to another who was doing it so wrong they're using two hands. "but with your whole body."
He adjusts his fingers. Bakugo notices and subtly fixes his own grip too, like it was always that way.
Cowlick squints. "If you get strong, will you be a hero then?"
"I'm starting now," I say.
Sparkle Stickers lights up. "I'll make you a sticker that says Hero In Training."
"Make it say Safety Man," I say. "He prevents concussions."
Shark Backpack nods, solemn. "Important."
The bell rings. Screech of chairs. Trays scraping. The room shifts from feeding frenzy to stampede in seconds.
I stand. Steady our milk tower one last time. No casualties. Slide my bento into my bag. Step aside for the tide.
Nobody says it, but when we walk out, they move with me. Not behind. Not ahead.
With me. Which is more annoying than inspiring. I was trying to leave the little shits behind.
Bakugo falls into step on my left. Doesn't look at me. I don't look at him.
"Race later," he mutters. A promise. A dare.
"Stretch first," I say. "Safety Man hates paperwork."
He clicks his tongue, but he doesn't peel away.
We pass the milk cooler. The buzzing lights. The puddle someone swears is water.
The door yawns open ahead. Cafeteria noise fades behind us like the end of a storm.
Every hero has a quirk. That's the rule in his head.
Fine.
I'll write a new one.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
School finally ends.
If I had the strength, I'd cheer. Instead, I just drag myself through the front doors like a condemned man leaving court. The sun's too bright and somewhere behind me, a kid is screaming because he dropped a sticker. Again.
Inko waves from her usual parking spot like she's been there all day. Which, honestly, she probably has. Her smile is warm enough to melt concrete, and that alone keeps me from collapsing face-first into the pavement.
I open the car door, toss my bag into the seat, and flop in after it. "You know," I mutter, buckling up, "I've seen war zones quieter than that classroom."
She laughs softly as she pulls out of the parking lot. "That bad, huh?"
"Mom," I say, dead serious, "one kid tried to eat a crayon because he thought it would make him breathe fire. And then he breathed fire. And so he ate more crayons."
"Oh dear."
"And when I told him not to, he asked if I was allergic to fun." I rub my temples. "I don't think I've ever been more insulted by someone under four feet tall."
Her laugh is small and warm. "Did you make any new friends?"
"I prevented two concussions, a head injury, and a possible lawsuit. Does that count?"
"That sounds like my little hero," she says with a grin.
"Yeah," I sigh. "Hero of Playground Safety: Safety Man."
She doesn't respond right away. Just keeps driving, humming under her breath like she's thinking of something. I watch the buildings pass by, expecting us to turn onto our street. Except we don't.
I sit up a little straighter. "Uh… Mom? You missed the turn."
"I know," she says casually.
"…Is this a kidnapping?"
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. "No, silly. We're making a stop. And I can't kidnap you. You're my son."
I frown. "If this is another doctor's office, I'm legally changing my name and running away."
"You'll see."
We drive for another five minutes before pulling into a small parking lot in front of a building I've never seen before. The sign above the door reads Musutafu Youth Martial Arts Center, painted in bold black strokes on a white board. Beneath it hangs a banner that says First Month Free! in bright red letters.
I blink. "Wait. Is this-"
She nods, proud as can be. "I managed to find somewhere for you to train. They have beginner classes for your age, and the instructor said we can sign up today."
I stare at her, honestly speechless. "Already? You found this already?"
"Izuku," she says gently, her tone soft enough to make me feel about two inches tall, "you've wanted to be a hero for as long as I can remember. Even before today. So I've been looking for places like this for a while now."
Of course she was. Of course this woman, this mother, was already out here doing everything she could for a son who isn't even me.
The weight of that sits heavy in my chest. She's smiling, expecting excitement, pride, something. She deserves it.
So I clear my throat, pull my best child-like grin, and put on my little performance. "A dojo! Wow! That's so cool, Mom! I can finally start learning how to fight like a real hero!"
Her eyes sparkle. "Exactly! The instructor said we can even sit in on a class today before dinner."
"Today?" I echo, feigning shock. Inside, my soul is already preparing for pushups and bruises. "We're really jumping right in, huh?"
"That's my boy," she says proudly.
"Yeah…" I manage a smile that feels almost real. "Your boy."
She doesn't notice the crack in my voice. She never does. Too busy being proud.
I stare at the dojo through the window. The glass doors reflect the orange afternoon light, and the faint sounds of training; shouts, footsteps, the steady rhythm of motion, echo from inside. My chest tightens.
This isn't my life. Not really. And yet… it feels like it's waiting for me.
"Alright," she says brightly. "Let's go in, Izuku."
I step out of the car, my little sneakers crunching against the pavement. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and wood polish.
The lobby is simple. There's white walls, framed calligraphy, and a few plants that look suspiciously fake. The floor's padded, soft underfoot, and the faint thump, thump of training echoes from behind a partition.
A man in a gi approaches, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair graying at the temples. His voice rumbles like quiet thunder. "You must be the Midoriyas."
Inko bows slightly, polite and nervous. "Yes, that's us. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
He smiles. "Not at all. We always have space for new students. My name's Matsuda." His gaze drops to me. "And you must be Izuku."
I blink up at him. "That's what my paperwork says."
Inko gasps softly. "Izuku!"
Matsuda chuckles, not offended. "He's got a sense of humor. Good. Keeps the spirit sharp."
He gestures toward the open mat beyond the partition. Several kids in white uniforms are stretching, laughing, moving in unison under the sharp commands of another instructor. The rhythm of their breathing fills the air.
"Would you like to watch?" Matsuda asks.
Inko's eyes light up, but she looks down at me. "What do you think, honey?"
Time to sell it.
I put on my biggest grin. "Can I? Please?"
She beams. "Of course."
We step closer to the mat. The kids bow to their instructor before breaking into drills. They punch, kick, and roll. Their movements are clumsy but eager. Every motion echoes with energy and potential.
It's… nice, actually. Calm, ordered chaos. For once, no glitter or screaming. Just effort.
Matsuda crosses his arms, watching me watch them. "Do you like what you see?"
I nod, honest this time. "Yeah. It's… focused."
"That's the idea," he says. "Discipline first. Power second. Anyone can swing a fist. Few can control it."
Something about that sticks with me.
Inko's looking at me with so much pride it almost hurts. I give her a small smile back.
She's doing everything she can for a dream that doesn't belong to me.
But maybe, just maybe, I can honor it anyway.
Matsuda hands her a clipboard. "If you'd like to sign him up, we can start next week."
Inko hesitates for half a second. "Could he… start tonight? Just to try?"
The instructor glances down at me. "Feeling brave?"
I smirk. "Depends on how generous your definition of 'brave' is."
He chuckles again. "Go change. There's a spare uniform in the back. Let's see what you've got, kid."
I take the uniform, my fingers brushing the smooth fabric, and glance back at Inko. She's smiling, hopeful, alive.
I nod once, mostly to myself, and head toward the locker room.
Work, not play. Sweat, not glory.
I don't believe in destiny, but if I'm going to steal someone's life, I might as well make it worth something.
It doesn't take me long to get the gi on.
The uniform smells faintly of starch and floor cleaner. The sleeves hang a bit long, the belt barely ties right, and the fabric itches in that way only new clothes can. Still, it feels… official.
I step onto the mat barefoot, the soft padding cool under my feet. The air smells of sweat and disinfectant, sharp and honest. The muffled thuds of practice echo through the dojo like a heartbeat.
Matsuda stands at the center, arms crossed, surveying the group like a general inspecting his troops. "We'll start with stretches," he says, voice calm but carrying authority.
Around me, kids drop into position like they've done this a thousand times. I follow, trying to mimic their movements.
Five seconds into the actual training, I realize something's wrong.
This body. It's small. Light. Inflexible. It isn't built for what my brain wants to do. My legs tremble after a single squat. My arms burn during basic pushups. My lungs already sting. I grit my teeth, determined not to look like I'm dying in front of children.
Matsuda passes behind us, correcting postures, murmuring small notes of encouragement. When he reaches me, he pauses. "First day? No gym or dojo before this?"
"Yeah," I wheeze, trying not to sound like I'm choking.
He hums, neither mocking nor gentle. "Then you're doing fine."
He moves on, and I try to believe him. But as I stretch my arms again, my mind drifts.
At first, I blame the body. It's five years old, of course it's weak. Then it hits me. No. That's a lie.
This isn't about the body. It's me.
I wasn't athletic before either. I worked behind screens, not weights. I walked to class, maybe jogged if I was late, but that was it. This? This sweating, shaking, and gritting my teeth through discomfort? It isn't new because I'm a child. It's new because I never did it before.
The realization burns deeper than the stretches.
Matsuda claps once. "Pairs. Sparring drills. Controlled strikes only."
Controlled strikes. Great.
I get partnered with a boy my size with a buzzcut and the calm, unnerving expression of someone who's been doing this long enough to enjoy it. His gi is crisp, his stance perfect.
We bow. His bow is lower. Of course it is.
The next fifteen minutes are a blur of missed punches and poorly timed blocks. My arms ache, my chest heaves, and every successful deflection feels more like luck than skill. Buzzcut lands a light tap to my ribs and immediately steps back, apologetic.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," I gasp. "Just re-evaluating all my life choices."
He blinks, clearly not sure if I'm joking.
I shake it off and reset my stance. My muscles protest. My lungs feel too small. And somewhere in the background, Matsuda's voice calls out corrections that feel like they're aimed directly at me.
"Don't rely on reaction. Anticipate. Move with purpose."
"Stay loose. Tension kills speed."
"Breathe. Always breathe."
I try. I fail. I try again.
By the time we pause, sweat clings to my forehead, my arms are jelly, and I'm halfway convinced my legs are conspiring to mutiny.
Matsuda approaches, studying me with a half-smile that's equal parts approval and concern. "You're still standing. Good sign."
"Debatable," I mutter.
He gestures for me to follow. "Walk with me for a moment."
We step off the mat as the rest of the class begins another drill. Their movements are sharp, fluid. Some kids move with the easy rhythm of people born to this. A few are older. Eight. Maybe nine. One girl near the back flickers with a faint shimmer around her hands. A quirk.
"These students," Matsuda says quietly, "are part of our advanced class. Most either have quirks suited to combat or natural ability in coordination and stamina. The beginner classes focus on building those fundamentals from the ground up."
I glance back at the others, watching them strike in perfect sync. My breath still comes uneven, and my gi sticks uncomfortably to my skin.
"So this isn't… the normal first day?"
He shakes his head. "If you'd started next week, you would've joined the beginner group. But since you wanted to try today, I placed you here to observe. You did more than I expected for someone your age."
"Translation," I say, "I'm completely out of my depth."
He chuckles softly. "Everyone starts somewhere. There's no shame in stepping back and working your way up properly. I can move you to the other class next week."
It's a reasonable offer. Fair. Kind, even.
And it's tempting.
My arms ache. My lungs burn. My legs feel like they're vibrating under their own weight. Every breath is a reminder that I'm weak. That the stories I used to read, the ones where someone trains until they collapse and gets stronger overnight, lied by omission. They made it sound noble. Inspiring.
But it's not. It's work. It's endless repetition and pain and doubt. It's failure, over and over again.
And it fucking sucks.
And every fanfic protagonist I ever read would scoff at this moment. They'd say something like, "Of course it's hard. That's why I'll do it anyway."
But they never said how it feels when your lungs are screaming and your arms shake so badly you can barely stand. When you realize that wanting something and doing it are two very different things.
Matsuda is still watching me, calm and patient. "So?" he asks quietly. "Do you want to start fresh next week?"
I look back at the mat. The other kids move like the world makes sense to them. Purpose in every strike. Power in every motion.
And I want that.
Not because I think it'll make me special. Not because I believe in destiny. But because if I'm going to take this life from the real Izuku Midoriya, I refuse to waste it.
I swallow hard. "No."
Matsuda tilts his head.
"I want to stay in this class," I say, before I can talk myself out of it. "Not just today. For good. Even if everyone's better than me."
The words come out louder than I mean them to, echoing faintly across the dojo. A few kids glance over. My face burns.
Matsuda's expression doesn't change, but his eyes sharpen, assessing. "You're sure?"
No. God, no. Every muscle in my body is begging me to say just kidding.
But I nod anyway. "Yeah. I'm sure."
His smile is small, genuine, and just a little bit proud. "Alright then. You've made a commitment. That's the hardest part."
He turns to go, then pauses. "If you want, I'll personally oversee your training. Help you keep pace."
I blink. "Wait, really?"
He nods. "But if I do, you'll have to work harder than anyone else here."
There it is. The real trap.
I force a grin that feels a little too tight. "Sounds great."
He claps my shoulder gently, but I still almost collapse. "Good. We start for real tomorrow."
This wasn't starting?!?
As he walks away, I stare at the mat again. The sound of strikes fills the air. My arms ache. My chest aches. My everything aches.
Yet I put one foot in front of the other. Until I'm right back on the mat.
This fucking sucks.