The silence that followed Harry Osborn's response wasn't the comfortable kind.
It spread through the group like spilled water, seeping into every gap and corner until even the ambient hum of the filtration systems seemed too loud. I could feel the weight of thirty pairs of eyes on my back. Some curious. Some confused. Most of them probably wondering when Midoriya Izuku learned to speak English, and why the hell he'd kept it quiet for three years.
The corner of my mouth twitched.
Mr. Takahashi looked like he'd witnessed his entire worldview collapse in real time. His complexion had gone pale, then red, then settled somewhere in the sickly gray zone of a man who'd just realized he didn't know a single thing about one of his students. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Harry Osborn saved him the trouble.
A soft chime came from his . Harry reached into his jacket pocket. The charming smile he'd been wearing since we entered the conference room flickered, replaced by something sharper.
He tapped the screen, brought the device to his ear, and his entire demeanor shifted.
"Yes?"
A pause.
"Father. I understand. The transition is proceeding as scheduled."
Another pause. Longer this time. His free hand came up, rubbing at his temple. The gesture was brief, controlled, gone before most people would have noticed.
"I'll be right there."
He lowered the datapad. For half a second, the professional mask slipped. He looked tired. Then the smile returned, smooth and corporate as ever.
"I apologize," he said. "Something requires my immediate attention. Ms. Hayashi will take excellent care of you for the remainder of the tour."
He gave the room a polite nod and started to leave. The security door hissed open. Closed. The soft thud of the magnetic lock engaging sounded like a period at the end of a sentence.
Ms. Hayashi stepped forward immediately. "If you'll follow me, we'll proceed to the materials science division."
The students followed in a shuffling mass. The energy had drained out of the group like someone pulled a plug. Koji was texting furiously. Saki kept glancing at me, then looking away when I turned my head. Even the usually boisterous boys near the front of the pack had gone quiet.
Bakugo walked last, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. I didn't need to look to know he was watching me.
The materials science lab was exactly as boring as it sounded. Rows of machines I didn't recognize, processing substances I couldn't identify, while Ms. Hayashi droned on about carbon nanotubes and synthetic polymers. Her voice had the same monotone quality as a government-mandated safety video.
I stopped listening after the first five minutes.
My brain was still back in the Atrium, replaying what I'd seen. The bio-engineering division wasn't just impressive. It was a blueprint for rewriting the rules. Cross-species genetic integration. Adaptive camouflage derived from spider chromatophores. If they could map the Quirk Genome, isolate the markers that allowed humans to manifest powers, then theoretically—
Theoretically, Quirkless doesn't have to mean powerless.
Ms. Hayashi led us through another hallway. More glass displays. More polished corporate messaging. I let my eyes glaze over, nodding at appropriate intervals while my mind worked through the possibilities.
By the time we reached the executive cafeteria at two PM, I was ready to be done with this field trip.
The cafeteria looked like someone had taken a five-star restaurant and stripped out anything resembling personality. Clean lines. White tables. High-backed booths that gave the illusion of privacy. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered another panoramic view of Tokyo, because apparently Oscorp's design philosophy was "if you're not looking down on the city, you're doing it wrong."
The buffet, however, was legitimate.
Aldera's cafeteria served food that tasted like someone's grudging obligation to keep students alive. This was actual cuisine. I watched Koji load his plate with enough yakitori to feed a small family. Nanami hovered near the sushi display like she'd found religion. Even Bakugo, who'd been radiating murderous energy for the past hour, grabbed a plate with slightly less violence than usual.
I got in line. Grabbed some rice. A piece of grilled salmon that actually looked like it came from a fish instead of a factory. Miso soup that smelled real.
Found an empty table near the windows. Sat down. Started eating.
The food was good. Better than good. The kind of quality that reminded you exactly how much money Oscorp had and how little they cared about flaunting it.
I was halfway through the salmon when I heard footsteps approaching.
Looked up.
Saki Ōtsuki stood there, holding her own plate. Her posture had that particular brand of nervous energy that suggested she'd spent the last ten minutes working up the courage to walk over here. Her fingers drummed against the ceramic. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
"Midoriya-san?"
Her voice came out softer than she probably intended. She cleared her throat, tried again.
"That was amazing back there. I didn't know you spoke English."
She paused. Bit her lower lip. The gesture looked unintentional.
"How did you get so good?"
I set down my chopsticks. Met her gaze. Her eyes were brown, a warm shade that reminded me of polished wood. They darted away when I looked directly at her, then came back.
"All Might's early American interviews were only in English," I said. "I wanted to understand what he was saying without waiting for the subtitles. So I learned."
Saki's expression shifted. Her eyes widened slightly, and she laughed.
"That's so dedicated." She tucked another strand of hair behind her ear. The first one hadn't actually fallen out of place. "I can barely pass English class, and you're just casually speaking it to a CEO."
She sat down across from me without asking.
"Do you study a lot? I mean, obviously you do, you're always in the top five for exams, but like. How much time does it take to get that fluent?"
I picked up my chopsticks again. Took another bite of salmon.
"Couple hours a day. Podcasts during commutes. Subtitled shows at home. You build it up over time."
"That's really impressive. I wish I had that kind of discipline."
Another laugh. Another tuck of hair that didn't need tucking.
"It's just time management," I said. "Same as anything else."
"Still." She smiled. "It was cool. Everyone was kind of shocked."
Everyone except Bakugo, who looked like he wanted to put my head through the nearest wall.
"Did you see his face?" Saki continued. She leaned forward slightly. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Bakugo looked like he was going to explode. Literally."
The corner of my mouth twitched.
"Yeah. I noticed."
She laughed again. This time it sounded more relaxed. She picked up her chopsticks, started eating her own lunch. We sat in comfortable silence for maybe thirty seconds.
Then she glanced at me. Bit her lip again.
"So, um. If you ever want to study together sometime? For English, I mean. I could really use the help, and you're obviously—"
"Sure."
Her entire face lit up.
"Really? That would be amazing! I'll give you my number and we can figure out a time that works."
She pulled out her phone, tapped at the screen with quick, excited movements.
I gave her my number. She sent a test message. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
"Perfect!" She beamed. "Thank you so much, Midoriya-san."
"No problem."
We finished eating. Made small talk about the tour, about how boring the materials science lab was, about how insane the buffet food was compared to Aldera's cafeteria. Normal conversation. Easy.
Saki excused herself eventually, heading back toward the buffet for dessert.
I stood, grabbed my plate, and headed to the dish return. Most of the students were still eating. A few had migrated toward the windows, taking pictures of the Tokyo skyline. Mr. Takahashi sat at a table with Ms. Hayashi, looking like he was still trying to process the day's events.
I walked back to the buffet line. Realized I'd forgotten to grab a drink.
The area was mostly empty now. Everyone had already gotten their food and settled into their respective tables and booths. I reached for a glass from the stack near the drink dispenser.
And felt a sudden, sharp, hot prick on the back of my neck.
"Tch!"
My hand flew up, smacking the spot hard.
I looked at my palm.
Nothing.
No crushed insect. No blood. Just my own hand, fingers splayed.
I frowned. Rubbed at the sore spot. It was right below my hairline, where my collar met skin. The area felt tender. Sensitive.
What the hell?
I felt along the edge of my uniform collar. My fingers brushed against something small and hard, caught in the fabric's seam.
I pinched the material. Tugged.
A tiny metal pin came free. The kind dry cleaners use to attach tickets, or the kind that falls out of my mother's sewing kit when she's hemming pants. Sharp point. Maybe half an inch long.
A pin from the dry cleaners. Must have been sticking straight up in the collar. Damn, that was sharp.
I flicked it onto my used plate, still sitting on the counter nearby.
Gave my neck one last rub. The sting was already fading.
Grabbed my glass. Filled it with water. Turned and headed back toward the main lobby where Ms. Hayashi was already herding students toward the exits.
The tour was over.
I didn't think about the pin again.