Saturday afternoon.
Guess where I ended up? In Naruhata, a neighborhood in Tokyo, just steps from Shibuya. Yes, I know, it sounds cute. Too bad that instead of browsing the shops or grabbing a coffee, I find myself walking through the gates of a training camp. My new home, apparently. How lucky!
The rifle still vibrates in my hand, as if reminding me of every single day we spent together. The air smells of old, burnt oil, of the new fabric of the uniform, of that dust that hasn't yet settled but which—I already know—sooner or later will fill my lungs.
The NCO in front of me marches steadily, his steps on the concrete almost a metronome. I follow, a half-step behind. I don't know anyone here. I have no idea what kind of voices they'll use with me... or against me. And you want the truth? I don't know how long it will take them to decide whether I'm useful or just superfluous.
"Lieutenant Aizawa, on duty," he says, gesturing with his chin to a control panel a little further ahead. "No activity today; the company rests on Saturday and Sunday. We'll introduce you and assign you to your quarters."
Rest.
This word gives me chills. How long has it been since I last heard it? Too long. I almost never rest. I can't. I was taught that when I feel control slipping away from me, I should inhale for four seconds, exhale for four. Always. It's the only thing that keeps me whole and helps me maintain my uniqueness.
We arrive at the square. I look around: but it's quieter than I imagined. I see gray uniforms passing in pairs, I hear the hum of low voices beside me, hushed laughter that doesn't dare penetrate the walls. Eyes that see everything, except me. And it's better this way, believe me. We're all adults here, you can tell right away: shoulders straight, gazes that ask no excuses.
Then he appears. Lieutenant Aizawa. He steps out of the control room as if the sunlight were a personal nuisance. Dark hair tied back haphazardly, a neutral expression, as if nothing could move him. I imagined him different, very different.
"The new recruit?" He doesn't really ask. Or maybe he does? I don't know.
"Junko Ino." I reply. My voice is firm, the kind that doesn't tremble. "Nice to meet you."
"Good. Quick introductions, then assignment." He gestures to some guys behind him. "Bravo Section, line up."
From the left side of the square, a line of four people appears, each with their own pace, each with their own routine but the same focus. Military to the core, in short. Me? I feel the tension rising, and before I know it, I take a step forward. Good job, Junko, you're a statue: hands along the seams of your pants, green eyes straight ahead. Always in control, always.
My black hair, too long for my taste, is pulled back in a high ponytail. The tip falls to my shoulders: zero practicality, but at least it makes me look put together.
The first person to stand before me looks like he stepped out of an instruction manual: tall, stiff as an iron bar, his glasses shining like mirrors. "Corporal Tenya Iida. Welcome." And yes, he even bows. "Protocol is everything here."
I believe you. With a guy like that, you know right away that if you forget to fasten a button, he'll give you a ticket. Then there's the second one. Green curls, eyes that record everything like a camera. His hands... oh God, I see thin scars, they look old. He introduces himself as Midoriya Izuku. "Nice to meet you, Junko. If you need—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Why?
Because someone bumps into his shoulder with the grace of a truck. No apologies, nothing. He walks on as if the world were his.
I can see him clearly: messy ash-blonde hair, crimson eyes piercing through you, that domineering look that needs no introduction. And around him… yes, there's a different smell. Don't ask me to explain it, but you can smell it in the air.
Izuku lowers his gaze, as if it were normal to be walked all over. Then he looks up again, and those wide eyes land directly on me.
And of course the blond guy decides to stop…where? Exactly! Right in front of me. Too close. So close I could count the heavy breaths brushing my lips. A smirk plastered across his face, his eyes darting up and down me as if I were a commodity to be appraised. He's taking longer than necessary…and he knows it.
His hands aren't moving, but I can see them: they're trembling, as if waiting for the right opportunity to explode. Literally.
"Who the fuck are you?"
There. End of polite introductions.
The silence around me becomes piercing, almost more so than his words. I feel Iida stiffen beside me, footsteps barely crunching. "Language, Bakugo! Formal introductions—"
"The question is clear," he cuts in, and no, he doesn't look away. He never does.
My heartbeat accelerates. The blood rushes to my head, but my breathing... my breathing must remain under control. I inhale four times. I exhale four times. Always. My eyes on him, unwavering. No flinching, no power play. Just... icy stares.
"Junko Ino. Assigned to Bravo Section starting today."
The tension breaks only when the fourth in line steps forward: I see her with short hair and a smile that resists even Saturday. Uraraka Ochaco. She raises a hand, almost shyly.
"Welcome, Junko-san. I'll walk you to your quarters later."
Finally, a human tone.
Meanwhile, Aizawa nods, his expression only seemingly lazy. "Rest tomorrow. Monday, 6 a.m. Technical assessment. The documents mention a defensive Quirk: pressure and wave dampening. Do you confirm?"
"I confirm."
The definition is correct, yes: Pressure Veil. Thin layers of compressed air that attenuate shock and noise. It only works if your breathing remains clean. Inhale, exhale. That's the key. But I won't explain it. Not to them. Not today.
And of course he—Bakugo—isn't missing a chance. A grin that doesn't reach his eyes, a vein throbbing on his forehead, fists clenched.
"Defensive, huh? Perfect. On Monday, we'll see if that fucking quirk of yours can hold up when I raise my fists."
He stares at me. I stare back. Iida coughs, as indignant as a living textbook: "Bakugo, this isn't the place—"
"The place is anywhere, you idiot!" he retorts, his gaze fixed on me.
He wants a reaction. A step back, a glint in his eye, something that says "I fear you." But no. Not today.
"Monday at six..." I say, and this time my eyes go only to Aizawa. "Roger."
And his monotone voice is enough to put out the fire:
"Go to the quarters, drop off your bag. Then to the cafeteria. Uraraka? Midoriya? You guys handle it. Iida, mind the procedures. And Bakugo—" he turns slowly toward him and looks at him with that calm, patient look of exhaustion. "—you, nothing today. It's Saturday."
Bakugo huffs and turns around. The air vibrates with his annoyance, I almost feel it on my arm as he passes by. Will he say something else? Three, two, one… nothing. Surprising. This time his outburst lingers in the air. I don't turn around. I don't look at him.
I hear him walk away and then disappear beyond the control panel. Finally! I take a deep breath, run a hand over my forehead, and fake a yawn. It works: my shoulders relax, my heart returns to normal.
"Sorry about... him," Uraraka whispers. It's so sweet it almost feels strange to hear her here. She hands me a folder with my bunk number. "It's always like this, even on Saturdays."
"There's no need to apologize," I reply curtly. "I just want to know where to put my backpack... and get some sleep."
Midoriya nods immediately, almost relieved to have something practical to say. "The Bravo building is over there. If you want, tomorrow I'll show you the perimeter, the water points, the medical room..."
And of course, Iida interrupts him with a formal cough worthy of living regulations. One step forward and already in "instruction manual" mode (pt2):
"First the records, then orientation, Izuku. Monday at six in perfect shape, everyone. And… Ino, welcome to Bravo."
I nod. "Thank you so much." (For the first time today, I say this without sarcasm.)
The square becomes quiet again. Footsteps fade, voices dim as I pass. As if I were transparent. (Just as well 🙂)
I follow Uraraka toward the building, dragging my feet with exhaustion. Midoriya stays a half-step behind, while Iida… well, he's already ready to recite regulations as if it were his favorite lullaby.
Once inside, the building changes atmosphere.
The smell of detergent, a little cotton wool, and here and there that smell of fresh paint that lingers in my throat. The doors are all lined up, straight as soldiers. More disciplined than us, I swear.
On the paper Uraraka is holding, I see my room number: 12B. I climb the stairs two at a time, open the door, and throw my backpack on the bed. I check my name tag, put it in the drawer. Then I lie down and... silence.
But the tension doesn't go away. It's stubborn, it's just changing shape: from a lump in my throat to a tight thread down my spine. I don't know anyone here yet. I only hear low voices in the hallway, the clatter of dishes from the cafeteria. I don't know what makes them laugh, what irritates them, or what breaks their afternoons in two.
But I know one thing. That Bakugo searched for a crack in me. And he found only my breath: steady, cold, smooth as ice.
I inhale four times. I exhale four times.
You're here with me, right? So listen: Monday won't just be a test. It'll be the first time I've let him know I don't give in.
***
I wake up with my head feeling cottony and my cheek all streaked, marked by the fabric of my pillowcase. Fantastic, huh? I don't know how long I slept, but I have that kind of sand in my eyes that makes you realize it was too little, too late.
The Bravo building is starting to breathe again, just as it was before, except now I think I can hear it breathing from underwater. Come on, at least I can say I've slept enough to feel my bones light and my stomach starting to rumble. Good, great timing: because I'm starving.
The light outside is fading. I stretch, almost content with the peaceful silence. Then, a knock. Two light knocks on the door, and I jump as if someone had thrown a grenade.
"Ino? Are you there? Can I?" (But why do they call me by my last name?)
A soft, gentle voice. I recognize her immediately: Uraraka. (Well, then I'll call them by their last names too). I struggle to my feet, drag myself forward, and open the door. Uraraka is already in uniform, her hair tied back a bit haphazardly, a smile that clearly says: don't worry, you're not alone.
"I wanted to let you sleep, but the first shift at the cafeteria ends in ten minutes. Are you coming with me?"
"Thanks." I nod and, this time, I actually smile. Yes, I mean it.
A quick rinse of my face, jacket tucked in, boots zipped up. My body protests, but the thought of food is enough to silence it.
"How long did I sleep?" I ask her as I tie my hair up as I can.
"An hour. You needed it, though."
And it only takes a glance for both of us to understand.
We cross the enormous corridor. Doors lined with golden numbers pass by. Voices intertwine above the hum of the barracks, low chatter that seems to mock me every time I pass someone.
"How was the setup?" she asks, keeping pace with me.
"Well... comfortable bed, stubborn locker." I half smile. "I'd say we're close: almost perfect."
She laughs softly. "The lockers here are all proud. You have to treat them well, or they won't open."
I raise an eyebrow. (Almost witty, this one.)
"Anyway... Defensive Quirk, right?"
"Exactly," I reply. And meanwhile, I feel her curiosity creeping up on me, step by step. "And you?"
"Gravity." She smiles with her eyes, too. "I can make objects lighter or heavier. And people. But don't worry, I don't do it randomly."
Cute. And reassuring. Too much, almost.
"Where are you from?" she asks.
"North." Flat tone, curt answer.
She tilts her head slightly. "You like the silence, huh? You don't talk much..."
"I like the practicality."
Okay, I admit it: it's the closest thing to a joke I've ever had. She laughs softly, and it seems like she enjoyed it.
We descend together. The cafeteria is huge, bright, a hive of voices and clashing dishes. I can't understand anything! But the smell of broth, rice, and spices is so strong that my stomach thanks me in advance. In my uniform, mingling with everyone else, I feel strangely more "inside" and less on display.
"I'd like to know more about your Quirk, would you mind? The one Aizawa mentioned today."
"Pressure management," I reply. "I bend the impact, dampen the noise. If I breathe well, it works better."
"Ah... I don't quite understand it, but it seems helpful and reassuring," says Uraraka. "I find myself floating the trays when I'm tired."
"Convenient," I reply. And for a moment, I imagine my morning coffee arriving by itself. Just this thought puts me in a good mood.
We grab the tray and sit by the window. Midoriya waves and sits opposite, Iida two seats away, straight and stiff as a laminated poster. We talk about simple things: showers that act up, the laundromat that closes too early on Sundays, the little parking spot where the sky seems bigger at sunset. And it feels good. It slowly loosens that tightness that's been between my shoulder blades for days.
Then Uraraka lowers her voice: "By the way... Aizawa introduced you well earlier. He's brusque, but fair. And..." she hesitates for a second, "...don't take Bakugo personally. He's just like that."
Bakugo.
The name falls on me coldly. Like a poorly glued label on an ammunition crate.
"I don't take anything personally," I say. "As long as it doesn't affect me, everything's fine."
Uraraka stares at me for a moment, as if weighing the sentence on a scale. Then she nods. "Okay."
I change the spoon in my hand, I push a stray lock of hair out of my way... and that's when I feel it. The air shifting. Not strongly, no. Just enough to make you realize someone is crossing the room and doesn't want to talk. The buzz around you changes, everyone changes. Not enough to make you say "silence," but enough to feel like a shifting magnetic field.
I look up. And of course it's him.
That Bakugo.
I see him with the tray in his hand, his stride determined and confident, a physique that seems designed to take up space. Untamed blond hair, red eyes that make you feel like you see things ten seconds before everyone else. The nametag on his gray jacket confirms what I already know: Bakugo Katsuki.
We meet.
His gaze locks with mine a moment too long. It's not simple curiosity. It's a challenge. Let's see how long you can handle it. I breathe normally. I don't lower it, I don't raise it.
And instead of walking away, what does he do? Here, he sits down. Where? But in front of me, of course! 😭 Tray slammed on the table. Izuku stiffens, Uraraka lowers her gaze, Iida straightens as if on parade. Bakugo dips his spoon into the rice, chews once without taking his eyes off me. Then he blurts out sharply:
"All this calm... do you think it'll impress anyone? It can't last long here, can it, you idiots?"
His tone is venomous, like a fuse waiting to be lit. I don't flinch. I stare at him, voice flat as a winter lake:
"It's not calm. It's control. Which you probably don't understand."
I venture. Here's a second of silence. Izuku swallows, Uraraka holds her breath, Iida almost coughs with indignation. Bakugo cocks his head slightly, a sharp grin on his face. "Tsk. We'll see on Monday. Now get the fuck out of here, I'm hungry." And he returns to his plate, as if he hadn't said anything. But the air remains charged, ready to explode.
"You handled it well," Uraraka whispers without emphasis.
"There was nothing to handle," I reply. I'm surprised by the tone: not harsh, just… calm. "He had his say. I responded. The end."
Midoriya smiles, looking down at his plate. Then he approaches me, silently. "He'll pretend nothing happened on Monday, but… I think he's curious about how you use your power."
"Curious is fine," I say. "It's better than indifferent."
Iida sets down the silverware with the precision of a clock. "Well said. Tomorrow, if you like, we'll do a tour of the perimeter. That way, on Monday, nothing will catch you by surprise—or almost."
I nod. "Gladly." This time, I actually smile.
I start eating, and the warmth of the rice does its job: my hands stop shaking inside me. Uraraka talks about the time she accidentally made an entire crate weightless during a training session, and Bakugo flew into a rage. Midoriya laughs, and Iida feigns sternness, but his eyes sparkle. For the first time today, I feel almost… normal.
"Tsk," Bakugo replies, without looking at anyone. Then we get up to put away the trays.
As I move, I feel those eyes on me again. I glance up — Bakugo's staring. He doesn't speak, doesn't move. Just that steady, unblinking gaze that digs right through you. I don't look away. I meet his eyes, steady. And I make a note to myself: come Monday, I'm not going to be the one who looks away first.
So I return the challenging look, but I take note: I don't like arrogance, but the energy intrigues me. It's honest, even when it's uncomfortable.
"Tomorrow I'll take you to the north stand," Uraraka says, tugging lightly on my sleeve. "It's windy, but it's nice."
"I like the wind," I reply. And this time I smile without forcing it.
Stepping outside, the air is cooler than before. The light lasts another hour, or maybe a little more. We walk slowly toward the building, talking about nothing and everything. The uniform is tight on my shoulders, but I don't say it. I pretend nothing's happening.
You know what? For the first Saturday... it wasn't bad. I ate. I rested. I laughed—twice, which is a record for me. I have a room that smells of disinfectant and one more name spinning in my head.
Monday. 6:00 AM. How do I feel? Ready… no. Awake, yes. And, for the first time in days, not entirely alone.