The classroom buzzed with noise and laughter, sunlight spilling through the windows and glinting off the metal desks. Outside, the distant hum of machinery mixed with the chatter of students, filling the air with an easy rhythm.
At the front of the room, Mr. Tanaka stood with a stack of papers in one hand and a tired smile.
"All right, everyone," he began, tapping the board to quiet them. "Today's assignment is to fill out your future career forms. You're all third-years now, so it's time to start thinking about what you want to do after middle school."
The room filled with groans. One student raised his hand half-heartedly. "Do we really have to do that? Heroes don't need homework! I'm gonna be a hero!"
Mr. Tanaka chuckled and tossed the papers onto his desk. "Ah, who am I kidding? You all want to be heroes anyway!"
That one sentence flipped the room from boredom to chaos. Students laughed and cheered, half of them showing off their Quirks before the teacher could stop them. Flames danced from one student's fingertips, another levitated his chair, and someone's skin shimmered with metal plates.
Mr. Tanaka sighed, shaking his head. "Every year…"
Amid the noise and excitement, one boy sat still at his desk, quietly focused on his notebook. Izuku Midoriya, a small boy with messy green hair and bright, thoughtful eyes, didn't join the spectacle.
He had his pencil poised, writing furiously as he watched the others. His notes were detailed sketches of battle stances, attack patterns, and rescue tactics. Each page was filled with analysis—how Quirks could be combined, how weaknesses could be exploited, how civilians might be saved more efficiently.
It wasn't that he didn't want to show off. He simply couldn't.
He'd known that since the day the doctor told him he was Quirkless.
The laughter around him was interrupted by a loud pop. A small explosion singed the corner of his notebook. He jumped back, startled, and looked up to see Katsuki Bakugo standing over him, smoke curling from his palms.
"Oi, Deku," Bakugo said with a lazy grin. "You better fill out those papers properly. Don't tell me you actually want to be a hero."
The other students nearby laughed. Someone whispered just loud enough for Deku to hear, "Yeah, right. Like he could ever get into U.A."
Deku's pencil shook slightly in his hand. "I… I was just writing notes," he muttered, eyes dropping to his notebook.
Bakugo leaned in, smirk widening. "Notes? You think writing about heroes makes you one? You don't even have a Quirk, nerd. All you'll ever do is take notes while the rest of us make history."
The laughter grew louder. Deku's throat tightened, but he said nothing.
Bakugo's grin sharpened, and he flicked his hand. A spark of light burst just in front of Deku's face, close enough to make him flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Bakugo's laughter filled the air as he turned and walked back to his desk, his friends trailing behind him, still snickering.
The noise of the room slowly returned to normal—students talking, laughing, showing off. But to Deku, it all felt distant and muffled.
He stared down at his notebook. The front cover was frayed at the edges, the pages creased and stained from years of use. On the top, written in careful, blocky letters, were the words:
Hero Analysis for the Future No. 13
He brushed his thumb over the letters, trying to steady his breathing. The voices around him faded into the background hum of the city outside. He could almost hear the rhythm of Musutafu itself, the echo of steel in construction yards, the clang of metal, the faint buzz of power lines.
Every sound reminded him of heroes rushing to save lives. Of power. Of courage. Of everything he wanted to be.
His chest ached, but not from sadness. From longing. From a hunger that had never gone away.
He looked out the window, watching a hero patrol in the distance, soaring across rooftops. The sun gleamed against the hero's armor, a flash of light that made Deku's eyes widen.
"Someday," he whispered under his breath.
His fingers curled around his pencil, and as he did, the screws in his desk vibrated almost imperceptibly. The faintest tremor passed through the metal legs of his chair. It was so subtle that no one noticed—not even him.
Something deep inside him was stirring, faint and unfamiliar. Like a heartbeat that didn't belong to flesh, but to iron.
He didn't know it yet, but the world had already begun to change