The creek crossing was meant to be a simple act of rough play. Kacchan, showing off as usual by trying to leap across the slick, mossy log, slipped. He didn't just fall; he tumbled into the murky, cold water, hitting the bank with a painful-sounding thud. Before his Quirk could fully dry him off, before he could recover his mask of flawless dominance, my body moved. It was a pure, unthinking instinct of pure alarm.
I rushed toward him, my small hand instinctively reaching out through the muddy bank. The thought wasn't heroism; it was just a desperate, immediate urge to help a friend who was hurt. I extended my hand, palm up, offering immediate support. (Dialogue) "Kacchan! Take my hand!" I felt the cold water splash onto my face as he scrambled to pull himself out.
He didn't take my hand. Instead, he scrambled backward, pulling himself clear of the water and mud, then turned on me with a face contorted in primal, humiliated fury. His small palms, wet and shaking, were already beginning to spark. He didn't see a rescuer or a friend in need; he saw a witness to his failure, a moment of weakness captured by the one person he deemed least worthy to see it.
His shriek—"Don't you dare look down on me, Deku!"—burned into my memory far more painfully than any explosion could have. I recoiled, my hand still awkwardly outstretched, realizing with crushing clarity that he wasn't mad because he was hurt. He was furious because I saw him fail. This was the brutal, agonizing lesson that crystallized the difference between us.
My simple instinct to help was interpreted by him as a profound act of humiliation, a permanent stain on his superiority complex. From that day forward, I learned to cage my helpful instincts when it came to him, realizing that the greatest service I could perform was simply to disappear into the background and watch from a distance.