My notebooks, despite the terror they sometimes caused me, became my secret sanctuary, a necessary refuge from the crushing reality of my Quirkless status. They began as simple scrapbooks of admiration, chronicling the Quirks and fighting styles of every hero I admired. But soon, the thickest, most meticulously detailed sections were dedicated to the boy I couldn't stop watching—Katsuki Bakugo.
The pages were filled with rapid-fire analyses of his movements, his fighting IQ, and his terrifying temper flares. I detailed the optimal humidity levels for his explosions, the wind conditions that helped or hindered him, and the psychological triggers that made him unpredictable. It was a rigorous, almost scientific study driven by a mixture of deep admiration and necessary self-preservation.
The analysis, while full of praise for his power and tactical genius, was also brutally honest. I noted his limitations: Katsuki Bakugo: Quirk—Explosion. Genius-level tactical mind. Fatal flaw: can be blinded by rage and pride, making him predictable during a flare-up. I knew his weaknesses better than his allies, and certainly better than he knew them himself. Yet, I couldn't utter a single word of this tactical knowledge.
(Thought)I know how he moves, how he thinks. I know him better than anyone. This silence was a desperate act of devotion. I desperately hoped this obsessive admiration—this meticulous knowledge—would somehow, someday, make me worthy of his recognition, even without a Quirk. I trained my mind to be his perfect supporting hero, the one who saw all the angles he missed.
The notebooks were my way of participating in the hero world, a silent, secret testament to my unwavering belief in the core promise of heroism, even if I was relegated to the role of a meticulous observer for the rest of my life.