The silence of the cinema seems to hold its breath—only the steady hum of the projector and the occasional creaking of the seats. It's dark; the screen still dissolves the last of the light, and the smell of popcorn hangs in the air. Then the world begins to return to sound—first quiet sobs, then rustling sounds, then voices.
The awakening comes in waves, from row to row. Some gasp and sit up straight, others shudder, some slowly remove their hand from their jacket pocket and fumble for their phone, as if afraid this is all a dream. Izuku sits in one chair, eyes wide, his lips moving. "I... um... did we oversleep?" His voice trembles with excitement and mild panic at the same time.
Bakugou is jolted awake by an explosion: he jerks awake, his chair creaking, his fists clenched. But instead of a loud scream, he hears a hoarse whisper: "WHAT THE...?!" He immediately realizes that he's surrounded by classmates, teachers, and not an enemy. A sudden wave of shame creeps beneath his anger, and he stubbornly stares at the wall.
Todoroki rises slowly, as if from cold water; his breathing is even, his gaze calm. He doesn't fuss—he simply observes, calculates. His hand automatically reaches for his jacket to cover his shoulders; his left profile reflects that same pale film from the screen.
Uraraka startles, smiles, and immediately tries to reassure him: "Everything okay? Did you sleep?" Her voice is bright, almost festive, and the air around her feels a little warmer.
Tenya stands as instructed—straight, precise, checking the order of the rows: "Please, calmly, keep your distance. Was anyone hurt?"—and his voice conveys concern, not the jealousy of a teacher.
Kirishima slaps his knee and giggles, "Oh, our kaiju training paid off—we made it!" He laughs loudly, trying to ease the tension.
Tokoyami sits in the shadows, his hand reaching toward the corner of his chair, his expression filled with that familiar detachment. "The film... left a shadow," he says quietly, as if addressing his own shadow, and no one argues.
Mineta tries to hide, blushing and whispering something under her breath; Shiro stretches, Mina loudly inhales, and Momo calmly sorts through her things, takes out a notebook—already in situational awareness mode.
And now, simultaneously with these waves of awakening, consciousness returns in the aisle. The Almighty blinks, a broad smile slowly forming on his face, but his voice is lowered—friendly and soft: "Well... are you all alright?" His presence is like a beam—warm and vast. He sits not on a separate pedestal, but simply across the row, like one of them, and smiles as if this is the perfect heroes' breakfast.
Aizawa wakes as if he'd been awakened on schedule: slowly, with a strained movement, his scarf tight around his neck, his eyes half-closed. He peers over his mask, finds everyone with his gaze, and says with characteristic dryness, "No one died. Good." There's no panic in his voice—there's a weary demand for order. But he doesn't drag the class toward the exit; instead, he gestures for everyone to remain seated and collect their thoughts. "Stay where you are. We'll discuss this later. For now, just sit up straight and calm down."
Nezu, clinging to the tablet between the chairs, is already mentally calculating something. His little paws are running across the screen: "Very interesting. An emotional reaction..." He looks up and, seeing that no one is standing, nods gloomily: "But since we're all together, I suggest we conduct a mini-analysis right here. Tea?"
The class remains in the hall. They don't get up or leave; some lean back in their chairs, some rest their elbows on the armrest and close their eyes briefly, some—like Momo—take notes. The atmosphere shifts: from fear to conversation, from awkwardness to sharing impressions. Time stretches: someone quietly recounts a favorite scene, someone laughs nervously, someone simply listens.
Aizawa sits quietly, observing, occasionally making brief comments and correcting those who start a heated discussion. All Might smiles and encourages, but keeps his voice low, as the walls of the theater require. Nezu picks up his tablet, and that same sparkling interest gleams in his eyes—he's preparing a small diagram of emotions. Deku continues to move his lips, trying to reproduce the quotes, and Bakugou remains silent, stubbornly gripping the armrest.
The office was suffocating in the morning half-light. The small lamps above the desks cast a cold light that struggled to penetrate the thick curtain of haze outside the windows—the city was waking up in its familiar gray, and only the giant holograms behind the glass screamed with color and promise. On the desk in front of Lin Lin lay a tablet: blueprints, storyboards, notes, neatly taped pieces of paper, with light coffee stains in the corners. He pulled the tablet closer to him and inhaled deeply, as if the air in this room could help him speak with a voice that didn't waver.
"Look," he said quietly, tapping the screen. The tablet's surface lit up for a moment, and a carefully composed video appeared before them—Moon leaping over the waves, Moon laughing in the rain, Moon holding a boy's hand by the roadway. A familiar melody played faintly, line by line building to the message: "Anyone can be a hero."
Cheng Yaojin sat in his chair, his fingers spread out like someone who'd made a habit of gently pressing down on anything that stuck out too much. He watched the video without blinking, and his face betrayed no admiration; only a businesslike weariness and the slight grin of a professional who's seen too much. His eyebrows rose slightly, as if he wanted to show curiosity, but replaced it with his usual sarcasm.
"And you're saying the world will believe that?" he said dryly. His voice was as even as metal polished by the years. "That people will wake up tomorrow and decide, 'So, today I'm a hero'? We have three clients scheduled for tomorrow, four deadlines, and one tax audit." He waved his hand, the sound of his gesture falling heavily on the table. "And what you're proposing, young man, isn't a campaign. It's a diagnosis."
Lin Ling shuddered, though there was no reaction in his chest other than the familiar bitterness—a bitterness he knew like his own hands. He opened his mouth, reaching for words, and they slipped out like wet coins: not pretty, but valuable. He had intended to speak simply—to explain why this idea worked, why people needed not another fake smile, but the opportunity to see the potential in themselves.
"This isn't about utopia," he began, his words becoming more even. "This is about small decisions. Not about becoming a star, but about finding the opportunity to help a neighbor, to pick up a bag of groceries, to stop for a second... We give people a reason to feel important. It's a virus—but a good one. We're not selling an ideal, we're offering a ritual. People love rituals."
Cheng grinned, tapping his finger on the armrest. It wasn't a pained grin, more like a searching one: as if he were examining an insect under a magnifying glass, ready to see something new in it—or simply to dismiss it thoughtfully.
"Ritual?" he repeated. "You're proposing ritual to work in an era where ritual is sold and repackaged hourly. Where a single burst of popularity is worth more than the monthly salaries of fifty of your fellow citizens. Young man, people want to be sure of simple things: that their bread will be eaten, not that they're heroes for an evening."
The lights in the theater dimmed, and the screen flashed to a gray-haze-shrouded morning office. Class 1-A settled into their chairs, some with popcorn, others with notepads. All Might sat in the back row next to Aizawa, and Principal Nezu took a separate armchair, perfectly suited to his small frame.
A young man named Lin Lin appeared on the screen, nervously pulling a tablet towards himself.
"He looks so... tired," Uraraka commented quietly, leaning towards Asui.
"Guys. Looks like he works a lot," Tsuyu nodded.
When the music started playing on the screen and a video of Moon appeared—a hero jumping on the waves, laughing in the rain—Midoriya immediately sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes lighting up.
"Anyone can be a hero," he whispered, clutching the pen. "That's... that's our philosophy! What the Almighty spoke of!"
Bakugou snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.
- Sounds like a cheap advertising slogan.
"Bakugou-kun, but it's a good idea!" Midoriya objected, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Cheng Yaojin appeared on the screen, a man with a tired, cynical face who clearly did not share Ling Ling's enthusiasm.
"Oh, he's a classic skeptic," Todoroki muttered, tilting his head slightly. "Interesting."
When Cheng delivered his line about three clients, four deadlines, and a tax audit, Iida sighed loudly:
"He's right about organizational matters! You can't just ignore business obligations!"
"Tenya-kun, but Ling Ling is trying to get across an important point!" Yaomoro protested.
Aizawa, in the back row, chuckled slightly as he looked at the screen:
"A realist. I like this Cheng. He understands that idealism doesn't pay the bills."
"But, Aizawa-sensei," the Almighty turned to him with a gentle smile, "wasn't idealism the one that once changed the world? Isn't faith in the best that creates heroes?"
Aizawa just shrugged, not taking his eyes off the screen.
As Ling Ling began to explain his concept—about small decisions, about helping a neighbor, about lifting someone's bag of groceries—the room fell silent.
"This... this is exactly what I've always thought," Midoriya whispered, his voice shaking with emotion. "You don't have to be a professional hero to do good. Every little deed matters..."
"Deku's going to cry right now," Bakugou muttered, but there was no usual anger in his voice.
"We're not selling an ideal, we're offering a ritual," Jiro repeated, thoughtfully biting her drink straw. "Sounds clever, actually."
"It's a psychologically sound approach," Yaomoro agreed. "It doesn't focus on abstract concepts, but on concrete actions that anyone can take."
Kirishima slammed his fist on the armrest of the chair:
- That's so courageous! He doesn't give up, even when his boss doesn't understand him!
Mineta, who was sitting nearby, adjusted his glasses:
"Although Cheng isn't stupid either. In the business world, ideas are worth whatever the price is worth..."
As Cheng delivered his final line about people needing assurance in simple things, that their bread would be eaten, not one-night heroics, Nezu leaned forward, his beady eyes glittering in the darkness of the theater.
"A classic conflict between idealism and pragmatism," the director said in his soft voice. "But what's interesting is that both are right. Ling Ling understands the human need for meaning, and Cheng understands the need for stability. The question is, can they be reconciled?"
Tokoyami crossed his arms:
— The darkness of pragmatism threatens to engulf the light of hope...
"Tokoyami-kun, please speak normally," Asui asked.
The Almighty leaned back in his chair, his gaze becoming distant:
"I remember my early years... When people didn't believe a symbol could change anything. That one person could inspire millions. But sometimes the world needs just such an idealist as this Ling Ling."
"Although it's usually the realists like Cheng who survive," Aizawa added quietly.
The scene on the screen ended and Class 1-A fell silent, waiting for what would happen next.
Midoriya frantically wrote something down in his notebook, his hand shaking with excitement. Bakugou glanced at him and rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
"I wonder how this will end," Uraraka whispered.
"Ribit. I want to know too," Tsuyu nodded.
And everyone's eyes turned to the screen again, waiting for the next scene.
He placed the glass of tea on the table, and the sound of the lid falling on the glass echoed through the room like a finale. For a moment, Lin Ling felt like a child whose toy had been taken away—not because it was precious, but because no one had heard why he loved it.
"But precisely because," he said, his voice slightly strained with tension, "everyone is selling dreams these days, we need to sell not the dream, but the tool for the dream. Let people be part of a story that won't end with the ad. Let everyone have their own little hero, their own little victory. We'll make this accessible, not just to those with advertising budgets. It'll be... it'll be honest."
Cheng rolled his eyes, but not in the usual mocking way—the kind of eye roll people do when they're tired of the philosophy of aspiring artists and young dreamers. He wasn't so much opposed as tired. His voice was at once vague and precise when he replied:
- Okay. Let's say we've managed to get everyone to buy a "little heroic dose" in the morning. What's next? Do you think people will stop at the dose? No. They'll want a stronger effect. They'll want stars. They'll want living heroes. And that's when my client, Nice, will enter the arena. He can't grow old. He can't tire. He must remain ideal, because ideal sells more than humanity.
His words fell on Lin Ling like cold rain. They weren't an accusation, but they sounded like a sentence: "Your idea may be good for someone's comfort, but not for the market, which will devour you if you're weaker than tradition." Lin Ling felt a rough mass forming in his chest—not so much fear as a premonition of how the project would be crushed again, and perhaps he himself along with it.
He glanced around the small room: a wall covered with portfolios, tablets in stacked piles, the cherished poster of that very Nice, now a stealthy advertisement shot on a tablet. The ideal model—a flawless smile, synchronized movements, no scars, no doubts. A working machine, without emotional turmoil.
"You say," Cheng continued, "that humanity is what will ultimately sell. But humanity requires risk. Risk is something no one in our business buys without insurance. Who will pay for risk in a world where risk is eliminated with clicks?"
The words were simple, but they held a cold, economic truth. He was right: advertising is a craft where risk is measured in percentages. And he spoke as someone who had seen market players crush everything alive for the sake of a trend. His cynicism was a defensive system developed over the years; he taught young people not to love their ideas too much.
Lin Lin left his tablet open and looked down at the screen. The images he'd been so proud of suddenly looked like fragile shards. He wanted to explain that he wasn't just offering a "marketing strategy," but a social impulse, that he'd seen the real faces of everyone who'd agree to this game. He saw a laundress's daughter who would one day discover her courage, and an elderly man who would receive help carrying his bags home for the first time. These were small turning points in life, not explosive trends, but quiet transformations.
"And what are you proposing?" he asked, lowering his head but not retreating. "Instead of the familiar Nice, we offer the people a hero with an imperfect face? What if they prefer not to believe? What if they find it more convenient to believe in the ideal? Do you think they'll choose the hard truth?"
"They'll choose whatever's put under their door," Cheng replied, "but if it's conveniently and beautifully packaged, they'll start asking for more. And when demand exceeds supply, the market will create a demand. That's what we sell: not morality, but desire. You want to channel it. I want to sell it. We're different people for the same product."
He rose, as if intending to finish more easily than he had begun. His gaze on Lina wasn't stern, but calculating—like that of a man who had long ago learned to select those who would survive in this commercial squalor. He made a gesture with his hand that served both as an instruction and a gentle refusal—"Try again later, but know your place."
"Please," he said, "don't take this personally. Go and polish the presentation: numbers, forecasts, focus group tests. If the numbers are good, I'll sign off. If not, we'll stick with the old way."
The phone in his office rank like a trigger. Cheng picked it up, listening to the voice on the other end of the line—short, even, and without a shadow of doubt. When he hung up, his gaze reflected not the irritated self-assurance of a boss, but a similar, but subdued, anxiety: on the other end of the line was not just a meeting partner—it was Ms. J., and her word meant more to them than the loud words in office arguments.
"They got another offer," he said dryly, trying to maintain a feigned calm. His voice sounded businesslike, but inside, everything was different: Miss J. had given orders, and those orders were clear—the brand must not suffer. She informed him that the client had chosen a different path, and that their order had essentially been superfluous. There was no panic in her words—only calculation. For Cheng, this meant more than just the loss of a contract; it was a death sentence for his agency, a sign that decisions were now being made higher up.
He hung up and looked at Lin with a brief, cold gaze that instantly combined weariness and practicality: "Do as I say." The words came out short and harsh—not because he wanted them, but because he couldn't afford to appear weak in front of those above him. Miss Jay had given the orders, so he had to maintain a semblance of order and control.
"We're forced to terminate your participation," he said in the manner managers were trained to speak: evenly, without shouting or unnecessary details. "You can pick up your things at the end of the day," he told Lin.
The screen returned to the office scene. The tension in the dialogue between Ling Ling and Cheng reached its peak.
When Lin Lin asked his question—"What if people choose not to believe? What if they prefer to believe in an ideal?"—Todoroki sat up straighter in his chair:
"He's asking the right question. People often choose comfortable lies over inconvenient truths."
"Like my father," he added more quietly, and several people nearby heard the bitterness in his voice.
Yaomoro placed her hand on his shoulder in support.
Chen's answer sounded like a cold sentence: "They'll choose whatever's put under their door."
"A cynical manipulator," Iida muttered through clenched teeth. "He treats people like... consumers, devoid of their own will!"
"But he's not entirely wrong," Bakugou suddenly interjected. "Most people really are dumb sheep who follow wherever they're led."
"Bakugou-kun!" Uraraka was indignant.
"What? I'm telling the truth," he snapped. "Look at the crowd of fans who buy any merch with the heroes' images on it. They don't think, they just consume."
Midoriya frowned:
"But Kacchan... Ling Ling believes that humans are better than this. That they are capable of more."
"And Cheng believes in the market," Aizawa added from the back row. "And frankly, the market is rarely wrong. It's cruel, but effective."
When Cheng said, "We don't sell morality, but desire. You want to direct it. I want to sell it," Nezu bowed his head.
— A philosophical difference. Both work with the same material—human aspirations. But their methods and goals are diametrically opposed.
The Almighty gripped the armrests of the chair:
"Ling Ling wants to elevate people. Cheng wants to exploit them. That's the difference between a hero and... someone who exploits heroism."
On the screen, Cheng stood up, his gaze calculating. The gesture of his hand—both a command and a gentle refusal—made Kirishima clench his fists.
— "Try again later, but know your place"... He treats him like a subordinate! Like a nobody!
"Because in his world, Ling Ling is a nobody," Jiro said quietly. "He's just a junior employee with no influence or connections."
When Cheng said, "Please don't take this personally. Go and finish the presentation: numbers, forecasts, focus groups," Asui shook her head.
— Ribit. He says "please," but in reality he's sending him to do pointless work.
"A classic corporate tactic," Iida agreed. "Creating the appearance of an opportunity when, in reality, the decision has already been made."
And then the phone rang.
Everyone in the room tensed. The sound of the phone on the screen sounded ominous, like a harbinger of disaster.
Cheng picked up the phone, and Class 1-A watched as his face changed from a professional mask to a subtle look of worry.
"Miss J," Hagakure whispered. "Whoever it is, Cheng is afraid of her."
"He's not afraid—he respects her authority," Todoroki corrected. "That's worse. Fear can be overcome. Systemic authority, no."
When Cheng hung up, his gaze reflecting not irritated self-confidence but muted anxiety, Nezu narrowed his eyes.
— Interesting. Even those who have power obey those who have even more power. Hierarchy.
"The client received a different offer," Yaomoro repeated Cheng's words. "That means..."
"The agency is losing the contract," Iida concluded. "And for them, it's a disaster."
Midoriya leaned forward:
"But why is he looking at Ling Ling? It's not his fault!"
"Because someone needs to be the scapegoat," Bakugou replied grimly. "That's how it always works. When the people at the top screw up, those at the bottom suffer."
Aizawa nodded:
"Exactly. Miss J gave the orders, and Cheng can't afford to look weak in front of his superiors. So he's taking his anger out on someone weaker than him."
Cheng's words came as a blow: "We are forced to terminate your participation."
A heavy silence fell over the hall.
"No..." Uraraka breathed out, her eyes filling with tears.
"He's firing him," Kaminari whispered. "Just like that. Without even giving him a chance."
"You can pick up your things at the end of the day," Sero repeated bitterly. "Not even until the end of the week. Until the end of the day."
Kirishima jumped up from his seat, his voice trembling with indignation:
"THIS IS UNFAIR! Ling Ling did nothing wrong! He was simply trying to change the system for the better!"
"Sit down, Kirishima," Aizawa said quietly. "Justice and reality are two different things."
Midoriya stared at the screen, his face pale. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn't notice them.
"This... this is so wrong. He tried so hard. He believed in his idea. He wanted to help people become heroes..."
"And the system crushed him," Todoroki finished, his voice icy. "Just as it crushes everyone who tries to go against the tide."
Yaomoro wiped away her tears:
— But he was right! His idea was good! Why... why is this happening?
Nezu turned to the class, his voice soft but serious.
"Because, students, ideas—no matter how good—must survive in the real world. And the real world is not ruled by ideals, but by power, money, and influence. Ling Ling came face to face with this."
The Almighty lowered his head. His heart was clenched with pain—he understood all too well what Ling Ling was feeling now:
"I remember my early years... When I was rejected too. They said my ideas were naive, that the world couldn't be changed with just a smile. But I didn't give up. I..." He trailed off, looking at the screen.
On the screen, Lin Lin stood in the middle of the office, his face expressionless, but his eyes betrayed the inner storm.
Mineta took off his glasses and wiped them with trembling hands:
"It's too real. I wasn't ready for this."
"No one's ready," Jiro said quietly. "But that's part of growing up. Understanding that the world isn't always fair."
Bakugo sat motionless, his jaw clenched. Somewhere deep inside, he felt rage—not at Ling Ling, not at Cheng, but at the system itself, which crushed those who tried to change things.
"If it were me..." he muttered. "I wouldn't let them do this to me."
"But you're strong, Kacchan," Midoriya replied. "And Ling Ling... he's just a normal person. He has no quirk, no power. Just an idea and faith."
"And that's not enough?" Uraraka asked, her voice shaking.
Nobody answered.
On the screen, Cheng turned away from Ling Ling, his figure appearing heavy, as if he was carrying on his shoulders not only his own decisions, but also the entire weight of the system that had forced him to make them.
Tokoyami stood up, his cloak fluttering:
— The darkness of corporate cruelty swallowed the light of hope of a young dreamer...
"Sit down," Sero said tiredly.
But Tokoyami didn't sit down. He stared at the screen with a serious expression:
"But even in darkness, light can be born. Even in defeat, victory can be hidden."
Nezu nodded:
"Wise words, Tokoyami-kun. The story isn't over yet."
Class 1-A fell silent, all eyes focused on the screen where Lin Lin was slowly gathering his things.
It was a lesson they hadn't expected—a lesson that heroism doesn't always win. That sometimes the system is stronger than ideals. That justice doesn't always prevail.
But the lesson was not over yet.
And Class 1-A waited with bated breath to see what would happen next.
The words fell heavily; there was no parochial indifference in them, only the coldness of businesslike calculation. Lin felt a lump in his chest tighten—not because of the lost contract, but because in this chain of decisions he was just a small cog, which could be removed and replaced at any moment. Behind the office door, Miss Jay continued to rule the world as if human destinies were just another item on her agenda. **
42 years after the creation of the Commission.
Cheng's words fell heavily, like iron weights. The camera slowly pulled away from Ling Ling, revealing his figure—small, lonely, lost in the enormous office with its cold light and indifferent walls.
Midoriya pressed his hand to his chest, feeling his own heart squeeze.
— He feels... insignificant. Like he doesn't matter in this system.
The voiceover spoke Ling Ling's thoughts: "It wasn't the lost contract that hurt, but the realization that in this chain of decisions he was just a small cog that could be removed and replaced at any time . "
Bakugou gripped the armrests of the chair so hard they creaked.
— Gear... A replaceable gear in a machine.
"That's exactly how corporations treat people," Todoroki added quietly. "As resources. As tools. Not as individuals."
Yaomoro shook her head, her voice trembling.
"But he's a human being! With his own dreams, ideas, feelings! How can you treat him so... heartlessly?"
"Because feelings don't matter to the system," Aizawa replied from the back row. "Only efficiency and profit matter."
On screen, the camera panned past the office door, revealing a long corridor leading to another office—more luxurious, more remote. The voiceover continued: "Behind the office door, Miss J. continued to rule the world, as if human destinies were just another item on her agenda . "
"Miss J..." Uraraka whispered. "She doesn't even know she just ruined someone's life."
"Or she knows, but she doesn't care," Jiro added gloomily.
Kirishima stood up, his voice full of indignation:
"That's wrong! People shouldn't be just items on someone's agenda! We're all important! Every single one of us!"
"Sit down, Kirishima," Iida asked, but his voice sounded uncertain. "Although... you're right. This really is wrong."
The Almighty sat motionless, his face grave. He saw in this scene a reflection of the world he had fought against all his life—a world where the strong control the destinies of the weak, where people become expendable:
"That's why we need heroes," he said quietly. "Not to defeat villains. But to remind the world that every person matters. That no one should be just a cog in the wheel."
And then a caption appeared on the screen that made the entire cinema freeze:
"42 years after the creation of the Commission"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Midoriya slowly turned to face the others, his eyes wide.
— Commission? What commission?
Iida adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand:
- This... this reminds me of...
"Our Hero Public Safety Commission," Todoroki finished, his voice cold as ice. "The organization that controls all heroes. That decides who can be a hero and who can't."
Nezu leaned forward, his beady eyes glittering in the darkness.
— Interesting. Very interesting. This anime isn't just about advertising and idealism. It's about a system of control.
Bakugo exhaled sharply:
"So that's what this is all about. Not the heroes. But those who control the heroes."
Yaomoro covered her mouth with her hand:
— So Miss J... is she part of this Commission? The one who decides which heroes will be popular and which won't?
"Ribit. It turns out that even heroes in their world are a product," Asui said. "They're created, promoted, and written off when they become unprofitable."
Aizawa crossed his arms, his gaze sharpening.
"Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Hero ratings, sponsors, contracts. We, too, are part of a system that turns heroism into a commodity."
"Shota!" the Almighty objected. "They're not the same thing!"
"Really?" Aizawa turned to him. "Tell me honestly, Toshinori. How many times was your image more important than your true feelings? How many times were you forced to smile when you wanted to cry because you were the 'Symbol of Peace'?"
All Might fell silent. He couldn't answer because Aizawa was right.
Midoriya looked at his teacher, then back at the screen:
"So... Ling Ling was trying to change the system from within. He wanted to make heroism accessible to everyone, not just a select few. But the Commission... they didn't want that. Because it threatened their control."
"Exactly," Nezu nodded. "If anyone can be a hero, why do we need an organization that decides who's worthy of the title?"
Tokoyami stood up, his voice sounding solemn:
"The darkness of the system swallows the light of individuality! The Commission is the shadow that controls who can shine!"
This time no one told him to sit down. Because he was right.
Kaminari scratched the back of his head:
"So wait... if this Commission has been around for 42 years... that means an entire generation has grown up under its control. They don't even know what the world was like before it."
"Like us," Jiro added quietly. "We, too, grew up in a world where heroism is controlled by the Commission. We don't know what it would be like without it."
Bakugou clenched his fists:
"So that's why they fired Ling Ling. Not because his idea was bad. But because it was dangerous. It gave power to ordinary people. And the Commission can't allow that."
Kirishima slowly sank back into his chair, his usual smile gone.
"This... this is more frightening than any villain. Because the villain can be defeated. And the system?"
"The system can only be changed from within," Iida replied. "Slowly, gradually, risking everything."
Uraraka wiped away her tears:
— Like Ling Ling tried to do. And he was crushed.
The camera returned to Ling Ling, gathering his things. But now his figure seemed not just lonely—it seemed heroic. A small man against a vast system.
The Almighty stood up, his voice full of determination:
"But the story doesn't end with defeat. Even when the system wins, the idea lives on. And sooner or later, it will take root."
Nezu nodded:
— True. 42 years is a long time. But even the strongest systems eventually develop cracks. The question is who will be bold enough to widen those cracks.
Midoriya clutched his notebook, a fire burning in his eyes.
"Ling Ling was that kind of person. He tried. Even knowing he might lose."
"That's what makes him a hero," Todoroki added. "Not strength. Not ability. But the courage to challenge the system."
Class 1-A sat in silence, processing what they'd seen. This was more than just anime. It was a mirror reflecting their own world.
Mineta asked quietly:
"What if our Commission... is like that too? What if we, too, are just cogs in someone's machine?"
No one answered. Because no one knew the answer.
Or didn't want to know.
The next scene began to play on the screen, and Class 1-A once again turned their gaze to the screen, waiting for the continuation of the story of Ling Ling, the man who dared to challenge the system.
And lost.
For now.
The roof smelled of metallic heat and old tar paper; the city, like a vast, tired organism, was slowly catching its breath—some were already on their way to work, others were still twiddling their thumbs in the residential areas. Lin Lin stood by the parapet, his elbows resting on the cold concrete, thinking about how easily something you believe in can crumble. He held an empty coffee cup in his hand—the sharp, hot, sweet smell that lingered reminded him of sleepless nights at the office, of edits that made his fingers shake, of the little details that make up a campaign.
He watched and couldn't tear his eyes away: Moon's image was honed to surgical precision, every fold of her dress, every shimmer of her hair—everything was crafted to strike a chord in the viewer's chest. This wasn't just a pretty picture. It was a machine—a machine that conveyed a sense of clarity and salvation in a world where everything around him seemed raw and untested. Lin remembered how, as a child, he'd thought of heroes—not the stars on screen, but those who came to help. For him, a hero was a handshake, not chewing gum for advertising. And now this distinction—the personal and the commercial—hung over him like a smiling giant.
He suddenly felt like throwing his tablet at the screen. Not because he envied Moon—envy was too simple an emotion—but because this sense of venality offended him as someone who had tried to turn advertising into something more. It was as if someone had taken the thin thread of human generosity and baked it into a lacquered box, writing instructions on it and labeling it with a price. And this act—the substitution of meaning—was not just a commercial gimmick; it was a mockery of the few who sincerely believed that small acts of kindness could change a neighbor's life.
Whether by accident or design, at that moment when the airship flipped the frame and Moon raised her hand, as if inviting the viewer to follow her, something snapped inside Lina. His heart didn't clench with envy; it pulsed with anxiety, like the anticipation of a storm. He mentioned nights at the agency, when he and his colleagues argued about how advertising copy shouldn't just sell but also leave a mark—a small mark that could lead a person back to kindness. He remembered how fragile truth seemed in their world, and how quickly it was replaced by glitter and convenient metaphors.
"Here they are," he whispered to himself, the words hanging in the cold air of the roof. "They'll buy everything again."
He wanted to scream—not at the sky, but at those sitting in air-conditioned offices making decisions: Ms. J., Mr. Shan, the producers who considered human gestures a commodity. But instead of a scream, a quiet, almost whispery groan emerged, and he felt a bitterness forming in his throat that couldn't be expressed with diplomatic words. It wasn't so much despair as a bitter understanding—an understanding of how fragile the thread was that connected sincerity to what was considered "mass market."
He ran his palm over the parapet's facet; the concrete left a cold mark on his skin. A watch strap left a faint imprint on his wrist, the trace of sleepless nights. He remembered Cheng's voice in the office: "We don't need you." The word echoed in his head, but now it felt less like an insult and more like a challenge: not to let it get lost, not to let the idea dissolve into a pattern. Lin Ling had always considered himself a man of action—not grand speeches, but action. And it was precisely this confrontation that made the moment on the roof more than just a scene of mourning: it was a test.
A glimmer—a child he'd once helped carry his bags; an old woman across the street whose window he'd once washed; those whose faces flashed through his memory—they were all part of this project, if given the chance. He saw them not as a target audience, but as people, and for their sake, reading the slogan from the airship was too little.
The wind blew harder, blowing away the street dust, and the music playing on the airship softened for a second, as if the ad itself paused before resuming. Lin clenched his fists; his fingers grazed the brick surface, searching for purchase, as if he could cling to reality in this artificial world. He heard a door slam somewhere in the distance, and somewhere below, someone chuckled casually—an ordinary sound on an ordinary day. But now, in that laughter, there was a note: "We continue because it's profitable."
He didn't want to leave the roof with that silent, caustic feeling that lingered from the actions of others. He needed to do something—not a grand gesture, not a loud protest, but a step beyond words. So he did what he always did at such moments: he pulled his treasured pen from his pocket and quickly sketched a scrap of paper—not an advertisement, but a description of a small ritual that could transform the word "hero" into action. The lines were uneven, but they held the truth—a truth that couldn't be hidden under a layer of gloss.
He unfolded the sheet and looked up to where Moon was still smiling, and suddenly the voice that had previously been full of resentment turned into a quiet threat—not to people, but to the system that was replacing meaning.
"If no one gives me a chance," he said to himself, "then I'll take it away."
These words weren't a vow to anyone, but a pact with his own conscience. He suppressed the primal urge to tear down the airship, not because he wanted to cause harm, but because he wanted the image to stop dictating reality. But reality remained: Moon shone in the sky, the light of her smile spilled across the streets, and thousands of people walked out of habit—buying coffee, entering their offices, unaware that somewhere a free wind was blowing toward change. Lin Ling pocketed the sketch, leaned against the parapet, and closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts—for something lay ahead that disrupted the usual sense of time, something that demandedness from him, not decisive plans and words.
***
He didn't have time to fully comprehend where the man in white had appeared—it was as if Nice had emerged from the advertisement itself: first the light, then the silhouette, then the smile that Lin Ling had seen a thousand times in holograms and montages. Nice walked along the edge of the roof as easily as if it were a stage, not a concrete street beneath his feet. He raised his hand—that same gesture, a finger pointing downward, as if blessing someone or giving an order—and smiled. The smile was serene until the moment it became the last thing anyone saw.
Lin Lin looked up and for a moment saw pure, calm confidence in Nice's face. Then—a step. Emptiness. Neither momentum nor the floating advertisements helped his body: it fell in a silent abyss towards the asphalt, and the world around him shrank to the crack of impact with concrete. The sound was neither a scream nor a metallic crash—it was a combination of all those noises that don't fit into a familiar feed: phone calls, sirens, the whisper of cameras. People on the neighboring rooftops screamed, some jumped back, some clutched their hearts.
The screen filled with an image of the roof—the metallic glow of old tarpaper, the city below slowly awakening in the morning fog. The camera showed Ling Ling standing by the parapet, an empty coffee cup in his hands.
The atmosphere in the cinema changed. The tension became almost palpable.
"He's on the roof..." Uraraka whispered, gripping the armrests of her chair. "Is... is it safe?"
"Ribit. I'm not sure I like where this is going," Asui added quietly.
On screen, a voiceover conveyed Ling Ling's thoughts about how easily what you believe in can crumble. The camera panned to a massive airship in the sky, bearing an image of Moon—the perfect heroine, every fold of her dress crafted with surgical precision.
Midoriya leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen.
— He looks at the advertisement... at the ideal hero that the system has created.
As the voiceover narrated Lin Lin's thoughts— "It wasn't just a pretty picture. It was a machine—a machine that conveyed a sense of clarity and salvation in a world where everything around him seemed raw and untested" —Todoroki frowned.
— Machine... He sees in this hero not a person, but a product.
"Like that Nice guy from the office," Yaomoro added. "A flawless, soulless ideal."
Bakugou crossed his arms, his gaze glued to the screen.
— He's angry. He's not envious, he's angry.
When Ling Ling recalled his childhood idea of heroes— "not the stars on the screen, but the ones who came to the rescue. For him, a hero was a handshake, not a piece of gum for advertising" —the Almighty sighed heavily:
— Exactly. Heroism is not a product for sale. It is... humanity.
Aizawa glanced at him quickly.
"But in our world, that's also a product, Toshinori. We've just learned not to think about it."
On the screen, Lin Lin felt the urge to throw the tablet at the airship's screen. "Not because Moon was jealous—envy was too simple an emotion—but because this sense of venality offended him as someone who was trying to turn advertising into something more . "
"He feels betrayed," Jiro said quietly. "Betrayal of the very idea of heroism."
Kirishima clenched his fists:
— They took something sacred—the desire to help—and turned it into a commodity with a price tag!
When the voiceover described how "someone took the thin thread of human generosity and baked it into a lacquered box, wrote instructions on it, and slapped a price tag on it ," Nezu tilted his head.
— A metaphor for the commercialization of heroism. Accurate and painful.
Something changed in Ling Ling's expression on the screen. When the airship flipped the frame and Moon raised her hand, as if inviting the viewer to follow her, "something broke inside Ling Ling . "
Midoriya straightened up:
- No... this is bad. Something inside him broke...
"His heart didn't clench with envy; it pulsed with anxiety," Iida read aloud from the screen, his voice trembling. "Like a premonition of a storm."
Uraraka covered her mouth with her hand:
— He's on the edge. I can feel it. He's on the very edge...
When Ling Ling whispered, "There they are. They'll buy everything again," Bakugou gritted his teeth:
"He sees how easy it is to manipulate people. How easy it is to sell them fake heroism."
On screen, Ling Ling wanted to scream— "not at the sky, but at those sitting in air-conditioned offices making decisions: Ms. J, Mr. Shang, the producers who considered human gestures a commodity . "
"He wants to fight the system," Todoroki whispered. "But how can one person fight it?"
The Almighty gripped the armrests so tightly they creaked. He saw himself in Ling Ling—the same self who had once been on the brink, who had also felt powerless against the vast system.
When the voiceover said, "We don't need you" —an echo of Cheng's words— "but now it seemed less like an insult and more like a challenge" —Kirishima jumped up:
- Yes! Don't give up! Turn pain into strength!
Midoriya wrote quickly in his notebook, tears smearing across the pages:
— He remembers the people he helped... a child, an old woman... They are not the target audience. They are people.
On the screen, Lin Lin pulled out a pen and began scribbling something on a piece of paper. "Not an advertisement, but a description of a small ritual that could turn the word 'hero' into action . "
"He doesn't give up," Yaomoro breathed. "Even now, he's trying to do something."
And then came the words that made the entire hall freeze:
"If no one gives me a chance, then I'll take it . "
Silence.
Absolute, ringing silence.
"What... what does he mean?" Hagakure whispered.
Aizawa leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
- This is a threat. He's crossing the line.
"No," the Almighty countered. "It's not a threat. It's... determination. Desperate determination."
On the screen, Ling Ling closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. The wind ruffled his hair. The city roared below, indifferent to his inner struggle.
And suddenly—
A man in white appeared on the roof.
Class 1-A collectively winced.
"Who is this?!" Kaminari exclaimed.
On screen, a man walked along the edge of a rooftop as effortlessly as if it were a stage and not the concrete street beneath his feet. The camera zoomed in on his face.
"NICE!" Midoriya exhaled. "He's that perfect hero from the commercial!"
Nice raised his hand—that gesture, a finger pointing downward—and smiled. "The smile was serene until the moment it was the last thing anyone saw . "
"No," Uraraka whispered. "No, no, no..."
Nice took a step.
Into the void.
The screen showed his fall in horrific, slow motion. His body, deprived of any support, plummeted toward the asphalt. "The world around him narrowed to the crack of impact with concrete . "
HIT.
The sound was terrifying—not a scream, not a metallic crash, but a combination of all those noises that don't fit into the usual picture: phone calls, sirens, the whisper of cameras.
Screams erupted in the cinema.
- WHAT?! - Kaminari jumped up from his seat.
— HE JUMPED?! — Mineta slid off the chair.
"OH MY GOD!" Uraraka covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Midoriya sat frozen, his face white as chalk. The notebook fell from his hands.
— He... he just... jumped. Just like that. With a smile.
Bakugo froze, his eyes wide.
— What the hell... What the hell was that?!
Kirishima grabbed his head:
— The perfect hero just committed suicide! In front of everyone! WHY?!
Todoroki gripped the armrests, his breathing quickening.
— This... this isn't normal. Something's wrong. Something's very wrong with this world.
Yaomoro cried openly:
— People on the roofs were screaming... How could they just... watch?!
Jiro hugged herself:
— Cameras. He said — the whisper of cameras. They were filming this. They were filming a man dying!
Iida stood up, his hands making convulsive movements:
"This is unacceptable! This is a complete violation of all safety protocols! Where were the heroes?! Where was the help?!"
Tokoyami stood motionless, his usual theatricality gone:
— The perfect light... went out. Just like that. Without reason. Without meaning.
The Almighty covered his face with his hands, his body trembling.
— No... no, no, no... Why? Why did he do it?
Aizawa stood up, his face gloomy:
"Because he wasn't a person. He was a product. And when a product is no longer needed..."
He didn't finish the sentence. There was no need.
Nezu sat motionless, his usually cheerful expression replaced by a serious one:
"The system demands sacrifice. Nice was the perfect hero—without flaws, without doubts. But what happens when the ideal no longer meets the demands of the market?"
"He'll be disposed of," Todoroki finished coldly. "Just like my father wanted to dispose of me when I didn't live up to his expectations."
The screen showed Ling Ling's face—shock, horror, incomprehension. He looked at the spot where Nice had just stood.
Midoriya spoke with difficulty, his voice trembling:
— Ling Ling... he just saw the system killing its heroes. Literally killing them.
"And now he knows," Bakugo added quietly, "that if he continues to fight, the same thing could happen to him."
Uraraka sobbed:
- This is too cruel... This is just... How is it possible?!
Asui hugged her, but her own voice trembled:
— Ribit. I thought we were watching an anime about heroism. But this... this is terrible.
Kirishima clenched and unclenched his fists, his eyes red:
— The perfect hero... just stepped into the void. With a smile. As if it were... normal.
"Because it was normal for him," Mineta whispered, removing his glasses with trembling hands. "He was programmed to be perfect. Even in death."
Sero leaned back in his chair, his face pale.
— I wasn't ready for this. Not ready at all.
The Almighty slowly raised his head, his eyes were red:
"This... this is a world where heroes are created and destroyed on command. Where human life means nothing unless it brings profit."
"Our world," Aizawa added quietly. "Only taken to its logical conclusion."
Class 1-A sat in stunned silence, watching the screen as the camera slowly pulled away from the rooftop, showing the city continuing to function as if nothing had happened.
People were going to work. Drinking coffee. Entering offices.
And somewhere on the asphalt lay the body of the ideal hero.
And no one cared.
"Welcome to reality," Aizawa whispered.
Nobody answered.
Because there was nothing to answer.
On the screen—and we were returning to the roof—time stood still for a moment. Lin Lin stood with his hand over his mouth, because his tongue would have burst not into words but into a scream, and such a scream would have seemed absurd against the backdrop of his perfect smile, now shattered on the sidewalk. He saw Nice lying there, her body unnatural, like a doll whose strings had been torn out. There was as much blood as in their nightly news reports; broken shoes, shirts, small objects—and all of it became part of the image that couldn't be simply erased.
The seconds stretched. Someone rushed down the stairs, someone was already reaching for their phone. Lin Lin stepped closer, unable to stop himself—his gaze caught on a detail that suddenly seemed familiar: the same gesture—a finger, a still-warm sign of direction—and this strange feeling, as if the gesture were addressed directly to him.
The sharp sound of an engine distracted me, and something black and fast cut through the sky—a luxury car, and behind it, a white helicopter, as if the advertising texture had come to life and vanished over the edge of the sky. Miss J. appeared not as a woman, but as a crisis management team in human form: emotionless, meticulously planned, step by step rehearsing a pre-arranged choreography. Her face was cold, but her eyes were smoothly focused. She passed by the people around her, and they parted like water before a stone.
"Who saw it first?" she asked curtly, not looking at Lin. Her voice was even, almost clinically clear. "Take the phones off the line, control the flow. No one's leaving. No one's saying anything."
The guards felt the order like a physical blow; men in dark suits darted forward, forming a tight cordon. One of them, tall and stocky, ran to the scene of the crash, dropped to his knees, and, without looking at Lin, motioned with his hand, "Remove the witnesses." Lin froze, uncomprehending, as someone grabbed him by the elbows. The hand was firm, merciless, with that same cold-blooded practicality that knows no words of sympathy: "You are noise. We are objects. Step aside."
"What happened here?" Lin blurted out before he could stop himself. He wanted to shout, "He fell!" or "He jumped!"—not from understanding, but from that intuitive sense of reality shifting, when the picture he'd been preparing to torn apart.
Miss J. spun around as if the question were just an inconvenient detail. Her gaze didn't need confirmation; she'd already seen the scene unfold. "You heard me," she said quietly, but her words were icy. "No one's leaving, and there are no leaks." She leaned one toward the guards and whispered so quietly that Lin only heard a few words: "Take him away. He saw. He could be trouble."
The screen returned to the roof. Time seemed to slow down.
Ling Ling stood with his hand over his mouth, his body trembling. The camera showed his eyes—wide, filled with horror and incomprehension.
"He's in shock," Uraraka whispered, her own voice shaking. "He just saw a man die right in front of him."
The screen showed Nice's body on the sidewalk. "The body was unnatural, like a doll whose strings had been cut ." The camera was merciless, showing blood, broken shoes, shirts, and small objects.
Midoriya turned away, his face greenish:
- I can't... it's too real...
Bakugou clenched his fists, but his gaze remained on the screen:
"They're showing this on purpose. So we understand that this isn't a game. This is real death."
As Ling Ling stepped closer, unable to stop himself, and his gaze caught on a detail— "the same gesture, the finger, the still-warm sign of direction—and that strange feeling, as if the gesture was addressed directly to him" —Todoroki straightened up:
— What? Was the gesture for him? Nice... did he want to say something to Ling Ling before he died?
"Or it was a message," Nezu added, his voice serious. "A final message from a dying hero."
The sharp sound of an engine shattered the tension of the scene. Something black and fast cut through the sky—a luxury car, followed by a white helicopter.
"Miss J," Yaomoro whispered. "She's here."
A woman appeared on the screen. The camera showed her face—cold, emotionless, with smoothly focused eyes. "She appeared not as a woman, but as a crisis management team in human form . "
Aizawa leaned forward:
— Here she is. The real face of the system.
As Miss Jay passed the people, and they parted like water before a stone, Kirishima gripped the armrests:
"She doesn't even look worried! The man just died, and she..."
"Who saw it first?" Iida repeated her words from the screen, his voice full of indignation. "She's not asking, 'How is he?' or 'Can we help?' She's asking who saw it!"
"Take away the phones, control the flow. No one leaves. No one says anything," Jiro quoted. "She's... she's covering up a crime!"
On the screen, guards in dark suits rushed forward, forming a tight cordon. One of them grabbed Ling Ling by the elbows.
Midoriya jumped up from his seat:
— NO! They're arresting him?! FOR WHAT?!
" You are noise. We are objects. Step aside ," Bakugo repeated the guard's words. "They call humans noise. A nuisance."
When Ling Ling shouted, "What happened here?" his voice was full of despair and confusion.
"He's trying to understand!" Uraraka exclaimed. "He just wants to know the truth!"
But Miss Jay turned around, her gaze icy. "You heard me. No one leaves, and there are no leaks . "
Class 1-A froze in horror.
"She... she's going to do something to him," Asui whispered. "Ribit. This is very bad."
When Ms. Jay leaned toward the security guard and whispered, "Get him out. He saw. He could be trouble," the entire theater erupted:
"SHE WANTS TO REMOVE HIM!" Kaminari shouted.
"HE'S A WITNESS! SHE CAN'T JUST TAKE HIM AWAY!" Kirishima jumped up, his quirk activating from the stress, hardening his skin.
"THIS IS ILLEGAL!" Iida's voice was filled with righteous anger. "Witnesses have a right to a defense! This is a violation of every law imaginable!"
Todoroki stood up, his eyes burning with a cold fire:
"She's not afraid of the law. Because she IS the law in their world."
Yaomoro covered her face with her hands:
- It's a nightmare... They hide the hero's death as if it were just... an inconvenience!
The Almighty rose from his seat, his voice filled with rage, a rare emotion for him:
— THIS IS WRONG! A hero died! We need an investigation, help, explanations! Not a cover-up!
Aizawa put his hand on his shoulder:
"Toshinori, sit down. This is their world. The rules are different there."
"THEN THEIR RULES ARE WRONG!" The Almighty did not sit down.
On the screen, security guards began grabbing people and confiscating their phones. Panic spread among the witnesses. Some tried to escape, but they were stopped.
"They're isolating all witnesses," Nezu said, his usually cheerful tone gone. "This isn't just a cover-up. This is a massive information control operation."
Midoriya sat, his body shaking:
"Ling Ling... he was just trying to make the world a better place. And now his life is in danger because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Wrong place?" Bakugou turned to him. "Deku, he WAS there. Nice jumped right in front of him. That gesture... You think it was an accident?"
Midoriya froze:
— Do you think... Nice chose this place on purpose? Because Ling Ling was there?
"The last message," Todoroki whispered. "Nice knew he was going to die. And he wanted someone specific to see it."
Jiro hugged herself:
"But why? Why would the perfect hero commit suicide in front of the man who tried to change the system?"
Tokoyami stood up, his cloak fluttering:
"Because the ideal was broken from within. He passed the baton. He showed Ling Ling the truth—that the system kills its heroes when they are no longer needed."
Mineta wiped the sweat from his forehead:
— Is this... is this a message? Suicide as a message?
"Not suicide," Aizawa said coldly. "A sacrifice. Nice sacrificed himself to open one person's eyes."
On the screen, guards dragged Ling Ling away from the scene. He struggled, trying to break free, but there were too many of them.
Uraraka cried:
- No, no, please... Let someone help him!
But no one helped.
Miss Jay stood in the center of the chaos, motionless as a statue. Her face remained calm, even as people screamed, sirens blared, and helicopters circled around her.
"She controls everything," Yaomoro whispered. "Every detail. Every person."
"This is what real power looks like," Nezu said. "Not shouting, no threats. Cold, methodical control."
Iida clenched his fists:
— But this... this is tyranny! Outright tyranny!
"Welcome to a world where the Commission rules everything," Todoroki replied. "Where witnesses become problems. Where the death of a hero is simply a PR crisis to be solved."
Bakugo sat back down slowly, his face gloomy.
"Ling Ling screwed up. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now they'll do to him what they did to Nice."
"NO!" Midoriya screamed. "He can't end up like this! He's a hero! A real hero!"
"Heroes die, Deku," Bakugou said quietly. "Especially those who go against the system."
The Almighty slowly sank back into his chair, his face grey.
— I... I don't know if I'm ready to see what happens next.
"But we must," Aizawa said. "Because this is a lesson. A harsh one, but a necessary one. About what happens when power becomes absolute."
On the screen, the camera slowly zoomed out from the roof, revealing the scale of the operation—dozens of guards, black cars, helicopters, a cordon. It all unfolded in a matter of minutes.
And somewhere in the center of this chaos, Ling Ling disappeared from sight, he was being dragged away.
And no one knew if they would see him again.
Class 1-A sat in stunned silence, staring at the screen.
The lesson continued.
And he became more and more cruel.
A brief moment of hesitation, and two men slid toward Lin. One grabbed him by the shoulder, the other by the waist, and before he could even comprehend what was happening, he was being pulled toward the service stairs. The crowd around him was at first confused, then began to bustle: someone was trying to take photos, someone was shouting, "Call an ambulance," "That was him!" and a tremor of understanding entered the din, as if this wasn't a rescue, but a performance.
Lin tried to break free, but his arms were tightly held, and the smell of gasoline and concrete chips in his nose mingled with the pounding of blood in his ears. At one point, he heard boots press against his ankles, and he realized that screaming would only hasten his escape—everyone would think he was confused, not a witness. He silently allowed himself to be dragged down the dark stairs, his heart pounding, but he forced himself to breathe evenly, concentrating on one thing: remembering everything. Every sound, every gesture—a record for himself. He didn't know why, but he knew: if he didn't remember the details, his words would be worthless later.
They lowered him into an unmarked van. It was dark inside and smelled of old oil, with only a single lamp faintly outlining their silhouettes. The truck is cracked; somewhere behind him, rain splashed on the roof, the drumbeats seeming to cut off the world from the outside. Lin Ling was pushed against the wall and bound—gently but securely, as if this was meant to look like care, not kidnapping.
He heard voices, and at first it was just the sound of metal crashing against metal. Then one phrase saw in like oil under a cap, and his brain grasped the meaning: "We can't afford a leak. The brand comes first." Ms. J. spoke confidently, as if she were standing in a studio giving directions from a script, and Mr. Shan, whom he'd seen before in promotional materials, responded with a more even tone than expected of someone accustomed to making tough decisions.
The van pulled away, and the world beyond the walls faded away, leaving him in a darkness where many questions arose, and one inexorable understanding: he was the key to the plan just announced. They weighed their options: arrange a "voluntary exit," talk about depression and a secret illness, or make the incident seem like a characterless tragedy. Miss Jay sighed, but there was no regret in her sigh—only calculation.
"We need a theory," she said finally, her voice like a knife, cold and precise. "A couple of words that people will agree to accept. Something simple. 'Nice left because he was tired.' 'He wanted to retire.' Or 'a condition no one noticed.'"
"And if someone saw it," Mr. Shan asked. His voice was calm, but his words conveyed the reflex of a boss accustomed to calculating risks. "Someone who can say it wasn't so?"
"Then he'll disappear," Miss J. replied without pause. "We won't start a war with the crowd. The brand is more important. If someone poses a threat, we'll deal with it like the professionals do."
Lin heard these words and realized that "disappear" wasn't just a threat; it was a task set, with decisions already made. At that moment, his mouth went dry, and bitterness bubbled in his head: not "us," not "the world," but "they." Those who consider brands more important than lives, those who are capable of making a scene out of despair.
He felt the car slow around the turn, and at the same moment the van stopped. The door opened slightly, and fresh air washed over his face—night air, damp, filled with the scent of tires and distant streetlights. But there was no freedom: the door hadn't been opened for him; it had been opened to unload the product of the event—boxes, bags, accessories that would be used in the upcoming version of the tragedy. He was allowed to see the world outside for only a moment, as if through a crack, and then the door slammed shut, and the black ripples settled over him again.
As the van moved and the last voices faded, Lin felt an old spark ignite within him, the same one that had driven him to devise the ritual of the minor heroes. It pulsed in his chest and died out at the same moment the axe of fate descended: to deprive a man of his right to speak the truth was to deprive the world of its chance to change. He closed his eyes, gathered in his memory what he had seen—Miss J.'s face, her ruthlessness, Mr. Shan's words—and repeated to himself the promise he had made on the roof: if no one gave him a chance, he would take it away. Only now that promise was no longer a childish vow, but a quiet, ironclad plan.
***
A week passed—as if a single week in their world could be measured not in days, but by the number of false stories that had managed to spread across channels and TV shows. The news of Lin's "suicide" spread in a perfectly orchestrated echo: short clips with somber music, voiceovers, shots of offices where someone was bending over old folders. The version was simple and convenient: the young creative had broken under the pressure, couldn't take it anymore, and died. The feeds filled with just the right amount of information—shots of empty desks, footage of his jump, staged interviews with "colleagues" who spoke vaguely about overwork and toxicity. The whole country got its own little piece of truth, neatly packaged.
Meanwhile, behind the curtain of the real show, another, far more meticulous process unfolded. Lin was brought to a building that could rightfully be called a forge of images: long corridors smelling of alcohol and varnish, rooms with floor-length mirrors, closets filled with tagged clothes, and people in blue coats working so quickly and silently, as if their every gesture were part of a choreography. He was handed over to a team whose talent was measured not only by their ability to apply makeup but also by their ability to separate a person from their story and immediately create a new one.
"Did you understand the task?" one of the makeup artists asked, but the question was rhetorical. She had already picked up brushes and sponges, her movements as precise as a surgeon's, only the object of the operation here was the face.
Lin nodded. Saying "yes" was easier than arguing; of course, he wanted to scream, accuse, explain, but inside, everything was empty with tension. The word "runaway" hung over his lips like a stick thrown down the steps of life. He was given a corner, a simple robe, and a cup of water. In the mirror, his reflection looked painful, all too human—matted hair, eyes dry from lack of sleep. He thought about how soon this image would be erased and replaced by Nice's perfect face, and this feeling smoothly transformed into a strange mixture of relief and horror: the release of responsibility and the fear of losing himself.
The preparations were meticulous. First, the clothes: an impeccable suit, the seams tailored to the figure so that the lines appeared fluid on camera. Second, the gait: the movement choreographer had him walk along marker lines, repeating steps and turns until they were visible in his mind like rails. Third, the voice: finely tuned intonations, breathing, pauses—a psychologist-coach worked to ensure that all emotions resonated within a predetermined key. Fourth, the story of the smile: where and how it originates on the face, which muscles are activated, how the gaze should "hover" with a spark of charm, and how each such signal should evoke a reciprocal note of trust in the viewer.
"We're not reconstructing a person," the psychologist said to her. "We're creating a state. The state is accessible and reproducible."
This "state" was like a new language—a language of postures, gestures, and microexpressions. He was taught to "smoothly capture" a head bob, send a spark of interest into the audience, and look away for exactly thirty seconds to convey the hero's "humble majesty." Every gesture was analyzed, recorded, played back, and adjusted. The team was dispassionate: in their eyes, Lin was not a person, but material for the production of an ideal.
The makeup artists worked like sculptors. They concealed a small mole on his cheek, smoothed out his eyebrows, made his lips a little fuller—and a different face appeared in the mirror: recognizable, but no longer quite his. He tried to catch the image of his former self in the mirror and found none: his gaze became more even, his jaw more set. Someone had placed a portrait of Nice in the corner of the mirror so he could peek—as if one could learn by copying small details.
Parallel to the hands-on work, something even stranger was happening—something that couldn't be called pure technology, but which, in their world, was called Trust. It wasn't just a network, not just an app; it was an infrastructure of social trust: bracelets, anchors, rows of servers, algorithms that calculated faith. In reality, Trust looked like a series of tiny indicators that people could feel themselves if they listened carefully: a slight tingling in their palms, a warmth beneath the skin, as if someone had turned on a hidden heater inside the body. They were designed to read and amplify the wave of approval emanating from the crowd.
The first contact with Trust was almost imperceptible. When the team conducted a "trust test" the day before the launch—simulating the public's reaction to the image—the system connected to his wristband. A soft hum coursed through his veins like a swimmer touching the shore: it felt like the mirror inside him had slightly widened. The moment the green light flashed in their control room, one of the operators quietly said, "He's accepted." No one expected this "acceptance" to manifest physically.
The screen went black and then the words "One week later" appeared on it .
Class 1-A collectively exhaled—a week meant Ling Ling was alive. For now.
But the relief did not last long.
News reports began playing on the screen—short clips with somber music, voiceovers, shots of offices with empty desks. The headlines screamed the same thing: "Young creative commits suicide. Couldn't handle the pressure . "
Midoriya froze, his eyes widening.
— What? Suicide? But he... he's alive!
"They fabricated his death," Todoroki said coldly. "They created a false story. Officially, Ling Ling is dead."
The screen showed staged interviews with "colleagues" who spoke vaguely about overwork and toxicity. Everything was perfectly packaged, convincing, and believable.
Yaomoro covered her mouth with her hand:
— The whole country got its little dose of truth... but it's a lie. It's all a lie!
"A beautifully packaged lie," Jiro added. "With the right music, the right words, the right emotions. People will believe it."
Bakugou clenched his fists:
"And no one will check. Because why would they? If the authorities say he's dead, then he's dead."
Aizawa nodded:
— Narrative control. The most powerful weapon of any system. You don't need physical force or threats if you control what people believe.
The screen then showed another scene - "behind the curtain of the real show, another, much more careful process was unfolding . "
Lin Lin was led into a building—long corridors with the smell of alcohol and varnish, rooms with wall-to-wall mirrors, closets with labeled clothes.
"What is this place?" Uraraka whispered.
Nezu leaned forward, his beady eyes glittering.
— An image factory. A place where people are turned into products.
When the makeup artist asked, "Did you understand the task?"—a rhetorical question—the class tensed.
"What task?" Kaminari asked. "What are they going to do with him?"
The voiceover explained Ling Ling's thoughts: "The word 'fugitive' hung above his lips like a stick thrown down the steps of life . "
Midoriya clutched the notebook:
— He thinks of himself as a fugitive... They broke him. Mentally broken him.
When Ling Ling looked in the mirror and saw his reflection—his hair disheveled, his eyes dry from lack of sleep—and then thought, "How soon will this image be erased and replaced by Nice's perfect face?" the entire cinema froze.
"Wait," Iida stood up. "They're going to... turn him into Nice? That hero who jumped off the roof?!"
"ARE THEY GOING TO REPLACE NICE LIN LIN?!" Kirishima exploded.
Todoroki turned pale:
"The perfect plan. Nice is dead, but the brand must live on. So they take the witness, erase his identity, and turn him into a replacement."
"This... this is monstrous," Yaomoro whispered. "They're literally killing him as a person!"
The transformation process began on the screen. First, the clothes—an impeccable suit. Then the gait—the choreographer forced Ling Ling to walk along marker lines. The voice—finely tuned intonations, breathing, pauses.
The Almighty looked at the screen with horror:
— They... they take a person apart piece by piece. The gait, the voice, the smile... They create a machine, not a person.
When the psychologist said, "We're not rehabilitating a person. We're creating a state. A state that's accessible and reproducible ," Aizawa chuckled humorlessly.
— There it is. The ideal system hero. Not a person with emotions and doubts. But a state that can be turned on and off at will.
Bakugou gritted his teeth:
— They're turning him into a doll. A damn puppet!
On screen, makeup artists worked like sculptors—concealing a mole, smoothing out eyebrows, and making lips a little fuller. The face in the mirror changed, becoming recognizable, but no longer his.
Midoriya looked at the screen with tears in his eyes:
"He tries to catch his former image in the mirror... but he can't find it. They erase Ling Ling. Literally erase his existence."
"And they replace him with Nice," Asui added quietly. "Ribit. The perfect hero without flaws."
When the screen showed Nice's portrait in the corner of the mirror—so Lin Lin could peek and copy the details—Uraraka sobbed:
- It's like a nightmare... Watching your face turn into someone else's.
But then something even more sinister appeared on the screen - a description of the Trust .
"It wasn't just a network, it wasn't just an app; it was an infrastructure of social trust: bracelets, anchors, rows of servers, algorithms that calculated faith . "
Nezu straightened up, his voice sharpening.
— Trust... A system that measures and amplifies public approval. It's... it's total control over the perception of reality.
"Tingling in the palms, warmth under the skin," Iida read from the screen. "They literally feel it when the crowd approves of them?"
"And they reinforce that feeling," Todoroki added. "They create dependence. The heroes in their world are dependent on the approval of the crowd. Physically dependent."
The screen showed Lin Lin's first contact with Trust—a soft hum running through his veins, a feeling as if the mirror inside him had expanded slightly.
Yaomoro was trembling:
"They're connecting him to a system. To a machine that will control his sensations, his self-perception."
When the green light flashed in the control room and the operator quietly said, "It's accepted," the class froze.
"It's accepted," Bakugou repeated. "As a product. As a commodity that has passed quality control."
The Almighty covered his face with his hands:
"It's worse than death. They didn't kill him. They erased his personality and replaced it with another. Ling Ling no longer exists."
"Only Nice," Jiro whispered. "Perfect, controlled, dependent on the Nice system."
Midoriya looked at the screen, his body shaking:
"But somewhere inside... somewhere inside, Ling Ling is still alive, right? He can't just... disappear?"
Aizawa put his hand on his shoulder:
"The problem, Midoriya, is that personality is a fragile thing. Enough pressure, manipulation, isolation—and a person can lose themselves. Completely."
Tokoyami stood up, his voice serious:
"Darkness has swallowed his light. But as long as even one spark of memory burns, hope remains."
On the screen, Lin Lin—already almost indistinguishable from Nice—looked into the mirror. His eyes were empty, but something flickered in their depths—memory? Resistance? Pain?
Kirishima clenched his fists:
— Fight, Ling Ling. Don't let them erase you completely.
Class 1-A sat in tense silence, watching the transformation of man into product, personality into brand.
It was more terrifying than any villain they had ever met.
Because it was a systematic, methodical destruction of humanity.
And the worst part was that it worked.
On the screen, the new Nice was smiling—a perfect, flawless smile.
But the eyes remained empty.
The lesson continued.
And Class 1-A understood that they had just witnessed the birth of a monster, created not by a villain, but by the system.
And it was terrifying.
The days passed. Preparation became routine: a pose, a smile, a foot in line. And inside, as if in response to the external harmony, slow changes began. First, his eyes: the brown hue that had always lingered beneath the upper layer of his iris deepened, richer; not too much—barely noticeable, but enough to capture a new glow in the mirror. His facial expressions obediently adjusted: the corners of his mouth learned to lift in the right places, and his facial muscles seemed to acquire an automatic expression program.
Sometimes he saw his lips form a word before the thought had even reached him; it was frightening: the body performing an act before his will. He understood that rehearsals and training had given his body a model, but what was happening was different—as if Trust wasn't simply amplifying the audience's reaction, but shaping his very being to anticipate that reaction. It was like a gardener who not only waters a plant but also trims its stems so that the flower grows "perfect."
"Do you feel it?" one of the operators asked quietly during a break, as they sat in silence, waiting for their turn for the final adjustments. His voice was not pointed, but rather filled with interest. "A slight vibration? It's the system. It recognizes the image. It accepts you."
Lin nodded, but there were several different voices inside: one rational, fact-checking voice, the other dull and pathetic, whispering, "I'm losing myself." Doubt, like water, seeped through the concrete. He held the photograph of Moon he'd hidden in his book—a small piece of paper with her smile unedited—and in those moments when the changes became too obvious, he clutched it to his chest and tried to remember who he truly was.
Trust's transformation wasn't instantaneous, but it wasn't endlessly slow either: it occurred in stages, and at each stage he had to re-acquaint himself with what was slipping away from him. His thoughts began to take shape, to the rhythm of someone else's music: before, he'd thought about what he wanted to say; now he felt it first, and then his thoughts would align with the desired rhythm. It seemed to him that somewhere in the depths of the room, the audience's voice was sitting, quietly conducting his muscles.
Psychologically, it was a powerful pressure. Every evening, after the studio's lights went out and people went home, he returned to the mirror and looked into his reflection's eyes, as if trying to recognize a long-lost acquaintance. Sometimes the face looked back at him with alien eyes. On such nights, he would go to the room where his old book with the pencil sketches of the ritual lay and leaf through it, as if hoping to find a foundation, a point of support. His hands trembled with fatigue and a slight pain—not from the labor, but from the fact that he was becoming part of a performance that was consuming his individuality.
"If I get lost," he whispered to himself, "let it not be of my own free will."
But the system didn't ask for his will. Trust counted the seconds, measured smiles, tallied social media responses, and with each new signal, its influence grew stronger. At some point, he caught himself waking up and not remembering his voice—the voice that was used to talk about rituals and helping neighbors. Now he listened to his breathing, checking to see if the system had stolen that sound from him, too.
And yet, despite the fear, another impulse lurked deep within: the thought that if he lived this role, if he embraced it for a while, he could understand the machine from the inside and perhaps reprogram it. It was a bold, almost insane decision—to penetrate the heart of an idea and change its logic. So he walked day after day, repeating the smile until it became a reflex; repeating the steps until his spine memorized them.
The night before the broadcast was brief and filled with a brutal calm: the crew made final adjustments, lighting effects were calibrated, microphones were whispering, and camera operators were checking the feeds. Lin lay in the soft dressing room, and the mirror above him reflected almost no longer himself, but a face composed according to the rules: neat eyebrows, smooth cheekbones, a gaze that promised both determination and gentleness. A Trust bracelet—a thin metal band with tiny indicators—stuck frozen on his wrist. At that moment, he felt a slight warmth around his palms, as if someone had gently placed a hand inside his chest. It was terrifying—and strangely pleasant. It was this feeling, ambivalent and dangerous, that remained with him as he pushed off the floor with his foot and stepped out into the world to become what was required of him.
The words "Days passed" appeared on the screen .
The camera showed a montage of repeated actions—a pose, a smile, a step on a line. Over and over. Ling Ling practiced, repeated, perfected.
But something was changing. Not just externally.
Midoriya leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen.
- Something is happening to him... from the inside.
The voiceover described the first changes: "First, his eyes: the brown hue that had always been hidden under the top layer of the iris became deeper, richer . "
"His eyes change color?" Uraraka whispered. "But how?"
Nezu frowned:
— Trust. The system doesn't just boost crowd approval. It physically transforms a person, conforming them to an ideal image.
When the voiceover described how "facial expressions obediently adjusted: the corners of the mouth learned to rise in the right places, and the facial muscles seemed to acquire a program of automatic expression ," the class froze.
"An automatic expression," Yaomoro repeated. "Like a robot. His face moves on its own."
The screen showed the moment when Ling Ling saw his lips form a word before the thought had even occurred to him.
Todoroki turned pale:
"His body is acting against his will. It's... it's a complete loss of control."
" 'The body performed the act before its will ,'" Iida read, his voice trembling. "This is a violation of basic personal autonomy! A person must control their body!"
Bakugou gripped the armrests.
"Trust doesn't just amplify the reaction. It shapes its very being to anticipate that reaction. It transforms it into the perfect product."
When the voiceover used the metaphor of a gardener who "not only waters the plant but also trims its stems so that the flower grows 'perfect,'" Kirishima clenched his fists:
"They're cutting away his humanity! They're leaving only what the system needs!"
On the screen, the operator asked Ling Ling, "Do you feel it? A slight vibration? That's the system. It's recognizing the image. It's accepting you . "
"She accepts it," Jiro whispered. "Like a machine accepts a compatible component."
Midoriya stared at Ling Ling's face on the screen—it was a mixture of two expressions: resignation and fear. The voiceover conveyed his thoughts: "There were several different voices inside: one rational, fact-checking voice, and another dull and pathetic, whispering, 'I'm losing myself . '"
Tears streamed down Midoriya's cheeks:
- He knows... He knows that he is losing himself, but he can't do anything.
When they showed Ling Ling pulling out a photo of Moon—a small piece of paper with her unedited smile—and clutching it to her chest, trying to remember who he really was, Uraraka burst into tears:
— He clings to memories! To the only thing he has left!
Asui hugged her:
— Ribit. It's his anchor. His connection to his true self.
The Almighty looked at the screen with pain in his eyes:
- He tries to save himself... but the system is too strong.
On screen, they described how the transformation occurred in stages: "His thoughts began to form in the rhythm of someone else's music: before, he thought about what he wanted to say; now he first felt it, and then his thoughts aligned with the desired rhythm . "
Aizawa closed his eyes:
"They reprogram his thought processes. Not just his behavior, but his very structure of thought."
"Like brainwashing," Todoroki added coldly. "Only more sophisticated. More profound."
The voice-over continued: "It seemed to him that somewhere in the depths of the room the voice of the audience was sitting, quietly conducting his muscles . "
Tokoyami stood up, his voice quiet but full of horror:
— The Invisible Puppeteer. The crowd becomes the puppeteer, controlling the puppet through the Trust.
The screen showed evening scenes—Ling Ling returning to the mirror, looking into the eyes of her reflection, trying to recognize a long-lost acquaintance. Sometimes the face looked back at him with alien eyes.
Yaomoro covered her mouth with her hand:
— He doesn't recognize himself... His own reflection becomes alien.
As they showed Ling Ling walking into the room where his old book with pencil sketches of the ritual was lying and leafing through it, hoping to find a point of support, Midoriya sighed convulsively:
"He still remembers! The ritual, the idea of little heroes! It's still inside him!"
Bakugo shook his head:
— But for how long? How long will it take before the system erases this too?
Ling Ling's words sounded like a prayer: "If I get lost, let it not be by my own free will . "
The silence in the cinema was absolute.
"But the system doesn't ask his will," Jiro whispered.
The screen described how Trust counted seconds, measured smiles, tallied social media responses, and with each new signal, its influence grew stronger.
Nezu shook his head:
"The perfect system of control. It doesn't use violence. It simply... reprograms the personality, making it dependent on approval."
As the voiceover described the moment where Ling Ling woke up and couldn't remember his voice—the voice that had previously spoken of rituals and helping neighbors—Kirishima slapped the armrest:
— NO! Not his voice! That's the most important thing! Your voice is who you are!
Iida stood up:
"He's checking his breathing, checking to see if the system has stolen that sound too! This... this is existential horror!"
But then something unexpected appeared on the screen. The voiceover described Ling Ling's new thought: "And yet, despite the fear, deep inside lurked another impulse: the thought that if he lived this role, if he accepted it for a while, he would be able to understand the machine from the inside and perhaps reprogram it . "
Midoriya jumped up from his seat:
— HE HAS NOT GAVE UP! He's planning! He's going to change the system from within!
The Almighty also stood up, his eyes lit up:
— There it is! The spark of heroism! Even when all is lost, he finds a way to fight!
Bakugo grinned—for the first time in the entire film, his grin wasn't cynical, but admiring:
"The cunning bastard. He feigns defeat so he can penetrate the heart of the system and destroy it from within."
Todoroki nodded:
— A bold decision. Almost insane. But the only possible one.
The screen showed the night before the broadcast. Ling Ling lay in a soft dressing room, the mirror above him reflecting almost no longer his own face, but a face composed according to the rules—neat eyebrows, smooth cheekbones, a gaze promising both determination and gentleness.
"He's almost indistinguishable from Nice," Uraraka whispered.
The Trust bracelet—a thin metal band with tiny indicators—stood still on his wrist. And at that moment, Ling Ling felt a slight warmth around his palms, "as if someone had gently placed a hand inside his chest . "
Yaomoro was trembling:
— It's... it's creepy. And strangely pleasant. An ambiguous feeling. Dangerous.
"That's the essence of addiction," Aizawa explained. "The system provides pleasure, making you dependent. And you begin to crave that control."
On the screen, Lin Lin stood up, pushed off the floor with his foot, and stepped into the world to become what was required of him.
But in his eyes, for a split second, almost imperceptibly, there was a flash of determination.
Lack of determination to obey.
The determination to survive. And win.
Class 1-A sat in tense silence.
Midoriya slowly sat back down, his hands shaking.
"He's going to war. Alone against the entire system. Pretending to be part of it."
"The most dangerous game," Nezu added. "If he screws up even once, they'll destroy him. Completely."
The Almighty placed his hand on his heart:
"But he has to try. Because that's what heroes do. Even when the odds are slim."
Bakugou crossed his arms, his gaze glued to the screen.
"Show them, Ling Ling. Show those bastards what it means to underestimate a man who's already lost everything."
The next scene began on the screen.
Broadcast.
The moment of truth.
Class 1-A held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
The lesson continued.
But now there was hope in him.
Thin, fragile, dangerous.
But there is hope.