Time didn't announce itself.
It moved quietly—measured in bells, weather changes, and the slow rearranging of desks.
Weeks passed.
Dave learned the school's rhythms the way one learned background noise: without effort. Which hallway stayed crowded longer. Which teachers spoke softly until they didn't. Which days the cafeteria served food no one finished.
He adjusted without thinking.
Hive tracked everything anyway.
Not because Dave asked it to—but because it always did.
The classroom changed subtly.
A poster appeared near the door reminding students about quirk safety laws. Another one vanished after a corner peeled loose. A hero interview played on the classroom television one morning, volume too loud, the teacher lowering it with an apologetic laugh.
"Remember," she said, "using quirks irresponsibly is dangerous."
Dave wrote that sentence down.
Not because it was new.
Because repetition mattered.
Kids grew louder as they grew more comfortable.
Bakugo's presence expanded. His voice carried further now. His confidence didn't wobble—it sharpened. Teachers corrected him more often. He corrected them right back, loudly enough to be heard.
No one stopped him.
Izuku changed too.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to notice.
He still talked too fast when excited. Still flinched when called on. But he raised his hand more now. Asked questions. Stayed after class sometimes, scribbling notes even when everyone else had already left.
Dave observed this in pieces.
A glance here.
A moment there.
Nothing continuous.
Dave himself stayed unremarkable.
Teachers learned his name because it was on the list—not because he spoke. He answered when asked. Turned in work on time. Never early enough to seem eager. Never late enough to matter.
When group work happened, he took whatever role was empty.
When someone forgot something, he lent it.
When someone didn't return it, he didn't ask.
Hive noticed efficiencies Dave ignored.
He let it.
At recess, the yard became predictable.
Bakugo always drew a crowd.
Someone always tripped near the slide.
Someone always cried, not because they were hurt, but because attention moved away too fast.
Dave leaned against different fences on different days.
Sometimes Izuku was nearby.
Sometimes not.
They didn't seek each other out.
When they spoke, it was brief.
"Did we have homework?"
"Yeah."
"What was it?"
"Page twelve."
"Okay."
That was enough.
Hero society pressed in quietly.
Not through danger.
Through normalization.
Commercials on TV showed smiling heroes endorsing snacks. School announcements reminded students that becoming a hero was a responsibility, not a game. Teachers spoke about laws as if they were weather—unchangeable and omnipresent.
Dave absorbed it all without reaction.
Hive built models anyway.
Probability curves. Incentive structures. Social reinforcement loops.
Dave didn't interfere.
One afternoon, rain came suddenly.
The kind that soaked backpacks and shoes before anyone realized umbrellas were useless.
Kids crowded under awnings. Complained. Laughed. Ran anyway.
Dave waited.
When the rain slowed, he walked home.
Water soaked into his sleeves. Cold crept in slowly.
Hive suggested a dozen ways to optimize discomfort away.
Dave declined all of them.
Normal experiences had value too.
By the time the season shifted, no one would have described Dave as anything specific.
He wasn't popular.
He wasn't ignored.
He was simply… there.
And that was intentional.
Because nothing had happened yet.
And Dave understood something most people didn't:
A world like this didn't change loudly.
It changed when someone finally noticed a pattern they could no longer ignore.
Time kept moving.
Dave kept pace.
And somewhere ahead—still distant, still undefined—the story waited for a reason to begin.