Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Family.

To his family, Nagisa Shiota was a disappointment wrapped in polite smiles. His mother, Hiromi, wanted a son who was strong, commanding, successful, someone who could project power in every step. What she got instead was a boy who was small, soft-spoken, and quirkless. To her, that meant defective.

At home, her obsession with reshaping him was relentless. She kept his hair long, insisting it made him appear sharper, more feminine, an easier target for mockery at school, though she didn’t care. “Endure it,” she would say when he came home with bruises or scraped knees. “Endure it, and use it to become stronger.” Every demand came with a punishment when he fell short. A slap across the face if he talked back. Fingernails digging into his arm if he hesitated. Nights spent kneeling on the floor as she lectured him about becoming someone “worthy.”

Nagisa learned quickly that her love was conditional. Conditional on obedience. Conditional on results. Conditional on him becoming the perfect girl she imagined, instead of the boy he was. Meals together were less family dinners and more interrogations. She would press him with questions about his grades, his posture, his “presence,” and every wrong answer felt like another crack in her already fragile approval.

He grew up in silence. In fear. His voice was small because she demanded it be quiet. His footsteps were light because she punished clumsiness. His smile, when it appeared, was hollow, because he had been taught that sincerity was weakness.

There were moments — rare ones — when Nagisa would glance at her, searching for even a flicker of warmth. But her eyes only scanned him with dissatisfaction, as if she were staring at a blueprint she could never get right. The only affection he ever received was laced with control, disguised as “guidance,” but heavy with cruelty.

In that house, family didn’t mean comfort. It meant survival.

School.

School was supposed to be a place of learning, but for Nagisa, it became a stage where he was reminded of everything he lacked.

He remembered the day quirks first started appearing among his classmates. One by one, they discovered sparks dancing on their fingertips, sudden bursts of strength, or small tricks that dazzled teachers and parents alike. Each new manifestation was celebrated like a birthday. Children grinned with pride, families gushed with excitement. And Nagisa clapped along with the rest, a quiet smile on his face, even as a pit opened in his stomach.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Everyone else awakened their quirks. Everyone except him.

It started with whispers. “Maybe he’s a late bloomer.” “Maybe it’s just weak.” He tried to believe them, tried to hope. But as the years passed and nothing changed, those whispers turned sharp. “Quirkless.” “Useless.” “Worthless.”

Children could be cruel without meaning to, but they were far crueler when they meant it. His classmates shoved him in the hallways, sneered when he was picked last for group games, and laughed when he fell. Some used their quirks on him directly, tiny sparks that singed his notebooks, gusts of wind that knocked him off balance. It wasn’t the pain that hurt the most. It was the way their eyes looked at him, as if he were something less. Something beneath them.

Teachers tried to ignore it. Sometimes they told him to “toughen up.” Sometimes they told him to “try harder,” as if effort could conjure a quirk from nothing. Nagisa kept quiet, nodding obediently, because complaining never helped. He learned to endure, to take the hits and insults without reaction. To them, his silence meant weakness. To him, it was survival.

And yet, in that silence, he watched. He memorized how people moved when they attacked, how their posture shifted when they lied, how their expressions betrayed arrogance or fear. If he couldn’t fight back with a quirk, then he would learn to fight back with observation. It wasn’t power, not in the way the world recognized, but it was something.

Still, every day of school drove the same truth deeper into him: in a society that worshiped quirks, being quirkless meant being invisible. And sometimes, invisible was worse than hated.

3-E.

Kunugigaoka’s Class 3-E was more than just a place, it was a sentence. A sentence handed down to those the school wanted to hide. Troublemakers, failures, the ones whose grades dragged down the pristine reputation of the main building. And among them, the quirkless. Students like Nagisa, shuffled away where their existence wouldn’t “ruin the school’s image.”

On paper, it was exile. In practice, it was liberation.

For the first time in his life, Nagisa wasn’t the only one. He wasn’t the only kid who had been whispered about, the only one sneered at in the halls, the only one who sat in the back of class wishing he could vanish. Around him were others who bore the same scars, some from being quirkless, some from being different in other ways, but all marked as failures. In that rejection, they found common ground.

3-E was strange. It was brutal. Their teacher was a monster. Literally. Their lessons were assassination, their tests written in the language of survival. It should have broken them. Instead, it bound them together.

The boy who had always been too small to matter became someone others trusted to lead. The quiet smiles he once used to hide weakness turned into quiet encouragement that lifted others up. Where his family saw disappointment and his classmates saw a target, 3-E saw Nagisa for what he was: clever, steady, someone who listened and understood.

For the first time, “quirkless” didn’t mean worthless. It meant resourceful. It meant dangerous. It meant he had a place.

Class 3-E wasn’t just a dumping ground. It was a crucible. And from it, Nagisa found something he never thought he’d have: family.

But more than his classmates, there was their teacher.

Korosensei.

A monster. A target. An impossible challenge. That’s what the world saw. That’s what they were told to see. But for Nagisa, for all of 3-E, he was something else entirely. He was the first adult who ever looked at them — really looked at them — and didn’t see garbage. He saw potential. He saw strength where no one else had bothered to look.

The other teachers had written them off. To the school, 3-E wasn’t a classroom. It was a punishment. They were the shameful ones, shoved into a shed at the back of the mountain so the “real students” wouldn’t have to look at them. Most adults made sure to remind them of their place, troublemakers, rejects, disappointments. But Korosensei never once treated them that way.

Instead, he laughed with them. He listened to them. He noticed when someone was struggling, not just with grades, but with life. He taught math with the same energy he taught assassination, slipping between ridiculous jokes and razor-sharp wisdom in the same breath. He believed, against all reason, that they were capable of becoming something greater, not someday, not if they awakened some hidden quirk, but right there, as they were.

For Nagisa, who had grown up under the crushing weight of expectations he could never meet, that faith was almost unbearable at first. Every word of encouragement cut deeper than the insults he’d endured, because it was real. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t empty kindness. It was belief.

“Shiota-kun, you’re sharp. You notice what others don’t.”

“Your size isn't a weakness, it’s an advantage.”

“You don’t need a quirk to be powerful.”

Simple words. But to Nagisa, they were everything.

Because in Korosensei’s classroom, weakness wasn’t mocked. It was studied, understood, and turned into strength. His classmates, too, began to change. People who once lashed out or gave up started to stand taller. They fought, yes, but they laughed louder. They trained to kill their teacher, and in doing so, they learned how to save themselves.

Nagisa had never been comfortable in his own skin. At home, he had been molded into something fragile, forced into dresses and roles that weren’t his own. At school, he had been invisible, pitied, or scorned for being quirkless. But with Korosensei, he didn’t have to pretend. He could be quiet without being ignored. He could be small without being crushed. He could be himself, and somehow, that was enough.

Day after day, lesson after absurd lesson, Nagisa began to understand: strength wasn’t something handed to you at birth. It wasn’t a matter of quirks, or family name, or even grades. It was something you built, brick by brick, through patience, pain, and perseverance. And Korosensei was there, steady and unyielding, as they built themselves up from nothing.

If 3-E was his found family, then Korosensei was the one who taught him what family really meant. Not love with conditions, not expectations strung like nooses around his neck, but a bond that believed in him simply because he was worth believing in.

And for someone like Nagisa, who had once thought being quirkless meant being worthless, there was no greater gift.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾.  ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

The day they lost Korosensei, the world felt like it had stopped.

Nagisa could still remember every detail with painful clarity: the desperate battle, the exhaustion in their limbs, the cries of his classmates as they clung to every last shred of hope. They had trained for it, prepared for it, sworn to themselves they would carry out their mission. But when the moment finally came, when their blades pierced the teacher who had given them everything, the triumph they had imagined never came.

It wasn’t victory. It was heartbreak.

Korosensei didn’t die as a monster. He didn’t die as the target the government had painted him to be. He died as their teacher, smiling gently even as his body dissolved into light. His last words weren’t curses or lectures, but encouragement, final reminders that they were strong, that they could live lives worth living, that they were more than the labels the world had chained them with.

Nagisa had been the one to deliver the final blow. His hands had been steady, but his heart had been breaking. He had felt Korosensei’s warmth through the blade, heard the acceptance in his voice, and in that instant, it was as though a part of himself had been cut away, too.

The classroom was never the same after that. It couldn’t be. But strangely, that wasn’t the end of 3-E, it was the beginning. Because Korosensei’s lessons didn’t fade with his passing. They lived on in every choice they made, in the way they lifted each other up, in the way they carried themselves forward into a world that had once turned its back on them.

For Nagisa, the grief was a scar he carried quietly, but it was also a promise. He had seen what it meant for someone to believe in others without conditions. He had felt the power of a teacher who could turn weakness into strength. And in that loss, he found his purpose.

He would never be able to fill Korosensei’s shoes. No one could. That thought used to terrify him, how could anyone possibly live up to a teacher who had changed their lives so profoundly, who had faced the end with a smile and gave everything to his students? It seemed impossible, like trying to grasp sunlight with bare hands.

But Nagisa came to understand something, slowly, in the weeks that followed. Korosensei had never wanted them to become him. He hadn’t raised imitators, he had raised individuals. Each of them carried a different piece of his lessons, like fragments of light refracted through glass. They weren’t supposed to replace him; they were supposed to carry him forward in their own ways.

For Nagisa, that meant teaching.

It wasn’t a sudden realization, but a steady flame that grew each time he remembered Korosensei’s words. He thought of how Korosensei never overlooked the quiet ones in the back of the room, how he recognized potential in places no one else bothered to look. He thought of how he never measured worth by quirks, strength, or prestige, but by effort, kindness, and growth. He thought of the way he made failures feel like stepping stones instead of dead ends.

Nagisa wanted to be that kind of teacher.

A teacher who saw the invisible children,the ones written off, cast aside, or dismissed as hopeless. A teacher who guided the lost, not with harsh judgment, but with patience and steady encouragement. A teacher who believed in the discarded, who reminded them that their value was not determined by a society obsessed with power, but by the choices they made every day.

That was the path Nagisa Shiota chose for himself. Not the path of an assassin, not the path of a soldier, but the path of a teacher.

That was the day Nagisa Shiota decided what he wanted to become.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾.  ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

It had been seven long years since the night the world grew quieter, since Class 3-E lost the teacher who had changed their lives forever. Time had healed some of the sharp edges of grief, but the scar remained, etched into Nagisa’s heart like a reminder of the promise he made: to carry Korosensei’s ideals forward.

Now, standing in front of his very first class as their teacher, Nagisa realized just how far that promise had taken him. The classroom wasn’t 3-E’s mountain hideaway — it was a proper school building, polished and new — but the spirit was the same. Troubled kids, misunderstood kids, the ones everyone else had given up on… they had become his responsibility. And much like his own classmates years ago, they had slowly grown into something more: his family.

The day before graduation, they had tested him one last time. They had “assassinated” him, combining all the techniques he had drilled into them with their own determination. It was a game, yes, but it carried the same weight as the one he had played years ago with Korosensei. The difference was that this time, there was no real tragedy at the end, only laughter, triumph, and Nagisa’s overwhelming pride.

And now here he was, seated in the school gymnasium, watching his students’ names being called one by one at their graduation. His heart swelled with pride, and for the first time in a long while, the heaviness of the past felt lighter.

“Takeshi Hamada.”

Nagisa was snapped from his thoughts when the principal of Paradise High called out one of his students’ names. Takeshi — the same boy who had mocked him on the first day, the one Nagisa had silenced with his clap stunner — stood up, his uniform neat, his face carrying a smile instead of a sneer.

Nagisa’s chest tightened, his throat warm. Is this how Korosensei felt whenever he looked at us?

For a moment, his gaze dropped, shadowed with bittersweet longing. I wish you could’ve seen us graduate, Koro-sensei…

But when he lifted his head again, it was with a smile. Tears stung at his eyes, but he let them, because today wasn’t about loss. It was about pride, growth, and carrying the legacy forward.

‎“Nagisa-san?”

‎

‎Nagisa blinked, pulled from his thoughts at the sound of a gentle voice. He turned to see his colleague, Azami, watching him with a furrow of concern. “Are you alright? You look like you’re about to cry…”

‎

‎For a moment, Nagisa hesitated. He could still feel the lump in his throat from earlier, the way his students’ smiling faces had so strongly reminded him of Class 3-E. But he forced a small smile, letting out a quiet laugh to ease the tension. “Yes, Azami-san. I’m just… happy that I get to experience this moment.”

‎

‎Azami’s expression softened immediately. She nodded, her own smile blooming with understanding. “I see… It really is something, isn’t it? Watching them walk across that stage after everything they’ve gone through, it’s the most fulfilling part of a teacher’s career.” Her hands clasped together in front of her chest as she leaned slightly closer, her voice filled with sincerity. “These kids… they’ll never forget you, Nagisa-san. You’ve left a mark on them.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s chest tightened, both from gratitude and the weight of her words. He lowered his gaze briefly, almost shyly. “I hope so. They’ve left a mark on me too.”

‎

‎Azami chuckled softly, the sound lighthearted but kind. “That’s how you know you’re a real teacher. Not just someone who hands out lessons, but someone who grows with them.” Her eyes glimmered, and she straightened up, her tone turning brighter. “Well, I wish you luck on your teaching journey, Nagisa-san! I know you can do it, you’re going to be amazing.”

‎

‎Nagisa scratched the back of his head, cheeks warming as he tried to laugh off his embarrassment. “Ah… you flatter me too much. But thank you, Azami-san. That means a lot.”

‎

‎Azami gave him a knowing smile before moving toward a group of other teachers, leaving Nagisa standing alone for a moment in the bustle of the graduation hall. He exhaled quietly, his hand falling to his side.

‎

‎And in the quiet of his heart, he whispered words he couldn’t say out loud: Are you watching, Korosensei? I hope I’m making you proud.

‎

‎Time slipped away faster than Nagisa could process. What felt like hours of the graduation ceremony turned into fleeting minutes, each name called and each diploma handed over blending into the next. Yet Nagisa remained focused, his phone in hand, capturing every proud smile, every bowed head, every diploma clutched tightly in trembling fingers. He wanted to remember it all. These were their moments, but in a quiet way, they were his too.

‎

‎By the time the final student crossed the stage, a bittersweet ache filled his chest. Just like that, it was over. The ceremony that marked both an ending and a beginning had concluded. He rose from his seat and began walking toward his students, ready to offer his congratulations face-to-face, when suddenly—

‎

‎“Woah—!”

‎

‎Nagisa nearly stumbled forward as a rush of bodies collided with him, tackling him into a tight embrace. A dozen arms wrapped around him from all directions, and for a second he was buried under laughter, tears, and the sheer weight of his students’ joy.

‎

‎“Sensei!” “We did it!” “Thank you!”

‎

‎Nagisa struggled to keep his balance, his laughter breaking free despite himself. “Alright, alright! Calm down, all of you!” He tried to scold them, but the fondness in his voice gave him away. The sound of his laughter mingled with theirs, echoing warmly through the hall.

‎

‎When the group finally loosened, his students straightened and hurriedly formed a line in front of him, matching their seating arrangement as though it were second nature. Their eyes shone, not just with pride, but with something deeper. Something he knew all too well.

‎

‎Nagisa’s throat tightened. He cleared it quietly and began, “Alright, everyone—”

‎

‎“Nagisa-sensei!”

‎

‎He blinked, startled by the sudden interruption. It was the class representative, standing tall at the front of the line, his expression firm but trembling slightly with emotion.

‎Then, as though rehearsed a thousand times, the entire class moved as one.

‎

‎They bowed.

‎

‎“Thank you for caring for us throughout the year!” the representative declared, his voice carrying across the hall. “Your efforts to teach us mean a lot! We are forever grateful!”

‎

‎And in perfect unison, every student — save for the representative — echoed his words, their voices overlapping in a single, resounding chorus:

‎

‎“We are forever grateful!”

‎

‎The sound hit Nagisa harder than he expected. His students’ words wrapped around him, heavy and sincere, a reminder that even though he doubted himself so often, he had reached them. His chest swelled with pride and his eyes stung as the weight of the moment sank in.

‎

‎For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flash of yellow, an umbrella-shaped shadow lingering in the corner of the hall, smiling at him the way only one person could.

‎

‎Nagisa was speechless. For a moment, all he could do was stare at his students as their words echoed in his chest, warm and overwhelming. A faint blush crept across his face, and he could practically feel the sting of a tear forming at the corner of his eye. He quickly brushed it away before it could fall, replacing it with the widest, most genuine smile he’d worn all year.

‎

‎Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. His students were still bowed before him, waiting. He spoke with the same calm, comforting tone that had carried them through every lesson.

‎

‎“Everyone, lift your heads.”

‎

‎They obeyed instantly, raising their faces to him with the same earnest attention they had given him in class. The sight made him chuckle softly. “You really do listen when it counts,” he teased lightly, earning a ripple of laughter that broke the tension in the air.

‎

‎“This day… this graduation,” Nagisa continued, his voice warm but steady, “is a reflection of all your hard work. I’ve watched you struggle, stumble, and push forward. I’ve seen you put in the effort, not just to learn from books, but to learn from each other. And because of that, I can say with absolute certainty that I am so proud of every single one of you.”

‎

‎He paused, his eyes sweeping across the class, taking in every familiar face. “Our first meeting was… rocky, if I’m being honest,” he admitted with a small grin. A few guilty chuckles rang out, the memory of old missteps still fresh but no longer bitter. “But you didn’t give up. You kept moving forward. Each of you grew. Not only as individuals, but together, as a class.”

‎

‎His tone softened as he went on. “As we part ways today, I hope you’ll remember the lessons we shared here. Not just the ones from textbooks or lectures, but the bonds you’ve formed with each other, the strength you’ve found in working as one. Life will throw challenges at you. It always does. But know this—” His gaze softened, his voice lowering to something almost intimate. “You’re never alone. And if you ever find yourself lost… you can always reach out to me. My door, my heart— they’re open to you.”

‎

‎Nagisa let the silence linger for a heartbeat, his chest swelling with a quiet pride he could barely contain. “This year with you has been… exceptional. More fun, more rewarding, than I ever could have hoped for as my first year as a teacher.” His smile widened until his cheeks ached, his eyes shimmering as he closed them for a brief moment.

‎

‎“Congratulations to all of you. You’ve done well.” ‎And for once, Nagisa didn’t try to hide his emotions. He grinned from ear to ear, his joy plain for all of them to see.

‎

‎He waited, holding his breath without realizing it. His eyes were still closed, but he could feel the silence that followed his words, heavy and fragile. Slowly, Nagisa opened his eyes again—

‎

‎—only to find half the class sniffling, their faces blotchy with tears, while the other half were already full-on sobbing.

‎

‎“Eh—?!” Nagisa’s heart jumped into his throat. “D-Did I say something wrong?” His hands flew up in a panic as sweat began sliding down the side of his face. “I’m so sorry if I—”

‎

‎He didn’t get the chance to finish.

‎

‎For the second time that day, a tidal wave of bodies crashed into him, knocking him flat onto the floor. “W-Woah—!” he yelped, flailing helplessly under the sheer weight of his students as they clung to him from every angle. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, his waist, even his legs. He was smothered in sleeves damp with tears and hiccuping voices that overlapped in chaotic unison.

‎

‎“Sensei!”

‎“Don’t go!”

‎“I’m not ready to leave yet!”

‎“You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had!”

‎“Nagisa-sensei, thank youuuuu!!”

‎

‎Their cries blurred into a cacophony of desperation and affection, overwhelming enough that Nagisa nearly lost track of who said what. But even through the chaos, he felt it, the raw honesty in their voices, the proof of everything they had built together this year.

‎

‎Pinned beneath them, Nagisa let out a weak chuckle, a bead of sweat trailing down his cheek. His students’ emotional wavelengths spiked in every direction, chaotic and earnest all at once. For all the world, it reminded him of his own classmates in 3-E, years ago, how they had clung together when the world tried to tell them they were worthless.

‎

‎He stopped struggling, his shoulders relaxing as he sank into their embrace. There was no escape, and honestly, he didn’t want one.

‎

‎“…You guys really don’t make it easy for your teacher, do you?” he said softly, his voice warm despite the exhaustion tugging at it. And even though he laughed weakly, his chest swelled with pride so fierce it nearly brought him to tears again.

‎

‎After fifteen long minutes of tears, laughter, and clinging arms, Nagisa’s coworkers finally managed to coax the students into letting go. Even then, some refused to leave without hugging him one last time. By the time the crowd thinned, Nagisa’s uniform was rumpled, his hair even messier than usual, and his heart aching in the best possible way.

‎

‎He stood by the school gates as his students — some still wiping their eyes, others trying to put on brave smiles — slowly filed onto the waiting bus. Their chatter carried through the open windows, voices still thick with emotion, but lighter now, touched with excitement for what lay ahead.

‎

‎Nagisa lifted a hand and waved. “Good luck, everyone!” he called out, his voice carrying just enough to reach them.

‎

‎The students erupted in a chorus of farewells. “Bye, Nagisa-sensei!” “We’ll visit, promise!” “Don’t forget us!” Their words tumbled over one another in the same chaotic way they always had in class, loud and unrestrained and entirely genuine.

‎

‎The bus door hissed shut, the engine roared to life, and with a rumble of tires on asphalt, it began to pull away. Nagisa kept waving until the very last second, his smile unwavering even as the bus disappeared down the road.

‎

‎And just like that, they were gone. Off to high school, to new teachers, to new challenges. Off to futures they had worked hard to earn.

‎

‎Nagisa lowered his hand slowly, the empty quiet settling around him. His chest felt strangely hollow, as if a piece of him had gone with them. But beneath that ache was something steadier, stronger— Pride. Pride in knowing they were ready, that he had done everything he could to prepare them for what came next.

‎

‎He let out a soft breath, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll do great,” he murmured to no one in particular.

‎

‎For the first time all year, the courtyard was truly still.

‎

‎Nagisa was just about to turn and leave the now-empty courtyard when the vibration in his pocket stopped him. His phone buzzed insistently, and when he pulled it out, his eyes flickered to the caller ID. For a heartbeat, his breath caught, then a smile spread across his face, wide and almost boyish in its suddenness.

‎

‎Without hesitation, he swiped to answer. “Hello, Na—”

‎

‎“Agent Karasuma!” he blurted out before the man could finish. The words tumbled out too fast, carried by the excitement that welled up in him. He winced a little at his own eagerness. “…Oops.”

‎

‎On the other end of the line, a pause, and then the faintest chuckle. “…Yes, hello, Nagisa.” Even though there was no video, Nagisa could picture Karasuma’s expression perfectly: that rare, understated smile he showed only to people he trusted.

‎

‎“How are you and Bitch-sensei doing after all these years?” Nagisa asked quickly, leaning against the railing as his tone softened.

‎

‎“Bitch-sensei, huh?” Karasuma’s chuckle deepened, warm with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Irina and I are doing alright. Naomi has been… quite troublesome at her nursery.” There was a sigh on the other end, weary but fond. “She gets it from her mother.”

‎

‎Nagisa laughed lightly, unable to help the warmth that spread through his chest at the thought of the two of them together, raising a child. It felt strange, in a good way, like seeing his old mentors in a new chapter of their lives.

‎

‎But Karasuma’s voice shifted, becoming sharper, more professional. “Let’s move on from that topic. As for the reason I called you…” There was a brief pause, heavy enough that Nagisa straightened instinctively. ‎“The Ministry of Defense has requested you for a mission.”

‎

‎“Huh? Why me?” he blurted, his hand instinctively running through his hair in a nervous habit. ‎Nagisa’s eyes widened faintly. His grip on the phone tightened, the words echoing in his head. A mission? After so many years? He swallowed, trying to mask the sudden rush of nerves and curiosity that rose inside him. ‎

‎“Well, you’re a teacher, aren’t you?” Tadaomi’s calm voice came from the other end of the line.

‎

‎Nagisa nodded without thinking, only to realize a second later that it was a phone call. “Y-Yes,” he stammered quickly, answering aloud this time.

‎

‎“We want you to teach at the Hero School UA.”

‎

‎The words hit Nagisa like a slap. His jaw dropped open. “Wait, what? Me? At UA?”

‎

‎“Yes,” Karasuma replied, steady as ever. “You’ll be assigned to Class 1-A. Your role is twofold: to monitor them, and to teach them. Train the next generation of heroes.”

‎

‎Nagisa felt his pulse spike, the phone suddenly slick in his hand. “But… Why me?”

‎

‎There was a pause on the line. Karasuma’s voice softened, losing its usual clipped sharpness. “You’re the best choice for this mission, Nagisa. I’ve seen the results of your teaching. The students you’ve guided have grown beyond expectation because of you. You’ve given them skills, confidence, and purpose. And with your training, I know you’re capable of teaching those kids proper combat and self-defense. Things most hero teachers won’t even think to cover.”

‎

‎Nagisa swallowed hard, his breath uneven. Compliments weren’t something he ever knew how to handle, not even now.

‎

‎And then Karasuma added, almost carefully: ‎“…Ultimately, I trust you have what it takes. Just like he did. I believe you can carry on his legacy.”

‎

‎Nagisa froze, throat tightening. He didn’t need Karasuma to say the name. The image was already there in his mind: a towering, grinning figure dressed in bright yellow, arms spread wide in exaggerated cheer. Koro-sensei.

‎

‎His grip on the phone tightened.

‎

‎Tadaomi trusted him now, just like he had trusted him back then. J̶u̶s̶t̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ w̶h̶e̶n̶ h̶e̶ p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶d̶ t̶h̶e̶ r̶e̶a̶l̶ k̶n̶i̶f̶e̶ i̶n̶ h̶i̶s̶ h̶a̶n̶d̶. That single moment flashed vividly in his mind. The weight of the blade, the weight of responsibility, and most of all…the weight of trust. The first time an adult had looked him in the eye, not with doubt or ridicule, but with genuine care and belief.

‎

‎You can do this, Nagisa.

‎

‎It had been overwhelming then. And it was overwhelming now.

‎

‎He thought about Koro-sensei, about his classmates, about the students who had just left on that bus today, crying and laughing as they called him the best teacher they ever had. Could he really be that again, for new students? Could he really guide heroes-in-training, when he didn’t even have a quirk himself?

‎

‎Nagisa’s thoughts spun wildly, his wavelengths spiraling out of control, until he remembered the calm voice of his teacher:

‎

‎The difference between a hero and an assassin is intent, Nagisa-kun. Both require precision, heart, and purpose. What you choose to do with those skills… that is what defines you.

‎

‎Nagisa exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. His eyes softened, determination replacing the doubt. ‎“Yes…” he whispered to himself. “…Of course I can do it. I was taught by the best teacher, after all.”

‎

‎With that, he raised the phone back to his ear and answered clearly: “Alright. I accept.”

‎

‎There was a small pause. And then, unmistakably, the sound of Karasuma smiling through his voice. “Thank you, Nagisa. I’ll handle the arrangements with UA’s principal and let you know their decision.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. “Goodbye, Agent Karasuma. I’ll… I’ll do my best.”

‎

‎Karasuma chuckled, warm and steady. “I know you will. Farewell.”

‎

‎The call ended.

‎

‎Nagisa stared at his reflection in the dark phone screen, his heart pounding in his chest. Nervousness gnawed at him, but excitement pulsed just as strongly beneath it. For the first time in years, he was about to step into a classroom that wasn’t his own—this time, as a teacher carrying the legacy of the man who had saved him.

‎

‎And he couldn’t wait to see where this path would lead.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Nagisa slid the key into the lock and turned it with a faint click. The door opened to the faint scent of old paper and freshly brewed tea— his tea, long gone cold on the counter from that morning. He stepped inside, slipping off his shoes with practiced care and setting them neatly beside the others by the entrance.

His apartment was small, a compact space tucked away in a quieter part of the city. The walls weren’t bare, but neither were they crowded, he’d decorated sparingly, with framed photographs and mementos that meant something to him. A group photo of Class 3-E sat proudly on the shelf above his desk, their smiling faces frozen in time. Next to it was a newer picture, his first graduating class of Paradise High. Their expressions were just as bright, just as full of hope.

Nagisa’s shoulders slumped as he set his bag down by the door. He padded across the wooden floor and collapsed onto the couch with a sigh, running both hands through his hair. For the first time all day, silence filled the air. No students calling his name, no colleagues making polite small talk, no Karasuma giving him missions with that calm, steady voice. Just the steady tick of the wall clock, the faint hum of the city bleeding in through the thin window glass, and his own uneven breathing.

Graduation. His students. Karasuma’s call. UA. The words and images tumbled around in his head, too fast and too heavy to sort out. His chest ached with pride, but it was tangled with nerves, and underneath it all, a sharp thread of fear.

Nagisa sat up slowly, his gaze drifting toward the desk in the corner of the room. Papers were stacked neatly, pens aligned, lesson plans half-finished, but his eyes were drawn to the one object that never moved. A notebook. Its cover was worn from years of use, edges bent, the paper yellowing ever so slightly. Koro-sensei’s notebook.

He stood and crossed the room, picking it up as though it were made of glass. The familiar scrawl leapt out at him the moment he opened the cover, messy, playful handwriting filled with doodles, exclamation marks, and the occasional completely absurd diagram. But beneath the silly drawings, the wisdom was sharp, undeniable. Nagisa had read it dozens of times, but tonight, every word felt heavier.

He traced a finger down one of the pages, his chest tightening. “The greatest teacher is not the one who demands results, but the one who makes students believe they can achieve them.”

Nagisa closed his eyes, clutching the notebook to his chest. A faint smile curved his lips, fragile but genuine. “UA…” he whispered to the empty room. “I never thought my path would lead me there. A school for heroes, and me… quirkless. What would you think of that, Koro-sensei?”

No answer, of course. Just silence. But Nagisa could almost imagine the booming, cheerful voice echoing in his head: “Of course you’ll do well, Nagisa-kun! I’ll be watching you, every step of the way!”

He laughed softly, wiping at the corner of his eye before it could betray him further. “Yeah… I’ll do it. I’ll make you proud, Koro-sensei. I promise.”

Carefully, he set the notebook back down on the desk, giving it one last look before turning away. The weight in his chest hadn’t disappeared, but it felt steadier now, less suffocating, more like a burden he was willing to carry.

Nagisa sank into the worn chair by his desk, staring at the faint glow of his phone screen. For a long time, he just sat there, the cursor blinking in the empty message bar of the old 3-E group chat.

It had been years — seven long years — since he had really spoken here. Life had carried them in every direction, some closer, some further, but never quite together the way they once were. His thumb hovered uncertainly, hesitation prickling at the back of his neck. Would they even reply? Did they still think about that time the way he did?

With a slow inhale, Nagisa typed.

“Hey, everyone. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I… I don’t even know if you’ll all see this. But I was thinking about today. About him. About us. Seven years ago feels like yesterday, and yet like another lifetime. I just… wanted to say I hope you’re all doing okay. I miss you guys.”

He stared at the words, debating whether to delete them. Too sentimental? Too vulnerable? Old habits of hiding his feelings tugged at him, but for once, he let them go. He hit send.

The message floated above in the chat, joining hundreds of forgotten ones from the past. Silence stretched in the apartment, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Nagisa exhaled shakily, leaning back in his chair.

“Of course no one’s around…” he murmured, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. But the act of reaching out, even into silence, made something inside him feel lighter. It was as though he had cracked open a door to the past, letting a little bit of sunlight through.

Nagisa stared at the “Message Sent” notification, his pulse quickening in his throat. It had been so long — too long — since he’d dared to open this chat. For him, it felt like resurrecting ghosts.

But almost instantly, the chat exploded to life.

Okuda: “Nagisa-kun?! 😲 It’s been forever!!”

Karma: “Well, well. Look who finally remembered we exist. Thought you died or something, Nagisa.”

Maehara: “Don’t say it like that, Karma 😭 We missed you, Nagisa!”

Kayano: “Nagisa… you don’t know how good it is to see your name here again.”

Isogai: “Welcome back, buddy. Seriously, where have you been?”

Nagisa blinked, overwhelmed by the flood of responses. His chest felt tight, his throat knotting. He hadn’t expected them to still… care. Not after he’d gone quiet, choosing solitude over shared memories.

His fingers hovered over the keys before he typed, slowly:

Nagisa: “Sorry… I should’ve reached out sooner. I guess I didn’t know how to face everyone. Too much time passed, and it just kept getting harder to say anything. But… I’ve missed you all. More than I can say.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Kayano’s message popped up again, gentle but firm:

Kayano: “Idiot. We never stopped being your friends. You could’ve come back anytime.”

Nagisa laughed shakily, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye. Even Karma, snark and all, chimed back in softer this time:

Karma: “Yeah. Don’t think you can just vanish again, alright? You’re stuck with us.”

Nagisa’s chest eased. For the first time in years, the loneliness didn’t feel so heavy.

────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────

Chapter Text

The sharp rhythm of leather shoes tapped steadily against polished tile, the sound carrying easily through the quiet corridors of U.A. High. The halls were emptier than one might expect from the most prestigious hero school in Japan. No students rushing to class, no chorus of voices bouncing from wall to wall. Summer break had reduced the grounds to an almost eerie stillness.

Yet, despite the quiet, there was something vibrant about the building itself. Sunlight filtered in through wide glass windows, illuminating rows of framed photographs and brightly colored banners that lined the walls. Each one carried the bold imagery of pro-heroes mid-battle or standing victorious, their names etched into the nation’s memory. The air hummed faintly with potential, as if the very foundation of the school carried the weight of the futures being forged here.

Karasuma’s eyes flicked over the displays as he passed, his pace unbroken, posture immaculate in his pressed black suit. The faint gleam of his government badge at his hip contrasted sharply against the otherwise welcoming atmosphere of the school. He didn’t belong here, not really. He knew it, and from the way a few staff members glanced at him as they passed, they seemed to know it too. He didn’t move like a teacher. His presence was too sharp, too precise, closer to that of a blade than a book.

A faint breeze carried through the hallway as he approached the faculty wing, lifting the edge of his jacket. His steps echoed more clearly now, the halls narrowing, doors marked with plaques identifying offices belonging to various members of the staff. Somewhere behind one of them, he’d find the one he came to meet.

He stopped outside a large oak door at the very end of the hall. A brass plate glimmered softly under the fluorescent light: Principal’s Office.

Karasuma stood still for a moment, gaze steady on the plaque. He reached up, gave his tie one last straightening tug, then raised a hand and knocked, firm, even, without hesitation.

The muffled sound of shuffling papers drifted through the door, followed by a voice far lighter than one would expect from a school’s highest authority. Cheerful, almost playful. “Please, come in!”

Karasuma pushed the door open. The hinges gave a soft groan as the door opened, revealing an office unlike any Karasuma had pictured.

He had expected something clinical and tidy, befitting the head of Japan’s top hero academy. Instead, the room felt… lived in. Bookshelves lined every wall, sagging slightly under the weight of overflowing binders and thick volumes. Stacks of neatly organized papers and files occupied the desk, though beside them sat a porcelain teacup steaming faintly, its aroma cutting through the faint tang of paper and ink. A faint melody hummed from a small radio in the corner, old jazz that somehow suited the space.

And behind the desk — sitting comfortably in an armchair far too big for him — was Nezu.

Karasuma had read reports, of course. He knew the basics: Nezu, the so-called “animal principal” of U.A., quirk classified as High Specs, intellect surpassing human levels. But reading something on a file was not the same as standing face-to-face with a small, white-furred creature sipping tea with both refinement and ease.

“Ah, Agent Karasuma!” Nezu’s voice was bright, carrying a lilt of amusement that made the air feel lighter. He set down the teacup with deliberate care and spread his tiny paws in a welcoming gesture. “What an honor. I trust you found the campus without issue?”

Karasuma inclined his head in a respectful bow, his movements crisp, efficient. “No trouble at all. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting on short notice, Principal Nezu.”

“Of course, of course.” Nezu gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit. You’re here on behalf of the Ministry of Defense, aren’t you? Quite the intersection of worlds— heroes and military. Fascinating!”

Karasuma closed the door behind him, his shoes silent on the carpet as he took the offered seat. Though he kept his expression neutral, his eyes didn’t miss the way Nezu’s gaze seemed to study him, sharp, calculating, like an x-ray peeling back layers.

“Yes,” Karasuma replied evenly, folding his hands together once he sat. “The Ministry has requested a collaboration. I’m here to discuss placing one of our candidates into your faculty.”

Nezu’s ears perked up, whiskers twitching in intrigue. “Ah, yes… Nagisa Shiota, was it? Quite the name, even outside your circles.” His smile widened, not mocking, but undeniably knowing. “I must admit, I’m curious. Why send a young man such as him to my school, I wonder?”

Karasuma’s expression didn’t shift, though something about the question pressed faintly at him. He had expected this. Nezu wasn’t the type to accept anything without dissecting it from every possible angle.

The principal leaned back in his chair, paws folded neatly over one another, his black eyes glimmering with intelligence far older than his small frame suggested. “Tell me, Agent Karasuma,” Nezu said softly, the playful note still there but sharpened by a keen edge. “What is it about this Nagisa Shiota that you believe will benefit Class 1-A, and, in turn, U.A. itself?”

The room grew still again, save for the low hum of jazz in the corner.

Karasuma met his gaze without wavering.

Nezu leaned back in his chair, paws folded neatly, his smile never faltering. “You see, Agent Karasuma, U.A. is not merely a school. It is a crucible. Heroes are forged here, tested in ways they never expect. If your Nagisa Shiota is to step foot into Class 1-A as an assistant, I must know for myself that he will not falter.”

Karasuma’s stance remained rigid, hands tucked neatly behind his back. “Understood. What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, nothing too extreme,” Nezu replied in that singsong tone of his, though his words carried an unnerving weight. His ears twitched as he tapped a claw against the rim of his teacup, rhythmic, deliberate. “Merely… a scenario. A chance for me — and the rest of the faculty — to observe his instincts, his methods, his composure. I’ll craft something tailored to him.” His smile widened, sly and almost childlike. “I do enjoy a challenge.”

Karasuma’s brows knitted, just slightly. “He’s used to challenges. Just don’t underestimate him.”

“On the contrary,” Nezu said with a small laugh. “I never underestimate anyone. Especially not a man who thrived without a Quirk.” He paused, eyes gleaming, his grin sharpening into something knowing. “And especially not a young man raised in the art of assassination.”

Karasuma’s composure cracked. His jaw tightened; his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “...You knew.”

“Of course I knew,” Nezu chimed, tilting his head as if amused by Karasuma’s reaction. “Did you truly believe the Ministry could keep such a file out of my reach? Oh, Agent Karasuma, I read people just as easily as I read reports. The way Shiota moves, the discipline in his record, even his gaps in contact with peers, it all paints a picture.” He sipped his tea delicately, as though he hadn’t just exposed knowledge that should have been classified. “Besides,” he added, licking a stray drop from his paw, “I rather admire it.”

Karasuma straightened his tie, forcing his voice into evenness. “Admire it? He’s trying to move past that life. He’s here to teach, not to be tested as some weapon.”

Nezu chuckled softly, almost pityingly. “Oh, but that’s where you’re mistaken. I don’t wish to see him as a weapon. I wish to see if he has learned to balance it. The blade and the heart. Can he guide children when his own hands are so stained? That is the question.” His voice softened, almost tender. “And U.A. does not shelter those who can’t answer it.”

Silence stretched between them. For the first time in years, Karasuma felt the subtle chill of being studied, like a subject under a microscope.

Nezu’s grin returned, lighthearted again, though it never quite reached his eyes. “I’ll inform Aizawa of this, of course. He’ll have questions. He always does. But if Shiota proves himself useful, Aizawa will accept him. If not…” The rodent’s tone dipped into something darker, the words smooth and unhurried. “Well. Then we’ll know soon enough.”

Karasuma exhaled through his nose, a deliberate, grounding breath. “When do you want him here?”

“Two weeks,” Nezu answered at once, setting his teacup down with a delicate clink, as though the timing had been settled long before Karasuma even arrived. “That should give him enough time to prepare, don’t you think? And it will give me enough time to… design something appropriate.”

Karasuma adjusted his jacket and moved toward the door. He had almost reached the handle when Nezu’s voice drifted after him.

“Oh, Agent Karasuma?”

He stopped, looking back.

Nezu hopped lightly down from his chair, landing with graceful ease, his black eyes glimmering with mirth and menace all at once. His grin widened, teeth flashing. “I look forward to meeting your little assassin.”

The words landed with quiet finality. Karasuma gave a curt nod, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed his unease as he stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Karasuma walked down the steps, the rhythm of his shoes clicking against stone sharp in the silence. His expression remained neutral, but behind his steady gait his mind was racing.

How?

The Ministry of Defense had sealed everything that happened in Class 3-E seven years ago. Reports were shredded, digital files buried under layers of clearance protocols, and even the very existence of Koro-sensei had been stamped out of every official channel. To the world, Kunugigaoka’s “End Class” was nothing more than a footnote in the archives of an old school. That had been the deal — the promise — that what those kids went through would never reach outside ears.

And yet, Nezu had known. Not just about Nagisa being exceptional. Not just about the class being trained in survival. He knew about assassination. About the fact that Shiota Nagisa, the soft-spoken boy who now taught elementary kids, had once been a child soldier in all but name.

Karasuma’s jaw tightened as he stepped out into the open courtyard, the fading sun hitting his face. He had seen firsthand what the burden of that training had done to those students, how quickly they adapted to things kids should never have been forced to. He’d fought to make sure they had futures beyond that blood-soaked year. He’d personally vouched to bury everything under the Ministry’s lock and key.

So how did a school principal know?

Karasuma’s eyes flicked to the horizon as he walked, but his mind replayed Nezu’s small, amused smile. The sharp glint in those rodent-like eyes wasn’t ordinary curiosity. It was informed. Calculated. Like he’d had a file in front of him the entire time.

Did he have connections in the Ministry? Was someone leaking classified information? Or worse— did Nezu have his own ways of digging deeper than the government would ever admit?

Karasuma’s hand twitched toward his pocket, where his phone sat heavy. He considered contacting the Ministry immediately, demanding answers. But he knew what he’d get in return: silence, stonewalling, denials. The Ministry wanted this buried, and if Nezu had uncovered it anyway… then the scope of his influence was far larger than Karasuma had accounted for.

The agent’s steps slowed at the gate. The air was cooler here, sharper. He stared out at the skyline, the city bathed in orange, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a thread of unease that wasn’t tied to an enemy holding a weapon.

Nezu hadn’t asked for permission. He hadn’t even asked for Nagisa by name. He had simply spoken the truth as if it had always belonged to him. Karasuma exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. “Damn rat…” he muttered, not in anger, but in a rare, grudging acknowledgment.

If Nezu already knew, then Nagisa’s time at U.A. would be under sharper eyes than he — or Nagisa himself — had expected.

And that could be both a blessing and a curse.

With that thought weighing heavier than the briefcase in his hand, Karasuma pushed open the gates and stepped out, disappearing into the hum of the city beyond.

Chapter Text

The U.A. faculty room had always been a curious mix of practicality and eccentricity, much like the people who filled it. The wide table dominated the center, polished to a shine despite years of use, with a scattering of steaming coffee mugs, notepads, and half-eaten snacks already littering its surface.

It was early in the afternoon, the soft hum of cicadas filtering faintly through the open window. For most of the staff, this was supposed to be a quiet day in the lull of summer break. No students yet, no hectic schedules, no loud crises. Just paperwork, lesson planning, and maybe a nap if one was lucky.

That peace didn’t last long.

“Any idea why Nezu called us in so suddenly?” Present Mic asked, drumming his fingers on the table in a rapid, impatient beat. His shades gleamed in the light, his usual grin in place, though the tapping betrayed his nerves. “Summer break isn’t exactly meeting season, y’know?”

“Shut up,” Aizawa muttered from his seat, already slouched low, his scarf pooling around him like a cocoon. He looked more half-dead than usual, hair covering one eye, but his gaze flicked to the door every few seconds. “If Nezu’s summoning us, it’s important. Otherwise, I’d be asleep.”

“So would we all,” Midnight said smoothly, stretching out in her chair with arms crossed. She gave a languid sigh, her eyes flicking toward the small stack of papers in front of her. “And yet, here we are. Ministry matters, perhaps? They’ve been buzzing more and more these past few years.”

Cementoss folded his hands, his expression as unreadable as stone. “It isn’t common for the Ministry of Defense to interfere in schools, especially ours.”

Snipe tilted his hat back slightly, the brim casting a deeper shadow over his face. “Yeah… unless they’ve got somethin’ real unusual on their hands.”

A brief silence settled, the weight of speculation hanging in the room.

And then the door opened.

Nezu padded in, tiny paws clicking lightly against the floor, his cup of tea balanced effortlessly on a saucer he carried. His expression, as always, was that cheerful, polite smile that never quite reached the depths of his eyes. He hopped neatly into his seat at the head of the table, setting his tea down with precision.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” he began, voice light yet commanding enough to instantly draw every gaze to him. “I apologize for the interruption to your afternoons, but we have… rather interesting matters to discuss today.”

Aizawa straightened slightly, sensing the shift in tone. Present Mic’s drumming stopped. Midnight arched an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.

Nezu took a slow sip of his tea, savoring the silence, before finally continuing. “This morning, I received a visitor from the Ministry of Defense. Agent Tadaomi Karasuma.”

The room stirred, expressions shifting. The Ministry was rarely mentioned inside U.A. walls, and when it was, it was never trivial.

“Now,” Nezu said with a sly curve of his mouth, “I imagine you’re all wondering why an agent of such caliber would pay a personal visit here, to our humble academy. The answer, my friends, is that the Ministry has taken an interest in our incoming students, specifically Class 1-A.”

He let the words hang in the air, watching as the faculty reacted, some with confusion, others with suspicion. Only then did he lean forward, paws folded neatly on the table, eyes glinting with an unreadable sharpness.

The room shifted at Nezu’s words. Even for seasoned Pro Heroes, “the Ministry of Defense” carried weight. Their work was usually buried deep behind government walls, kept far from the eyes of ordinary citizens, heroes included.

Midnight leaned forward, her tone sharp despite her lazy posture. “The Ministry? What business do they have meddling in education? Their reach doesn’t normally extend here.”

“Exactly,” Cementoss agreed, his gravelly voice rumbling low. “Education falls under the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology. For Defense to step in… this is unprecedented.”

“They don’t step in unless it’s security-related.” Snipe adjusted his hat. His voice had taken on a hard edge. “And if they’re sending Karasuma personally, then this ain’t just some paper-pusher request.”

Present Mic let out a low whistle. “Man, this is heavy. First day back from break and we’re already talking government spooks? Thought we were supposed to be gettin’ lesson plans ready, not state secrets.”

Aizawa’s expression barely shifted, though his eyes opened fully, narrow but sharp. “Nezu, if the Ministry’s involved, what are they preparing for? They wouldn’t send someone like Karasuma unless it was serious.”

Nezu gave a soft chuckle, taking another delicate sip of his tea. His eyes glimmered with that calculating intelligence that unsettled even the most stoic staff members. “You’re all correct. Normally, the Ministry keeps a comfortable distance from U.A. But circumstances have… shifted. They believe the next generation of heroes must be shaped with more direct involvement. Consider it… insurance, perhaps, for uncertain times.”

“That’s bureaucrat talk for ‘they don’t trust us to handle our own students,’” Midnight muttered under her breath.

“They shouldn’t be trusted,” Aizawa countered, voice flat but steady. “The Ministry’s methods are different from ours. They’re not educators, they’re weapons handlers.” The words hung heavy.

“Still,” Cementoss said carefully, “if they’ve chosen to step into U.A., there must be a reason. They wouldn’t risk political backlash without one.”

“Oh, there’s a reason,” Nezu said with a knowing smile, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “One tied not only to the Ministry’s goals, but to a very particular individual they wish to place within our school.”

The weight of Nezu’s words pressed down on the room. For a moment, no one spoke, as though the faculty were all calculating at once what the Ministry could possibly gain by inserting one of their own into U.A.

Midnight broke the silence first, her lips twisting into a skeptical smirk. “So… what, are they planting a spy among us? A watchdog to make sure we’re raising the kids the ‘right’ way? If so, I don’t like it. Heroes shouldn’t be raised like soldiers.”

Snipe grunted in agreement, crossing his arms. “Ain’t hard to guess what the Ministry wants. They’ve never cared much for heroics. What they do care about is discipline, efficiency, and obedience. Can’t imagine they’d be sendin’ someone who shares our philosophy.”

“That’s assuming this ‘teacher’ they’re sending is one of their own,” Cementoss said carefully. “It could be… an outsider, perhaps? A consultant? Still, why would the Ministry have the authority to decide who steps into our classrooms? That’s your jurisdiction, Principal Nezu.”

The little creature’s smile never wavered. He steepled his tiny paws on the table. “Ah, but if the Ministry comes bearing the Prime Minister’s seal, even I must listen. They’ve been quite… insistent.”

Present Mic leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, though his usual grin had faded. “Man, this is sketchy. Real sketchy. The Ministry deciding to get buddy-buddy with us? Kinda feels like everyone’s trying to get a piece of U.A.”

“Which means they don’t trust us,” Aizawa said bluntly. His scarf twitched faintly, betraying his irritation. “They’re afraid our current methods aren’t enough. That our students — my students — won’t be prepared.”

“They may not be entirely wrong,” Cementoss admitted. “The world is… unstable. Villains grow bolder every year. Perhaps the Ministry simply wants to make sure our students are ready for that reality.”

“Perhaps.” Nezu’s tail flicked idly, a sharp gleam in his eyes. “Or perhaps they see U.A. as the perfect place to test one of their… investments.” That word — investments — made the room stir again.

“Investments? What, they’re treating a teacher like a guinea pig?” Midnight frowned. “Lovely.”

“Or like a weapon,” Snipe added grimly.

“Who exactly are they sending, Nezu?” Aizawa asked finally, cutting through the noise. His tone was flat, his patience worn thin. “You’ve let us speculate long enough.”

Nezu chuckled, as if he’d been waiting for that cue. He raised his cup, took a measured sip, then set it down with deliberate care.

“They are sending us someone… rather unconventional,” Nezu said at last. “Not a pro hero. Not even a soldier, in the strictest sense.” His smile widened, sharp and secretive. “A teacher. A very special kind of teacher. Young, quirkless… and once, a trainee in assassination.”

The room erupted in varying degrees of disbelief.

“What?!” Present Mic nearly fell out of his chair. “Quirkless? And an assassin? Are you kidding me?”

Midnight’s smirk faltered into a frown. “Wait. Quirkless? The Ministry is trusting someone without a Quirk to handle our students? That doesn’t add up. Unless…”

“They’re more dangerous than they sound,” Snipe finished grimly.

Aizawa didn’t react outwardly, though his gaze sharpened, intent and calculating. “Name.”

Nezu let the silence build again, his grin stretching wider. “Nagisa Shiota.” The name fell into the room like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward, carrying weight none of them fully understood yet.

The faculty exchanged glances, each trying to gauge the others’ reactions. The name meant nothing to most of them — just another civilian’s name, perhaps — but something about Nezu’s tone told them there was far more beneath the surface.

Present Mic raised a brow, confusion etched on his face. “Uh… never heard of him. That supposed to mean something to us?”

“Not yet,” Nezu said lightly, swirling the tea in his cup. “But you will.”

Midnight leaned forward, tapping a manicured nail against the table. “You said he’s quirkless. And… a trained assassin. That combination doesn’t sound like someone you’d willingly let near children.”

“Unless he’s extraordinarily capable,” Cementoss countered, his voice low and even. “For the Ministry to endorse him… he must have proven himself beyond ordinary standards.”

Snipe adjusted his hat, his tone grim. “Or maybe they just want a leash around our necks. Someone trained to follow orders without question. A watchdog who reports straight back to them.”

“Or kill us in our sleep if we step out of line,” Midnight muttered dryly.

A tense silence lingered.

Finally, Aizawa spoke. “You’re dodging again, Nezu. Why him? Why someone like this, instead of a licensed pro hero?”

Nezu’s smile thinned into something sharper. He folded his paws neatly, eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief or perhaps warning. “Because Nagisa Shiota is unique. He has accomplished things most grown men — heroes and soldiers alike — could not. And he did it all when he was fifteen.”

That drew a visible reaction. Midnight’s smirk faltered. Snipe sat straighter. Present Mic blinked.

“What exactly… did he do?” Cementoss asked carefully.

Nezu let the silence stretch, savoring their unease before answering. “Seven years ago, a very classified incident occurred, one the Ministry has scrubbed from public record. An event that, if it had gone differently, none of us would be here right now.”

The room went still.

“There was a being,” Nezu continued softly, “an entity powerful enough to destroy the world. He threatened to do just that unless certain… conditions were met. The Ministry, desperate and out of options, turned to an unlikely group: Class 3-E, a collection of misfit students from Kunugigaoka Junior High.”

Midnight’s eyes widened slightly. “Students? Children?”

“Yes.” Nezu’s tone sharpened. “Children who were given a single, impossible task: to kill their teacher, the very being who held the world hostage.”

“...What?” Present Mic muttered, jaw slack.

“And among those students,” Nezu went on, “Nagisa Shiota stood out. Not because of brute strength. Not because of a flashy quirk. But because he learned how to observe, adapt, and strike in ways that even the Ministry’s top operatives found… unnerving.”

The faculty fell quiet again, tension threading through the room.

“He succeeded,” Nezu said, eyes narrowing just enough to let the weight of his words settle. “Not alone, of course. His classmates fought with him, grew with him. But it was Shiota who dealt the final blow. Shiota who stood in the shadow of a dying god and carried through the world’s salvation.”

A hush fell over the table.

Midnight crossed her arms, unsettled. “So the Ministry expects us to accept someone molded in blood and desperation… and let him guide the next generation of heroes?”

Snipe shook his head slowly. “If this kid’s as dangerous as you say, Principal, how do we know he won’t be a liability? Or worse, a threat?”

Nezu chuckled, his beady eyes gleaming. “Because I already know the answer to that question.” He leaned back in his chair, smiling wider. “Nagisa Shiota isn’t a threat to U.A. He’s the very thing that might keep it standing.”

And though the meeting pressed on, the name Nagisa Shiota lingered like a ghost in the back of every teacher’s mind.

The silence stretched, heavy and unbroken. Finally, Cementoss spoke, his deep voice steady. “Assuming all of this is true… What role does the Ministry intend for him to play here? Surely not a homeroom teacher?”

“No, not a homeroom teacher,” Nezu replied smoothly. 

Aizawa leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “So what then? Combat instructor? Support staff? Babysitter for Class 1-A?”

Nezu chuckled, clearly amused. “Think of him as… an external specialist. The Ministry wishes him embedded with our incoming first-years. To watch, to teach, and to guide. Not only in the mechanics of combat, but in the subtler lessons. How to read a battlefield, how to think like someone who’s cornered, how to win when every card is stacked against you.”

Midnight frowned, resting her chin on her hand. “Teaching children to think like assassins… that doesn’t exactly sound heroic, Nezu.”

“No,” Nezu agreed, his small paw tapping lightly against the tabletop. “It sounds… necessary. Heroes already learn to fight villains, yes? But too often, they forget villains don’t fight fair. Shiota knows unfairness better than anyone alive. He can prepare our students for realities most pros spend their entire careers avoiding until it’s too late.”

Snipe adjusted his hat, skepticism in his tone. “So he’s a watchdog and a drill sergeant rolled into one. Convenient for the Ministry, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.” Nezu’s grin didn’t falter. “But that doesn’t make him useless to us.”

Present Mic rubbed the back of his neck. “Still can’t get over it, man. A quirkless kid teaching future pro heroes? Sounds like a setup for disaster.”

“Or inspiration,” Cementoss countered. “If he truly saved the world without a quirk, then he represents something even the best of us cannot offer. Proof that one doesn’t need power to make a difference.”

Aizawa’s gaze sharpened, his voice dropping. “That depends entirely on whether he still believes in being a teacher… or whether the Ministry is just shoving him into a role for their own benefit.”

The words hung heavy, but Nezu only smiled wider, eyes gleaming with quiet certainty. “That, Aizawa, is what I intend to find out myself.”

He set his teacup down with a soft clink, signaling the shift of discussion. “For now, I ask all of you to prepare. Our new generation of students will be arriving soon, and when they do, Shiota will be among us. He may stumble, he may falter, but watch closely. If I’m right… His presence will change the way these children grow.”

The teachers exchanged uncertain looks, unease and curiosity mingling in equal measure.

And though no one said it aloud, one question burned at the back of all their minds:

Just what kind of man would walk into U.A.— a man who had once been told to kill his own teacher to save the world?

The meeting wound down with the scrape of chairs against the polished floor, the low murmur of voices filling the room as staff began to gather their things. Nezu clapped his small paws together, his ever-present smile betraying nothing of the weighty conversation they’d just had.

“Thank you all for your time,” he said brightly. “Do keep these matters in mind as we prepare for the coming term. I expect your usual professionalism and discretion.”

The subtle edge in his tone left no room for argument. One by one, the teachers filed out, some whispering to each other in subdued voices, others lost in their own thoughts.

“Midnight, Cementoss, Present Mic, Snipe, good day,” Nezu chimed as they passed, cheerfully polite. Even Snipe gave a low grunt of acknowledgment as he left, tipping his hat on the way out.

When only Aizawa remained seated, arms crossed, eyes unreadable, Nezu tilted his head. “Shota, would you mind staying for a moment?”

Aizawa gave a small sigh but didn’t argue. “Figured you’d say that.”

The door clicked shut as the last teacher left, and silence settled again. Nezu hopped lightly down from his chair, padding across the tabletop until he sat closer to Aizawa. His bright eyes fixed on the man who met them with a steady, half-lidded gaze.

“You’re unconvinced,” Nezu said simply, no question in his tone.

“Not unconvinced,” Aizawa replied. “Cautious. You know me.” His voice was low, steady, with an undercurrent of suspicion. “I don’t care what the Ministry wants. If you let that boy in here without thinking it through, it’ll be the students who pay the price.”

Nezu’s smile curved a fraction sharper. “Precisely why I wanted to speak with you.”

Aizawa’s brow furrowed slightly, though his expression barely shifted otherwise. “You want me to keep an eye on him.”

“Not just on him,” Nezu corrected gently. “On his effect. Watch how the students react to him. How he reacts to them. He may prove an invaluable asset… or he may not be able to shoulder the role thrust upon him. Either way, I’d prefer unbiased eyes observing.”

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly. “Unbiased, huh. I don’t know about that. I’ve seen enough kids like him. Broken down, forced into something they shouldn’t have carried at that age. It leaves marks.”

For the first time, Nezu’s smile softened, not gone, but tempered with something quieter. “Yes. It does.”

The two shared a long silence, a wordless understanding passing between them.

Finally, Aizawa rose, tugging his scarf over his shoulder. “Fine. I’ll watch him. But if he cracks under pressure, or if the Ministry’s pulling strings we can’t see, I won’t hesitate to act.”

“That’s why I trust you,” Nezu said, tail flicking lightly. “Do what you think best. For the students, and for him.”

Aizawa gave a curt nod and left without another word, the door shutting behind him with a faint click.

Nezu sat alone now, sipping the last of his tea. His smile returned, small and knowing.

“Let’s see, Shiota-kun,” he murmured to the empty room. “Just how much of your teacher still lives within you?”

Chapter Text

‎Nagisa had been staring at the steam rising from the pot for too long. The curry on his stove bubbled faintly, filling the small apartment with the scent of carrots and potatoes, but his mind was elsewhere. Back in the empty classroom where he and his students had trained that afternoon, back in the memories that surfaced whenever he stood in front of a chalkboard.

‎

‎Teaching came naturally. Too naturally, sometimes. It scared him how much he sounded like Korosensei now.

‎

‎The vibration on the counter startled him. He grabbed the phone quickly, scanning the name. ‎Nagisa straightened his posture automatically. “Agent Karasuma. Good evening.”

‎

‎“Shiota,” Karasuma’s voice came crisp through the speaker, calm but weighted. “I trust I’m not interrupting anything important.”

‎

‎“No, sir. I just finished dinner prep,” Nagisa replied politely. “Is this about U.A.?”

‎

‎A pause. “…Yes. I spoke with Principal Nezu today.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s grip on the phone tightened. “And?”

‎

‎“He accepted. Your placement at U.A. High is approved.”

‎

‎Relief hit first, washing through his chest, but before Nagisa could exhale it out, Karasuma added, “But there’s something you need to hear directly from me.”

‎

‎Nagisa froze. “What is it?”

‎

‎“…Nezu knows.”

‎

‎The silence on Nagisa’s end stretched long enough that Karasuma’s breathing faintly came through the line.

‎

‎“…Knows?” Nagisa echoed carefully. “About what, Agent Karasuma?”

‎

‎Karasuma’s voice sharpened, low and deliberate. “About Class 3-E. About the assassination training. About what you endured with Korosensei seven years ago.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s chest tightened, his free hand curling against his thigh. “That’s… impossible. Those records were sealed. Even our files were classified to the highest clearance.”

‎

‎“That’s what I believed too.” Karasuma’s tone was steady, but there was something taut beneath it. “But Nezu isn’t ordinary. He’s too sharp for his own good. He didn’t state everything outright, but he made it clear he has… insight. Whether he found access to restricted files or deduced it on his own, I can’t say. But he knows you’re more than just a teacher.”

‎

‎Nagisa sat heavily in his chair, the words echoing through him. Memories surfaced unbidden— Korosensei’s blinding grin under the moonlight, Karma’s sharp laughter, Kayano’s trembling hands. The desperate determination they’d all carried.

‎

‎“Agent Karasuma…” Nagisa’s voice wavered before he steadied it. “If he knows, then what does that mean for me?”

‎

‎Karasuma hesitated this time, as if weighing how much to tell him. “It means,” he said slowly, “that Nezu has requested to meet you in person. Two weeks from now, at U.A. itself.”

‎

‎Nagisa blinked. “Two weeks…?”

‎

‎“He wants to test you. To see for himself whether you’re worthy of the role he’s offering. This isn’t just an interview, Shiota. It’s an evaluation.”

‎

‎Nagisa stared at the floor, the weight of those words pressing into him. A test. As if he hadn’t already spent years being tested— on the field, in classrooms, in life-or-death battles where failure meant not just his end, but the end of the world. ‎“…Worthy, huh,” Nagisa whispered under his breath, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I thought I’d left that kind of judgment behind.”

‎

‎“Shiota,” Karasuma’s tone shifted, firmer now. “This isn’t like back then. You’re not a weapon being assessed for its sharpness. Nezu wants to see if you’re a teacher who can stand among heroes. There’s a difference.”

‎

‎Nagisa swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to believe that. He really did. But even now, he could still feel the phantom weight of a knife between his fingers, the echo of Korosensei’s last words urging them forward. ‎“…Sometimes,” Nagisa admitted quietly, “I wonder if I really left that part of me behind. If I’m really just a teacher, or if I’m still the assassin who killed his own teacher.”

‎

‎The line was quiet for a beat. Then Karasuma said, with quiet conviction, “You’re both. And that’s exactly why you’re the right person for this job.” Nagisa closed his eyes, the words settling heavy but strangely comforting. For so long, he’d tried to draw a line between those two halves of himself. Hearing Karasuma — his mentor, his superior, his anchor — acknowledge both without flinching made the air feel easier to breathe.

‎

‎“Agent Karasuma…” Nagisa murmured, softer now. “…Thank you.”

‎

‎Karasuma’s voice steadied again, back to business. “Two weeks. Rest. Prepare yourself. I’ll contact you again with the final details.”

‎

‎Nagisa let out a quiet laugh, the sound weary but real. “Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”

‎

‎The line clicked as the call ended.

‎

‎Nagisa lowered the phone slowly, staring at the darkened screen. His reflection gazed back at him— soft features, a teacher’s expression, but eyes that still held the steel of 3-E. ‎“Two weeks…” he whispered.

‎

‎He thought of Korosensei’s words again, spoken on that final day. ‘The past you carry will never vanish. But it doesn’t have to weigh you down. Use it. Learn from it.’

‎

‎Maybe this wasn’t just another test. Maybe it was a chance to prove — to himself, more than anyone — that he was more than the sum of his past.

‎

‎Nagisa picked up his chopsticks and tasted the curry. It was cold now, but the warmth of memory lingered.

‎

‎And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was eating alone.

~~~

‎Nagisa didn’t sleep much after Karasuma’s call.

‎

‎He lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every tone in Karasuma’s voice, every shift of weight behind that phrase:‎ “Nezu wants to test you. To see for himself whether you’re worthy.”

‎

‎Worthy.

‎

‎The word gnawed at him. For years he’d been trying to prove to himself that he wasn’t just the child assassin of 3-E. That he could stand in front of a classroom and be more than a weapon. But now, here he was again, being measured, evaluated, judged. Not by enemies, not by the Ministry, but by the man who oversaw the school that trained the world’s future heroes.

‎

‎And Nezu knew. Somehow, Nezu knew.

‎

‎Nagisa let out a shaky breath and dragged his hands down his face. “…I can’t keep spinning in circles like this.”

‎

‎He glanced at his desk. The old Class 3-E notebook still sat there, right where he’d left it after messaging their group days ago. The group was still alive, buzzing with chatter and updates from his old classmates. He just hadn’t been part of it. Again.

‎

‎Nagisa bit his lip. For so long, he’d convinced himself it was easier that way. To drift apart. To keep teaching quietly, without dragging his past into the lives of people who had already moved forward. But now, with Nezu’s test looming over him, he realized how hollow that resolve really was.

‎

‎He needed help. Or at the very least… he needed a reminder that he wasn’t alone in this.

‎

‎Nagisa turned and picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over the contacts list, scrolling past names that made his chest tighten. Karma, Kayano, Sugino, Isogai… Too much time had passed. He didn’t know what he’d even say to them now.

‎

‎But, one name stood out.

‎

‎Ritsu.

‎

‎Nagisa exhaled, a small smile tugging at his lips. Of course. Out of all of them, Ritsu had never really gone away. She’d become practically omnipresent— threads on forums, AI consultation services, streams, videos. He couldn’t open his browser without stumbling across something linked to her. She was everywhere, and if there was anyone who could give him a clear, unbiased perspective, it was her.

‎

‎That’s how he found himself sitting cross-legged on his futon, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the blank screen like it was an old friend. The rational part of him knew this was absurd. Ritsu wasn’t limited to the little device he held. She was everywhere. She had practically programmed herself into all of their phones years ago, and if he said her name out loud, chances were she’d appear.

‎

‎Nagisa sighed, running his hand through his hair. “…This feels so silly,” he muttered. His voice echoed slightly in the quiet room. Still, he lifted his chin. “Ritsu. It’s Nagisa. You’re probably listening already, aren’t you?”

‎

‎The silence stretched for a beat too long, enough to make him feel like an idiot for talking to a black screen. He let out a weak laugh. “I must look ridiculous right now. A grown man, sitting alone, talking to his phone like I’m in middle school again. But… I guess it’s the only way I know how to reach you.”

‎

‎He exhaled and leaned back, softer now. “I need to talk. About Nezu. About what’s coming. I don’t know if I’m overthinking, or if I’m in way over my head. But if anyone can help me figure this out… it’s you.”

‎

‎Nagisa closed his eyes for a moment, waiting. “…So. What do you think?”

‎

‎Nagisa opened his eyes again, halfway ready to give up and accept that he had been talking to empty air. But then—

‎

—‎The screen on his phone flickered, pixelated static forming like water rippling on glass. Slowly, a familiar pair of bright, digital eyes blinked open.

‎

‎“Good morning, Nagisa-kun!” Ritsu’s cheerful voice rang out, light as ever. Her face appeared on the screen, smiling like no time had passed at all. “Or… is it afternoon? Evening? I’ve been following too many global clocks lately, it’s hard to keep track~.”

‎

‎Nagisa felt his chest loosen at the sight. “Ritsu…” He almost laughed at himself again, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been so long.”

‎

‎“Seven years, two months, and…” she paused dramatically, “...eleven days since we last spoke face-to-face. But who’s counting?”

‎

‎“You are, apparently.” Nagisa’s lips tugged into a small smile. It felt like being pulled back into a memory, the comfort of 3-E, the strange way their class wasn’t complete without this AI girl at their side.

‎

‎“I missed you, Nagisa-kun,” Ritsu said simply, her tone softening.

‎

‎The words caught him off guard, and his throat tightened just a little. “…I missed you too.”

‎

‎For a moment, neither said anything. Just the low hum of his phone, the glow of her digital form lighting up his otherwise quiet apartment.

‎

‎Finally, Nagisa leaned forward, expression hardening into something more serious. “Ritsu. I need your help.”

‎

‎Her digital eyes sharpened. “With Nezu?”

‎

‎Nagisa blinked. “You already know?”

‎

‎“I’ve been monitoring Ministry channels and certain education boards.” Ritsu tilted her head playfully. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, so I was waiting until you were ready to ask. But now that you have…”

‎

‎Nagisa exhaled, not sure if he should feel relieved or unnerved that she was already ten steps ahead of him. “I need to know everything you can find. Who he talks to. What he’s planning. How much he knows about me. About 3-E.”

‎

‎Ritsu’s smile softened into something more serious than her usual cheer. “That’s dangerous, Nagisa-kun. Nezu isn’t just clever. He’s… different. Like he’s always playing three games at once while smiling at you.”

‎

‎“I know,” Nagisa murmured. His fingers tightened around the phone. “But if I’m going to walk into that meeting in two weeks, I can’t go in blind. I need every advantage.”

‎

‎Ritsu’s image flickered, her gaze steady. “…Then I’ll dig. But Nagisa-kun… promise me something?”

‎

‎He looked up. “What?”

‎

‎“Promise you won’t try to carry this alone. The others are still here, waiting. You don’t have to be out of contact anymore.”

‎

‎Nagisa swallowed hard. For once, he didn’t have a ready answer.

‎Nagisa stayed quiet for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the edge of his phone case. Carrying things alone, it had become second nature. Maybe too much. But Ritsu’s eyes on the screen, warm and steady, made it harder to retreat behind the usual excuses. ‎“…I’ll try,” he said at last.

‎

‎It was enough for Ritsu. She brightened again, fingers flying across a translucent keyboard that only existed in her projection. “Good. Then let’s get started.”

‎

‎Lines of code and streams of data flickered across his screen. Nagisa leaned closer, watching as Ritsu worked with frightening efficiency. She wasn’t just combing the surface web, she was cutting through encrypted Ministry records, skipping firewalls like they were speed bumps.

‎

‎“Nezu, principal of U.A. High,” Ritsu began, her voice shifting into a clipped, analytical tone. “Known for his intelligence far beyond human standards. Officially registered as a rare case: a non-human animal granted full citizen rights due to sentience.”

‎

‎Nagisa nodded slowly. “That much I knew…”

‎

‎“But the records don’t stop there.” The screen shifted, showing images, blurred photos from surveillance cameras, snippets of reports. “He’s tied into nearly every major educational reform in Japan over the past two decades. And unofficially, he has connections with the Ministry of Defense.”

‎

‎Nagisa stiffened. “The Ministry… again.”

‎

‎Ritsu glanced at him knowingly. “Yes. Some of the same people who were involved with Class 3-E’s mission against Koro-sensei show up in his network. Quietly, carefully, but they’re there.”

‎

‎His chest tightened. The past he had tried to bury kept circling back, pulling at him. “So he really does know.”

‎

‎“Maybe not everything,” Ritsu said gently. “But enough to want to test you.”

‎

‎The glow of the screen flickered against Nagisa’s face as he sat back, his pulse hammering. A strange mix of dread and determination swirled in his chest.

‎

‎Ritsu paused her typing, her expression softening again. “…This is only the surface, Nagisa-kun. If I dig deeper, I’ll find more. But are you sure you want me to? The more you know about Nezu, the more dangerous it becomes.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s hand tightened on the phone until his knuckles whitened. “Yes. I need to know. If I’m going to face him, I need to understand the kind of opponent I’m up against.”

‎

‎Ritsu nodded, her voice quiet but firm. “Then I’ll keep digging."

~~~

‎Two weeks flashed by faster than Nagisa expected.

‎

‎And now here he was, the night before his meeting with Nezu, lying awake on his bed with the glow of his phone screen casting pale light across the room. ‎He let out a soft sigh, rolling onto his side. The faint hum of the city outside felt distant, like it belonged to someone else’s life.

‎

‎He and Ritsu had spent the last fourteen nights chasing threads, slipping through encrypted databases and peeling back layer after layer of red tape. But the deeper they dug, the more frustrating the picture became.

‎

‎Nezu was careful. Too careful.

‎

‎“We barely got anywhere,” Nagisa muttered aloud to the dark, one hand covering his eyes. His voice came out tired, flat. “All we have is confirmation of what we already knew, that he’s connected to the Ministry. That he has… friends in high places. But not how. Not when. Not why he knows about 3-E.”

‎

‎The thought gnawed at him.

‎

‎The Ministry of Defense had buried their past. Every record, every trace, every scrap of evidence regarding the assassination classroom seven years ago had been locked away in black files. The public believed the story they’d been fed, that an experimental weapon had been neutralized in secret. Nothing more. Nothing about a yellow octopus teacher who could destroy the world, nothing about the students who had trained to kill him. Nothing about Nagisa himself.

‎

‎And yet Nezu had looked Karasuma in the eye and spoken with certainty.

‎

‎Nagisa shifted, staring up at the ceiling as his pulse quickened. How?

‎

‎Every possible answer only made the pit in his stomach deepen. Was Nezu tied closer to the Ministry than even Karasuma realized? Did he have eyes inside the Defense bureau? Or worse— had someone from 3-E talked?

‎

‎Nagisa quickly shook that thought away, guilt stinging. No. His classmates wouldn’t betray what they had all sworn to keep buried. He trusted them. He had to trust them.

‎

‎“Still…” he whispered, voice catching faintly. “It feels like he knows too much. More than anyone should.”

‎

‎His phone buzzed softly, and he glanced down. Ritsu’s icon glowed at the corner of the screen, her face appearing in a quiet projection above the display. Her tone was gentler tonight, as if she could sense the weight pressing down on him.

‎

‎“You’ve been turning this over in your head again, haven’t you?” she said softly.

‎

‎Nagisa gave a helpless little laugh. “You know me too well.”

‎

‎“I am programmed to,” she replied with a playful tilt of her head before her expression softened again. “We found as much as we could. Nezu’s connections are deliberately vague, shielded by levels of clearance I can’t breach, not without setting off alarms that would bring more problems than answers. But what we do know is this: Nezu doesn’t act without reason. If he’s bringing you in, it’s because he sees something in you.”

‎

‎Nagisa stared at her projection for a long moment, then let his eyes slip shut. “…Or he sees a weapon.”

‎

‎Silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of Ritsu’s code flickering in the background.

‎

‎Finally, Nagisa exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow, I’ll know. One way or another.”

‎

‎Ritsu’s voice softened even further, almost warm. “Good luck tomorrow, Nagisa. No matter what Nezu sees… I see a teacher. And I think Koro-sensei would say the same.”

‎

‎His throat tightened at that, but he managed a small smile. “…Thanks, Ritsu.”

‎

‎He turned off the phone, leaving the room in complete darkness. But her words lingered, steady against the heavy questions that refused to let him sleep.

Chapter Text

‎Morning sunlight spilled across the wide steps of U.A. High School, gilding the glass and steel of its towering structure. Nagisa paused at the gates, clutching the strap of his shoulder bag a little too tightly.

‎

‎Up close, the school looked even larger than it had in the photographs and broadcasts. It wasn’t just a building, it was a fortress of ambition, designed to produce heroes strong enough to shoulder the weight of society. The emblem on the gates gleamed, proud and sharp, a reminder that this was no ordinary campus.

‎

‎Nagisa swallowed. His feet felt rooted to the pavement, as though they were asking the same question his mind whispered relentlessly: Do I really belong here?

‎

‎A pair of teachers passed by on their way in, chatting casually. They gave him a curious glance but moved along without a word. Still, Nagisa could feel the weight of the place pressing down on him. This was U.A., the beating heart of hero culture. And here he was, a quirkless teacher with a past buried under secrecy, about to be tested by one of the most brilliant minds in the country.

‎

‎Get a grip, Nagisa, he scolded himself, adjusting his bag. You’ve faced worse.

‎

‎He forced his legs to move, step by step, through the gates and across the courtyard until he reached the main building. Inside, the halls were quiet, summer vacation still kept most of the student body away. Only the echo of his footsteps and the faint hum of distant electronics accompanied him as he followed the directions Karasuma had given.

‎

‎Eventually, he stopped before a set of double doors. The plaque beside them read: Principal’s Office.

‎

‎Nagisa drew in a deep breath. His pulse drummed in his ears as he raised a hand and knocked.

‎

‎“Come in,” came the voice from within. Polite, light, but carrying an uncanny undertone that sent a shiver down his spine.

‎

‎Nagisa pushed the door open.

‎

‎The room was large but orderly, filled with shelves of books and strange devices that clicked faintly as if alive. Papers sat neatly stacked on the desk, but it was the figure behind it that immediately commanded his attention.

‎

‎A small creature sat in a chair far too large for him, white fur immaculate, eyes gleaming with an intelligence that felt almost predatory despite the warm smile on his face.

‎

‎Nezu.

‎

‎The principal of U.A. looked at him as though he already knew him. All of him.

‎

‎“Ah,” Nezu greeted cheerfully, folding his paws together on the desk. “Nagisa Shiota. At last, we meet.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s throat went dry. He stepped forward carefully, bowing slightly in respect. “…Principal Nezu. Thank you for meeting me.”

‎

‎“Of course,” Nezu replied, his voice carrying a strange balance between cordiality and something sharper, something probing. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

‎

‎The air in the office felt heavier than before. Nagisa could almost hear his own heartbeat as he met Nezu’s gaze. The principal’s smile never faltered, but there was a glimmer behind it, a spark that said this wasn’t just a meeting. This was a test.

‎

‎And it had already begun.

‎

‎Nagisa stood straighter, though he could feel the faint tremor in his hands as he kept them clasped politely at his side. Nezu’s gaze, bright and unblinking, seemed to strip away the space between them.

‎

‎“Please, sit,” Nezu said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. His tone was light, almost playful, but the way his eyes lingered made it clear there was no such thing as a casual conversation here.

‎

‎Nagisa obeyed, lowering himself carefully into the chair. He tried not to fidget, but the quiet creak of the cushion sounded louder than it should have.

‎

‎The principal leaned back slightly, folding his paws together. “I must say, Agent Karasuma spoke highly of you. He insisted that you would be a valuable addition to our faculty. At least, on a temporary basis.”

‎

‎Nagisa nodded, managing a small smile. “He… told me that much. Though I admit, I was surprised to hear U.A. would consider someone like me.”

‎

‎“Oh?” Nezu tilted his head, his ears twitching faintly. “And what do you mean by ‘someone like you’?”

‎

‎The question was gentle, but it slid under Nagisa’s skin like a blade. He hesitated, searching for the right words. “…I’m not a Pro Hero. I don’t have a quirk. I’m just a teacher.”

‎

‎For a moment, silence stretched. Then Nezu chuckled softly, tapping one claw against the desk. “Just a teacher, you say. Interesting choice of words. After all, a good teacher is often the difference between failure and greatness. Wouldn’t you agree?”

‎

‎Nagisa felt heat rise to his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or the sharpness of Nezu’s tone. “…Yes. Of course.”

‎

‎“Mm. And yet…” Nezu’s smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You are not just anything, Shiota-kun. I happen to know you were trained for far more than lesson plans and chalkboards.”

‎

‎Nagisa stiffened. His breath caught in his throat.

‎

‎There it was. The unspoken truth, brought out into the open with the same casual tone one might use to remark on the weather.

‎

‎“…You mean Class 3-E.” Nagisa said quietly.

‎

‎“Indeed.” Nezu replied smoothly. “The assassination classroom. Your… unconventional education, shall we say. Seven years ago, the Ministry of Defense buried the details, but I do pride myself on having my own ways of learning about the world.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s pulse raced. He remembered what Karasuma had said, that the Ministry had locked everything away. That no one outside had access. And yet here Nezu was, speaking as though he’d been there himself.

‎

‎He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his expression steady. “…If you already know, then you know why I hesitate to be here. That past isn’t something I wanted to bring into a school like this.”

‎

‎Nezu’s eyes glittered with something unreadable. “On the contrary, it’s precisely why I wanted to meet you. You were trained to kill, Nagisa-kun. And yet you chose to teach. That contradiction… fascinates me.”

‎

‎Nagisa looked down at his hands, his chest tightening. He could feel the test pressing in from every side. Not through combat, not through drills, but through words. Through the way Nezu dissected him with a smile.

‎

‎“Tell me.” Nezu continued, his voice soft but cutting. “Why did you accept the Ministry’s request? To prove yourself? To escape your past? Or perhaps… to honor it?”

‎

‎The question landed heavy, pinning Nagisa where he sat. He opened his mouth, but no words came at first.

‎

‎This was it. The test had started. Officially started.

‎Nagisa didn’t flinch under the weight of Nezu’s gaze. The silence was deliberate — meant to squeeze an answer out of him — but Nagisa had learned long ago that letting someone else dictate the pace meant losing ground.

‎

‎So when he spoke, it was calm. Certain.

‎

‎“I accepted because teaching is what I chose for myself,” Nagisa said, voice steady, almost deceptively quiet. “Not to escape, and not because someone pushed me into it. I know the kind of world I’ve stepped into. And I know what I can offer my students, guidance, discipline, and the kind of perspective most people my age don’t carry.”

‎

‎His words lingered in the air, unhurried but unwavering.

‎

‎“The Ministry may see me as a resource. The public may not know my history. But none of that matters when I’m standing in front of a classroom. What matters is that I can make those students stronger than they were yesterday. That’s reason enough.”

‎

‎Nezu’s whiskers twitched, his smile sharpening just so. He leaned back slightly in his chair, as though he’d been testing the edges of Nagisa’s resolve and found them less pliable than expected. ‎“…Confident,” Nezu said at last, his tone unreadable. “And not rehearsed, either. Interesting.”

‎

‎For a moment, it seemed like that might be the end of it. But Nezu tilted his head, eyes gleaming with a peculiar kind of curiosity. “Tell me, Shiota—if one of your students were to surpass you, what would you do?”

‎

‎Nagisa blinked. The question was unexpected, but not unfamiliar. He didn’t hesitate. “Celebrate them.”

‎

‎Nezu’s ears perked. “Celebrate?”

‎

‎“Yes,” Nagisa replied, his voice firm. “Because it means I did my job. A teacher’s role isn’t to stand above their students forever. It’s to raise them high enough that they no longer need you.”

‎

‎The principal chuckled lightly, a sound that was both amused and probing. “How… humble. Yet humility can be a mask as much as arrogance can. And you’re very good at masks, aren’t you?”

‎

‎Nagisa didn’t rise to the bait. He simply met Nezu’s gaze, unflinching. “I don’t hide from the truth, Principal Nezu. I’ve seen what happens when someone treats children like tools, or pawns in a larger game. I refuse to be that kind of teacher.”

‎

‎The smile on Nezu’s face shifted, small, thin, but dangerous in its sharpness. It was the look of a predator entertained by unexpected prey. “Mm. I see. You speak with conviction, Shiota-kun. That’s rare… and valuable.”

‎

‎The office fell quiet again, heavy but not hostile. Nezu tapped a claw thoughtfully against his chair arm, then leaned forward.

‎

‎“Then let’s continue,” he said smoothly. “I have a series of questions for you. Hypotheticals, scenarios, dilemmas. Think of them as… glimpses into how you would handle the classroom.”

‎

‎Nagisa’s pulse ticked upward, but his expression remained even. “…I’m listening.”

‎

‎Nezu’s eyes gleamed with that peculiar intelligence, sharp and curious as a scalpel. ‎“Good. Then tell me, what would you do if one of your students used their quirk to harm another, not out of malice… but out of fear?”

‎

Nagisa didn’t answer immediately. He weighed the words, careful. “First, I’d separate them. Not as punishment, but to deescalate. Fear clouds judgment. If I punish fear as if it were malice, I teach them to hide it, not face it. After that… I’d address both children. One needs reassurance they are safe. The other needs to learn how to face fear without letting it lash out.”

Nezu tilted his head. “You’d coddle them, then?”

“No,” Nagisa replied firmly. “Fear is real, but so is accountability. I’d hold them responsible, but not in a way that leaves them afraid of me instead of their own actions. The lesson has to stick.”

The principal’s whiskers twitched in amusement. “Hm. Interesting. And if it happens again?”

“Then it stops being fear,” Nagisa said simply, “and starts being a pattern. Patterns require stricter correction.”

Nezu’s smile sharpened, satisfied. He didn’t pause long before posing the next dilemma.

“Imagine a child in your class has a quirk dangerous enough to level buildings. They lack control, and the other students are afraid of them. Do you remove them from the class, or keep them integrated?”

Nagisa’s eyes narrowed slightly. “…Keep them integrated. Isolation will only feed the fear on both sides. The other students need to learn how to coexist with power they can’t control. And the child with the dangerous quirk? They need to know they’re more than a weapon.”

Nezu’s claws tapped rhythmically against the wood. “Even if they hurt someone?”

“I won’t pretend accidents won’t happen,” Nagisa admitted. “But that’s why I’m there. To supervise, to mitigate risk, to make sure no one is left alone with that burden. If I remove them… then I’ve already told them they’re hopeless.”

A low hum escaped Nezu, though whether it was approval or curiosity was impossible to tell. His questions rolled on, quick and sharp:

“What if a student despises you? Actively resists your authority?”

“I’d let them,” Nagisa said, without hesitation. “Respect isn’t obedience. If they don’t trust me, then I need to find out why. Until then, all I can do is remain consistent. If I break first, I’ve proven them right.”

As the questions continued, Nezu watched, listening to each answer without interruption, eyes gleaming sharper with each response. His smile never faltered, but there was a weight to it now, as though he were peeling away Nagisa’s defenses piece by piece, searching for a crack.

The office fell still, the faint ticking of a wall clock pressing in on the silence. Nagisa sat straight-backed in his chair, his expression calm even as his pulse still echoed from the barrage of questions.

Across from him, Nezu reclined once more into his seat, paws folding neatly on the desk. His eyes remained fixed on Nagisa, the kind of gaze that suggested both calculation and amusement, like a cat toying with something small yet unexpectedly sharp.

At length, Nezu exhaled through his nose, the faintest smile tugging at his whiskers. “Well, Shiota-kun… you are an interesting one. Rarely do I meet someone who can endure my questions without cracking, not even a flicker of uncertainty. That in itself speaks volumes.”

Nagisa inclined his head slightly, but didn’t respond. He knew better than to mistake that as approval.

“But,” Nezu continued smoothly, “I am not in the habit of making decisions on impulse. Not when it concerns my school. Not when it concerns children. UA is a crucible, you see—a place where young people’s ambitions, egos, fears, and hopes collide in spectacular fashion. We do not simply teach subjects here. We shape futures… and futures are terribly fragile things.”

His smile deepened, almost kind, though the sharpness in his eyes betrayed otherwise.

“Allowing you into this ecosystem — into my ecosystem — is no trivial matter. You may speak well, Shiota-kun. Your convictions are admirable. But convictions alone are not proof of stability.”

Nagisa absorbed the words quietly. “…So you’re saying you don’t trust me.”

“On the contrary.” Nezu’s ears perked. “I trust you very much to be exactly who you are. What I must decide… is whether who you are belongs here.”

The phrasing settled between them like a blade.

Nagisa held his gaze, unflinching. “And how long will that decision take?”

Nezu chuckled at that, delighted by the forwardness. “Ah, eager, are we? I admire that. But patience, Shiota-kun, is often the difference between a promising career and a disastrous one. Let’s not rush.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his paws. “I will consider what I’ve learned today. Your answers, your demeanor, the very way you carry yourself, all of it tells me something. Whether it is enough remains to be seen.”

Nagisa exhaled softly through his nose. “…Then I’ll wait for your decision.”

“Oh, you won’t have to wait directly,” Nezu replied, tone light and conversational, almost teasing. “I will inform Karasuma-kun when I’ve come to a conclusion. He will no doubt pass the message along. That way, you won’t spend your nights staring at your phone screen, hoping for a reply that won’t come.”

The remark hit closer than Nagisa expected, but his expression betrayed nothing. Nezu noticed anyway — of course he did — and the glint in his eyes sharpened further.

“Consider this a… provisional ending,” Nezu added, voice lowering into something almost gentle. “For now. Whether you join UA as an assistant teacher, or whether you walk away with only this conversation between us, you’ve already left an impression. And impressions, Shiota-kun, have a way of shaping outcomes more than you realize.”

He tapped his claws once against the desk, final, decisive. “That will be all.”

Nagisa rose to his feet slowly, bowing his head with the politeness drilled into him years ago. “…Thank you for your time, Principal Nezu.”

As he turned toward the door, Nezu’s voice called after him, light but laced with intent.

“Do rest well tonight, Shiota-kun. After all… uncertainty is an excellent teacher.”

Nagisa paused only for a heartbeat before stepping out into the hallway. The door shut behind him with a muted click, leaving the room’s quiet once again in Nezu’s hands.

The principal smiled faintly to himself, eyes glinting as he reached for a pen. He had much to think about.

The late afternoon sun hung low, painting the campus in long shadows as Nagisa stepped through UA’s front gates. The air smelled faintly of warm pavement and summer grass, and though he walked with measured calm, his thoughts swirled in quiet turbulence.

Nezu will decide later.

Karasuma will tell me when it comes.

All I can do now is wait.

Nagisa let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his bag against his side. He’d barely made it halfway down the quiet street bordering UA when a sharp sound cut through the air, metal striking concrete, followed by a panicked cry.

His head snapped up.

A few meters ahead, near the mouth of a side alley, something clattered into view: a robot. Sleek metal plating, a single sensor eye glowing red, its frame far smaller than the massive machines used for the entrance exam. Roughly human-sized, but its claws gleamed with an edge meant for more than just training.

And in front of it, cornered against the wall, was a woman clutching her groceries to her chest, frozen in terror.

Nagisa’s body moved before the thought finished forming.

His bag hit the ground with a thud. Feet silent against the concrete, he sprinted forward, sliding between the robot and the woman. Its claw lashed out, but Nagisa intercepted, driving his forearm up to deflect the strike. The impact jarred his arm, but it was enough to buy him a second.

He twisted back toward the woman, voice sharp and commanding. “Run! Now!”

Her eyes widened at the sudden authority in his tone. Then, clutching her half-spilled groceries, she bolted past him down the street, not looking back.

Nagisa didn’t breathe until her footsteps had faded beyond the alley. Only then did he turn back to the machine, posture lowering, eyes narrowing.

The robot swiveled toward him, its glowing eye locking onto its new target. Its claws clicked, extending with a metallic snarl.

Nagisa exhaled slowly, centering himself. Civilian’s safe. No more distractions.

The robot lunged. Nagisa sidestepped, his body moving with fluid precision, slipping under the strike. His palm shot out in a sharp, practiced motion, jamming against a joint in its elbow. Metal shrieked, sparks snapping, but the machine adjusted, retaliating with a sweeping strike meant to crush.

Nagisa leapt back, landing lightly on his feet. His eyes gleamed with that sharp, predator’s focus honed long ago in 3-E.

“…Alright,” he murmured, settling into a stance, hair falling forward. “Your turn.”

The robot advanced again, metal claws scraping against the concrete with a screech that set Nagisa’s teeth on edge. He shifted lightly on his feet, watching. Not just its size, its movement. The rhythm of its servos. The delay between its sensors scanning and its limbs following through.

It wasn’t built for efficiency. It was built for intimidation.

Nagisa’s eyes narrowed. That delay… one second at most. Enough.

The machine lunged, claw swinging down like a guillotine. Nagisa darted forward instead of back, slipping inside its arc. The claw whistled through the empty air behind him as his palm struck upward at the elbow joint again, precisely where the gears whined loudest. Sparks snapped, the arm jerking violently as its motion stuttered.

The robot staggered, recalibrating. Nagisa didn’t give it the chance.

He pivoted, dropping low, his hand shooting out to the back of its knee joint. A sharp strike, then a twist, metal groaned, the leg buckling beneath its own weight. The machine crashed to one knee, servos shrieking in protest.

Nagisa’s breathing was steady, his movements fluid, unhurried. Each strike was deliberate, more dissection than brawl.

The robot swung its remaining arm, desperation in its programming. Nagisa ducked beneath it, hair brushing the air as his hand shot up and gripped a cluster of exposed wires along the torso seam. With one brutal jerk, the wires tore loose.

The robot spasmed.

Nagisa twisted his grip, yanking free another cable. The red glow in its sensor eye flickered violently, then dimmed.

One final strike — his palm slamming into the side of its head unit — sent the machine collapsing sideways, smoke curling from the seams. Its lights went dark, limbs twitching once before going completely still.

Silence.

Nagisa stood there, exhaling softly, the faint smell of burnt circuitry hanging in the summer air. His pulse was calm, but his eyes betrayed the sharp, deadly edge of someone who’d once been trained to kill.

Slowly, he straightened, brushing dust from his hands. His gaze flicked toward the direction the woman had fled, relieved she was long gone. She hadn’t seen this side of him, hadn’t seen the methodical precision in his movements, the cold analysis.

Nagisa crouched briefly, inspecting the sparking wreck. “…Not standard issue,” he muttered. “So why was it here?”

His eyes lingered on the remains, troubled. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not in front of UA, not in broad daylight.

And deep down, a familiar unease stirred.

This wasn’t random.

Nagisa lingered only a moment longer, watching the smoke curl from the robot’s cracked chassis. Then he sighed, rolling his shoulders back as the weight of the situation settled. Leaving the wreck in the middle of the street wasn’t an option. Someone could trip over it, or worse, some curious kid might poke at the sparking wires and get hurt.

Old habits, he thought wryly. Back in 3-E, they had been drilled to never leave traces. Clean up after every move. Leave nothing for enemies — or civilians — to stumble across.

Nagisa crouched again, fingers deftly finding the exposed latches along the robot’s armor plates. With precise tugs, he pulled off the sparking components first, tucking them safely against the dead core. Piece by piece, he stripped the machine down until what remained was a compact pile of twisted metal and disconnected parts. No sharp edges, no live wires jutting out.

Grunting softly with the effort, he slid his arms beneath the bulk of the wreck, lifting it just enough to drag across the pavement. It screeched faintly as he pulled it toward a side alley, his shoes scuffing the ground in rhythm. The space was tucked between two buildings, quiet, and rarely trafficked, out of sight, out of mind.

Once there, he leaned the pile against the wall, stabilizing it so it wouldn’t tip into the walkway. He brushed his palms together, dusting off flecks of metal, then gave the remains one last scan. Harmless now. Nothing more than junk waiting for collection.

Satisfied, he stepped back into the main street. The faint bustle of the city carried on as if nothing had happened, civilians none the wiser. That was how he preferred it. No attention, no scene.

Nagisa adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder and started the walk back to his apartment. The adrenaline had already burned off, leaving behind only the low hum of his thoughts.

First Nezu, now this. A stray robot on the streets of Musutafu… right outside UA, of all places. That’s no coincidence.

His grip on the strap tightened slightly, though his expression stayed calm.

Whatever was going on, he’d have to be ready for it.

~~~

Inside U.A.’s staff room, the atmosphere was tense, charged with anticipation. The entire teaching faculty had gathered around the bank of monitors, every screen focused on a single figure walking out of the gates: Shiota Nagisa. His meeting with Nezu had ended, but the test wasn’t over. Not yet.

Nezu sat at the center of the room, paws folded neatly on the table before him. His expression was one of quiet curiosity, but those who knew him well understood: this silence was deliberate. The principal had planned an additional scenario, a practical exam hidden within the streets just beyond U.A.’s walls. It wasn’t enough to hear Nagisa’s answers to hypotheticals, he needed to see how the young man acted when faced with something raw and real.

Onscreen, a smaller robot rolled into view. Unlike the larger combat units used in exams, this one was disguised as a security patrol model. With a faint command signal from Nezu’s console, it “malfunctioned.” Its head twitched, targeting a nearby pedestrian with sudden hostility. A metallic claw extended, lashing forward.

Gasps rippled across the staff room. Midnight clapped a hand over her mouth. Cementoss muttered, “You’re testing him this way?” while Snipe frowned but said nothing. Only Aizawa’s gaze remained steady, tracking Nagisa’s reaction.

And react he did.

The monitors showed Nagisa springing forward without hesitation. His first move wasn’t against the machine, but toward the civilian, shielding them with his body, shoving them out of reach of the claw. His voice, though inaudible through the footage, was sharp and steady, gesturing for them to flee. Only once the bystander was safe did he turn, narrowing his eyes at the drone.

He didn’t rush in recklessly. He circled it once, twice, studying its movements, predicting its attack pattern with unnerving calm. Then, in a blur of motion, he dismantled it, hands moving with surgical precision, prying apart weak joints, striking pressure points in its frame as if he’d done this hundreds of times before. Within moments, the machine was nothing but sparking debris, scattered harmlessly across the street.

The staff room was silent.

Present Mic was the first to break it, his voice dropping to an almost subdued tone. “He didn’t even flinch. Prioritized the civilian, then went straight for the weak spots. That’s… that’s not a rookie move.”

Snipe crossed his arms, nodding slowly. “He moved like someone who’s seen too many fights. That wasn’t training. That was muscle memory.”

Midnight frowned deeply. “The way he looked at that robot… cold, precise… like he’d already taken it apart in his head before he even touched it.”

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “That’s what makes him dangerous. And valuable.”

Through it all, Nezu said nothing, his dark eyes fixed on the footage of Nagisa calmly dragging the drone’s remains into a side alley so as not to inconvenience civilians. He brushed off his hands, checked the street once more, then continued walking home as if nothing unusual had happened.

Finally, the principal’s claws tapped lightly against the desk, the faint sound drawing the others’ attention back to him. His smile was small but sharp.

“…Interesting,” Nezu murmured. “Very interesting.”

The monitors dimmed one by one, leaving only the faint glow of Nezu’s console. For a long while, no one spoke. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was thick, heavy, filled with the weight of what they had just witnessed.

Finally, it was Nezu who broke it.

“Well,” he said lightly, folding his paws neatly on the desk. “That answers one question.”

All eyes turned to him.

Midnight leaned forward first, her tone sharper than her usual playful edge. “So? What’s your verdict? He didn’t hesitate once. He protected the civilian before anything else. That’s exactly the kind of instinct you want in a teacher.”

Cementoss shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Did you see the way he dismantled the drone? That wasn’t the efficiency of a pro hero. That was… something else. Military. Assassin-like.”

A faint chill passed through the room at his words.

Snipe let out a low hum. “You’re right. Pros go for containment, capture, minimize the damage. But that kid? He went for the kill shot on a machine.” His arms crossed. “That’s not ordinary.”

Aizawa, who had been silent the longest, finally spoke. His voice was flat, but his eyes hadn’t moved from the last frozen frame on the screen, Nagisa walking away, calm as though the fight had never happened. “He’s dangerous. And he knows it. That’s why he holds back until it matters. That kind of control… you don’t get it without blood on your hands.”

The room went quiet again.

Nezu’s whiskers twitched. His tone was light, but it didn’t disguise the weight beneath it. “Yes. You all see it, don’t you? He doesn’t move like a hero-in-training. He moves like someone forged for survival. Efficient. Clinical. And yet…”

He tapped a claw against the desk, smile curling faintly.

“…he chose to protect first. That was no act. No calculation. That was instinct.”

Midnight exhaled, leaning back in her chair, though her eyes were still troubled. “So what now? You’re seriously considering him?”

“I was considering him before,” Nezu replied smoothly. “Now, I’m intrigued.”

The teachers exchanged uneasy glances.

Snipe muttered, “Intrigued can get dangerous real fast.”

But Nezu only chuckled softly, as though he had heard the comment but didn’t care to answer it. His dark eyes lingered on the frozen image one last time before shutting off the monitor entirely.

“I’ll give my answer soon,” he said, tone light but final. “For now… let’s all reflect on what we just saw.” With that, he hopped off his chair and padded toward the door, leaving the staff in uneasy silence behind him.

Chapter Text

The following evening, U.A. was quiet. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the campus awash in shadows and faint glimmers of light from the lampposts lining the paths. Inside, the halls were still. The echoes of students training and teachers preparing were absent; only the hum of electricity remained.

In the principal’s office, Nezu sat alone. A half-finished cup of tea rested beside a stack of papers, steam long since faded. He had already gone through the reports, every observation from the staff during Nagisa’s evaluation, every replay of the footage of his encounter with the drone. Yet his gaze remained fixed on the black screen of the office phone.

He tapped a claw idly against the wood of his desk. Once, twice. Deliberation was important, but hesitation was wasteful. At last, he reached out and dialed.

The line clicked almost immediately.

“Karasuma.”

The man’s voice was as steady and professional as ever. Deep, clipped, direct. But Nezu’s ears twitched at the faint note beneath it, alertness. As though Karasuma had already anticipated this call.

“Good evening,” Nezu said, his tone warm, deceptively so. “I trust I’m not interrupting your evening.”

There was the faintest pause. “…You wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.”

Nezu chuckled, a soft, high sound. “Straight to business, as always. I suppose I should expect nothing less.” He leaned back in his chair, paws folded neatly in front of him. “It concerns Shiota Nagisa.”

The silence that followed was short but heavy. Karasuma’s tone, when it came, was carefully neutral. “…I see. How did he do?”

“Better than I expected,” Nezu replied smoothly. “I put him through quite a few hypotheticals, as well as a staged field scenario. Your student reacted with instinct and clarity, shielding the civilian first, dismantling the threat second. No hesitation. No wasted motion.” His eyes gleamed, recalling the image of Nagisa dragging the drone into the alley, ensuring no passerby would be inconvenienced by the debris. “Efficient. Almost unnervingly so.”

Karasuma’s voice sharpened. “Almost?”

Nezu tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Tell me, Karasuma, how long have you known Shiota would act this way? That when confronted with danger, he would prioritize others and dissect threats with surgical precision?”

The man’s answer came without hesitation. “…Since the day I met him.”

Nezu let out another light chuckle, tapping his claws together. “Ah, loyalty and certainty. Admirable traits.” He leaned forward slightly, tone turning thoughtful. “And yet, you didn’t warn him about the nature of my test.”

“He didn’t need warning,” Karasuma said firmly. “If he’s to be trusted with students, he has to prove himself without me holding his hand.”

There it was, that faint edge of steel beneath the calm. Nezu’s smile sharpened. He enjoyed hearing it.

“Then allow me to relieve you,” the principal said at last, voice silky with conclusion. “Shiota Nagisa has passed. I will accept him into U.A. as an assistant teacher.”

The silence that followed stretched longer this time. Nezu could almost hear the faint exhale through the line, the release of tension. Yet Karasuma’s words, when they came, remained carefully even. “…So you’re bringing him on.”

“As an assistant, yes,” Nezu confirmed. “He will begin under observation. I want to see how he adapts to our students, how they adapt to him. He will not be fully integrated until I am certain. But mark my words, Karasuma. Shiota Nagisa is now part of U.A.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the line. Then Karasuma said quietly, “I’ll inform him.”

“No need,” Nezu interjected, his voice carrying a playful edge. “I’d rather do it myself. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes the door is open to him. After all, true reactions… are always the most telling.”

Karasuma didn’t rise to the bait. He let the silence speak for him, his trust and protectiveness unvoiced but palpable even through the receiver. Finally, he said, “Then I’ll expect your call to him soon.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Nezu lingered a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, smile curling in the dim light. He set it back down gently and picked up his tea, swirling the cooled liquid before taking a sip.

The decision was made. Shiota Nagisa was in.

~~~

On the other end, in a modest apartment on the quieter edge of Musutafu, Shiota Nagisa sat at a small desk, textbooks spread around him though his eyes weren’t on the pages. He had been staring at the faint reflection of himself in the darkened window, thoughts replaying the strange “incident” at U.A.’s gates. Something about it had felt off. Not wrong, exactly, but staged. He hadn’t told anyone, but suspicion lingered.

His phone buzzed against the wood, the ID flashing: Principal Nezu - U.A.

Nagisa straightened unconsciously, smoothing his hair before picking up. “Hello? This is Shiota Nagisa.”

A soft chuckle greeted him. “Polite as ever. Good evening, Shiota-kun. I trust I’m not calling too late?”

Nagisa shook his head instinctively, then realized how pointless the gesture was. “No, sir. It’s fine. …Is something wrong?”

“Quite the opposite.” Nezu’s voice carried a brightness, but underneath it was that same analytical edge Nagisa had heard in their interview. “I wanted to thank you, first, for your visit yesterday. You handled yourself remarkably well in circumstances that… shall we say, shifted unexpectedly.”

Nagisa’s fingers tightened around the phone. “That incident with the patrol unit, was that part of it?”

Another chuckle, softer this time. “Ah, you catch on quickly. Yes, it was a staged evaluation. The ‘civilian’ was one of our trusted actors, and the drone, a controlled test. I apologize if it startled you, but I needed to see your instincts under pressure.”

Nagisa exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the confirmation of what he had suspected. “So you were… watching me.”

“Observing,” Nezu corrected gently. “And what I saw was a young man who prioritized protecting others before himself, who assessed threats calmly, and who executed with efficiency far beyond what most students could dream of.” He paused, then his voice dipped, careful but deliberate. “…You reminded me of someone who has already walked the battlefield.”

Silence hung heavy for a moment. Nagisa’s heart thudded against his ribs, that familiar tightness creeping into his chest. “…Is that a compliment or a warning, sir?”

“Both,” Nezu admitted lightly. “But more importantly, it is a reason. A reason to extend to you, formally, an invitation to join U.A. High School. Not as a background student shuffled into the system, but as a recognized candidate with the full support of the faculty.”

Nagisa blinked, stunned. “You mean… I’m accepted?”

“Yes.” A smile colored Nezu’s words. “If you choose to accept, you will begin as part of Class 1-A. You will have opportunities and challenges that will push you in ways both expected and not. But I believe you can handle it. The question is, do you believe it?”

Nagisa swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the phone. Memories of Korosensei’s class, of his classmates, of the blood and sweat that had defined his middle school years, all of it swirled behind his eyes. U.A. wasn’t just another school. It was a stage where heroes were forged, where everything about him would be under a microscope.

And yet…

“Yes,” Nagisa said quietly, but firmly. “I’ll accept.”

On the other end, Nezu’s smile widened, unseen but palpable. “Splendid. Then welcome to U.A., Shiota Nagisa. I suspect the next few years will be… very enlightening.”

The line clicked shut, but Nagisa remained there for a long moment, staring at his reflection in the glass once more. The boy who had been an assassin-in-training was about to step into the world of heroes.

And nothing about it would be simple.

~~~

3-E Fam ✨

Nagisa: Hey, everyone. Big update. I just got off the phone with Principal Nezu of U.A.

Sugino: U.A.? Like the hero school U.A.?! 

Isogai: Don’t tell me you’re transferring there? You were already settled, right?

Nagisa: Not transferring. …It’s a little more complicated.

Fuwa: complicated?? 👀 spill

Nagisa: I’ve been assigned to U.A. by the Ministry of Defense. They’ve asked me to act as a sort of “assistant teacher” in Class 1-A. Officially, it’s part of a mission. Unofficially, they want me to keep an eye on things.

Maehara: …HOLD UP. You’re saying the government sent you into the hero school as a spy teacher??

Kanzaki: That’s… insane. And dangerous.

Terasaka: Figures. They never really let us 3-E brats go, huh? Always another mission.

Nagisa: It’s not like that. At least… not completely. Nezu and the Ministry both agreed. They said it’s to test whether I can handle that role, and to give me access to resources only U.A. can offer.

Sugaya: In other words: babysit pro-hero hopefuls, keep your cover, and survive under Nezu’s microscope. Piece of cake. 😏

Nagisa: …That’s one way to put it.

Kayano: (´⊙ω⊙`) Agent Karasuma definitely had a hand in this, didn’t he?

Nagisa: Yeah. He’s the one who pushed my name forward. Said I was the best fit for this kind of job.

Hazama: …Sounds less like teaching and more like surveillance. Careful, Nagisa. They’ll want results, not excuses.

Nagisa: I know. That’s why I’m telling you guys first. 3-E has always had my back.

Kataoka: Then you already know our answer. We support you. But don’t forget, you’re Nagisa, not just “the Ministry’s weapon.”

Okuda: ganbatte nagisa-sensei!! (ง •̀_•́)ง

Maehara: Still hoping we can come watch you lecture future heroes. That’d be priceless.

Nakamura: Please record the looks on their faces when you dismantle them in sparring. For science.

Nagisa: …You guys are impossible.

Terasaka: Nah. We’re family. Remember that when U.A. starts digging at you.

~~~

The morning sun hadn’t yet burned through the haze that clung over Musutafu. A pale gold stretched across the city, painting long shadows across the streets. By the time Nagisa reached U.A.’s gates, the campus was already stirring with security drones humming across the perimeter and the massive walls standing like silent sentinels.

It was different, being here now. Before, he had been a guest, a visitor under scrutiny. But last night, after that call with Nezu, everything had shifted.

“Report to U.A. tomorrow morning. Sharp,” the principal had told him. “You’re no longer just being evaluated. You’re needed.”

The words had followed him into his dreams, restless and lightless, and they still echoed now as he walked beneath the great iron gates.

His bag was light. Just a notebook, a few pens, and the well-practiced composure he wore like armor. He kept his steps even, his breathing steady, but his eyes never stopped moving. He caught flashes of what made this place so formidable: maintenance crews checking barrier defenses and support staff unloading boxes of fresh equipment. The entire campus felt alive, and he was stepping directly into its current.

By the time he reached the main building, the halls had thinned, quieter than he expected. Still, his footsteps echoed, each one pulling him closer to the reality of what he’d been drafted into.

The staff room door was ajar when he arrived. Voices filtered out: Aizawa’s dry monotone, Present Mic’s booming laugh, Midnight’s teasing reply. It sounded almost casual, almost normal. But when Nagisa pushed the door open and stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly.

Every conversation died. Every gaze turned toward him.

Nagisa bowed politely, the gesture crisp but not overly formal. “Good morning. Shiota Nagisa, reporting as instructed.”

For a beat, no one moved. Aizawa’s eyes flicked over him. Present Mic leaned back in his chair, murmuring something under his breath that Nagisa couldn’t catch. Midnight tilted her head, lips curling into something between amusement and interest. Cementoss adjusted his glasses, studying Nagisa with quiet intensity, while Snipe’s gloved hands folded across his chest.

It was Nezu who finally broke the silence.

Perched at the center of the room, paws folded neatly in front of him, the principal’s expression was one of polite warmth, though the sharp edge of his smile never quite softened.

“Right on time,” Nezu said, his voice carrying easily across the room. “Excellent. Welcome back, Shiota-kun. From this moment on, your evaluation is complete. Today marks the official beginning of your… assignment.”

The tension in the room didn’t fade; if anything, it deepened. The faculty were no longer looking at him like a stranger, they were measuring him as a colleague, a potential ally… or an enemy.

Nagisa straightened, his own mask slipping into place with practiced ease. “Understood.”

Nezu’s eyes gleamed. “Good. Then let us introduce you properly. After all, you’re not here as a guest anymore. You’re here as U.A.’s newest assistant teacher.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than Nagisa expected.

And just like that, the real work began.

The staff room quieted again after Nezu’s announcement, but this time the silence was heavier, laced not just with curiosity, but with a shade of doubt.

It was Midnight who broke it first, her tone thoughtful rather than playful. “Quite the résumé for someone your age…” She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on Nagisa as though weighing something unspoken. “Even with the Ministry’s word behind you, it’ll take more than clever answers to prove you belong here.”

Cementoss folded his arms. “Children need mentors they can rely on. Not… tools. Can you truly step into this role without carrying the weight of your past?”

Nagisa met their eyes one by one, his expression calm. “I don’t expect you to take me at my word. You have every reason to doubt me. But I wouldn’t be standing here if all I wanted was to keep being used. I chose to be a teacher because I know what it feels like to be treated as something less than human. I don’t want any child to feel the same.”

That gave them pause.

Present Mic let out a low whistle, breaking the silence. “Heavy words for a guy your age… but hey, I can respect it. Guess we’ll see if you can back it up with action.”

Snipe adjusted his hat, voice steady but cool. “Talk’s one thing. Results are another. We’ll be watching.”

Aizawa, arms still crossed, finally spoke. “Skepticism aside, the principal made his decision. That means you’re here. What happens next depends on how you handle the students.” His eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeing through layers no one else could. “And whether you can handle yourself.”

Nagisa inclined his head. “I understand.”

That answer, quiet but steady, seemed to settle something. They still weren’t convinced — not completely — but they didn’t press further.

Nezu, ever the conductor, tapped his paws together to draw their attention back to him. “Well said, everyone. And well answered, Shiota-kun. Skepticism is healthy, it keeps us sharp, but so is faith. For now, let us place him somewhere he can show us what he’s capable of.” His smile curved faintly. “Classes resume in one week, at the end of summer break. That will be your true start date, Shiota-kun. Until then, take the time to familiarize yourself with the campus, observe a few lessons, and prepare yourself.”

Nagisa bowed deeply. “Thank you. I’ll use the time wisely.”

When he straightened, he caught more than one staff member still watching him closely. The warmth of their welcome was real, but so was the wariness beneath it. They didn’t need to say it aloud; their eyes told the story well enough.

He didn’t resent them for it. In truth, he almost welcomed it. Better honesty than false comfort.

As the meeting broke apart, the teachers returning to their work, Nagisa exhaled quietly, his shoulders easing just slightly. One week. That was all the time he had to prove — to them, to Nezu, and to himself — that he could stand in front of Class 1-A not as what he had been, but as what he chose to become.

Aizawa's gaze settled on Nagisa, steady and unreadable. “Shiota. You’ll be shadowing me in Class 1-A.” His tone carried no warmth, but neither did it carry hostility, it was matter-of-fact, as though stating an inevitable reality. “If you’re serious about this role, you’ll start by observing what the job really looks like. One week. Don’t get in the way.”

Nagisa inclined his head. “Understood.”

He turned toward the door, ready to follow, but then stopped. His eyes flicked briefly to Nezu, who was still perched at the center of the room, paws folded neatly on the desk.

“Before that… Principal Nezu, I’d like to request something.”

Every remaining teacher paused at the shift in tone. Nagisa’s voice wasn’t demanding, but it carried a sharpness that suggested forethought.

Nezu tilted his head, ears twitching. “Oh? And what might that be, Shiota-kun?”

Nagisa clasped his hands behind his back, posture straight. “I’d like access to the footage of this year’s entrance exams, the ones the current first-years took. I want to see how they approached the trial, what strengths they showed, and what weaknesses they struggled with. If I’m going to be working with the next generation of heroes, I’d like to start by understanding them through their own actions.”

For a beat, the room was silent again.

Midnight blinked, her lips quirking slightly. “You want to study them already? Classes don’t start for a week.”

Nagisa’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Preparation matters. Every student walks in with more than just their quirks. They walk in with habits, instincts, and vulnerabilities. If I’m going to guide them, I need to know what they bring with them from the very start.”

Cementoss’s eyes narrowed faintly, but there was no dismissal in it, only recognition. “Sounds like a strategist’s mindset.”

Aizawa gave the faintest grunt of approval. “Hn. At least he’s thorough.”

Nezu, however, was the only one smiling. His whiskers twitched with amusement. “How… interesting. Most wouldn’t think to request such a thing before even stepping foot in a classroom. Very well, Shiota-kun. I’ll prepare the recordings for you. Consider it an advance tool in your… preparations.”

Nagisa bowed his head. “Thank you, Principal.”

Straightening, he glanced once more at Aizawa, who was already moving toward the hall. Without another word, Nagisa followed, the eyes of several staff lingering on him as the door closed behind them.

~~~

When they reached Class 1-A’s homeroom, Aizawa slid the door open with a practiced motion and stepped inside. The classroom was empty, desks neatly aligned, the faint scent of polish lingering in the air. Sunlight cut across the rows in slanted beams, catching specks of dust.

Aizawa gestured lazily toward the chalkboard. “We’re making preparations for the new term. Desks, rosters, supply checks. It’s not glamorous, but it’s part of the job. You’ll help.”

Nagisa nodded without hesitation. “Understood.”

He moved toward the stack of papers Aizawa had left on the teacher’s desk—course syllabi, seating charts, notes on student accommodations. Quietly, he sorted through them, his eyes scanning with the speed of someone used to absorbing information under pressure.

“These are the first-years?” he asked softly, already recognizing a few names from the exam roster Nezu had promised to give him.

“Yeah,” Aizawa replied, dragging over a box of supply kits and starting to check through them one by one. “You’ll meet them in a week. Until then, you’ll prepare like the rest of us.”

Nagisa let out a faint hum of acknowledgment. He began arranging the files into neat stacks, but every so often, his gaze lingered on a name. Midoriya Izuku… Bakugo Katsuki… Todoroki Shoto. Each one sparked a flicker of curiosity. What kind of habits had they carried into the exam? What kind of instincts had driven them under pressure?

He set the thoughts aside for now, focusing instead on his task. “Do you want the supply kits cross-checked against the student list?”

Aizawa glanced at him briefly, then gave a small nod. “Efficient. Do it.”

For a while, the only sound was the rustle of papers and the clink of supplies being shifted into piles. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. There was a rhythm to the work, a steadiness that Nagisa found grounding. He could almost imagine himself in one of their old 3-E cleanups, classmates working side by side to put things in order.

When the last file was set aside, Nagisa exhaled softly and straightened. “Everything matches. Nothing missing.”

Aizawa grunted in approval. “Good. You’re quick.” He set the final kit down and looked at Nagisa with that same unreadable stare. “Keep it up. This job isn’t about flair. It’s about consistency. Show me you can handle that, and maybe you’ll fit here.”

Nagisa met his gaze, calm and unwavering. “…I’ll prove it.”

For the first time since they’d met, Aizawa’s lips twitched in the faintest ghost of a smirk. It vanished just as quickly, replaced by his usual flat stare.

“But let’s be clear about something,” he said, voice low but edged with steel. “I know about your past.”

Nagisa didn’t flinch. He’d expected this sooner or later. He folded his hands neatly in front of him, his expression calm, waiting.

Aizawa continued, “I’m not here to judge you for what you were trained to do. People get shaped by circumstances they never asked for. If anything, you being here means you’re trying to step past that. I can respect that.” He leaned against the teacher’s desk, arms crossing. “But.”

The silence that followed was heavy, cutting.

“The second you use that past of yours to endanger my students — directly or indirectly — I won’t hesitate to act.” His eyes narrowed, tired but unyielding. “You won’t get a second chance. Not from me.”

Nagisa’s eyes softened, not with hurt but with understanding. He dipped his head slightly, his voice quiet but firm. “…I wouldn’t expect one. And I wouldn’t want one, if it came to that.”

Something in the answer seemed to satisfy Aizawa. He studied Nagisa a beat longer before nodding faintly. “Good. Then we understand each other.”

Nagisa straightened again, his shoulders relaxed but his resolve unmistakable. “I came here to protect students, not to use them. That’s a promise I won’t break.”

Aizawa finally moved, pushing off the desk and heading toward the door. “Then prove it when the time comes.”

Nagisa followed after him, the words lingering in the air. A warning, yes, but also, in its own way, an acknowledgment.

~~~

The city was quieter at night, but not silent. From his apartment window, Nagisa could hear the faint hum of cars, the occasional bark of a stray dog, and the distant buzz of neon signs. The world outside moved at its own rhythm, yet inside his small apartment, everything felt suspended.

Nagisa sat at his desk, a single lamp casting a warm glow across stacks of papers and his open laptop. The Ministry’s secure drive had delivered the footage of the U.A. entrance exams earlier that month, courtesy of Nezu’s connections, and he had spent hours combing through it. His notebook, already half-filled with neat handwriting, lay open beside him.

The footage replayed again, and Nagisa leaned in, elbows on the desk, chin resting lightly on his hand. His eyes tracked every detail with the sharpness of someone who had been trained to notice what others missed.

The screen shifted to a girl in pink, acid dripping from her hands as she danced through rubble with surprising agility. Confident. Naturally adaptable. Could struggle against distance-based quirks. Encouragement will push her farther.

Nagisa’s pen scratched steadily across the page, the rhythm almost soothing. He wasn’t just cataloging them like pieces on a board. He was learning them, sketching outlines of personalities and potential futures. His notes weren’t about efficiency in combat, they were about growth, resilience, and the subtle human edges that power alone couldn’t define.

The video rolled forward, showing that green-haired boy again, the one who seemed almost reckless with his own body. Nagisa found himself lingering, watching frame by frame as the boy shattered through a massive machine with sheer willpower. The price was immediate: bones broken, skin torn, but his eyes burned with triumph.

Nagisa’s chest tightened. He recognized that look, that reckless desperation to succeed no matter the cost. It was the same kind of fire his own classmates once carried when they faced down the impossible.

“…You’ll destroy yourself if no one stops you,” Nagisa muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

The words weren’t judgmental, they were weary. Empathetic.

He jotted notes again, more carefully this time: Potential leader. Needs balance between courage and restraint. Watch closely.

The hours stretched on, the city outside slipping deeper into the quiet of the night. Nagisa paused only to sip from the mug of coffee cooling beside him, barely noticing its bitterness. The footage cycled through every perspective: explosive power, clever strategies, raw fear turned into shaky determination. Some students crumbled under the pressure, others rose to it with unexpected brilliance.

He stopped the video at one point, his reflection faintly visible in the black screen. For a moment, his mind wandered back to Kunugigaoka, to 3-E’s old classroom on the hill, to Korosensei’s laughter echoing as they trained, fought, stumbled, and grew.

Back then, he and his classmates had been underestimated. Misfits, failures, tools of convenience. Yet they became something more, because someone believed in them enough to push them beyond the labels.

Nagisa’s grip tightened slightly on his pen. He wasn’t Korosensei, he never could be. But maybe… maybe he could carry some of that spirit forward.

He restarted the footage one last time, watching the boy with glasses barrel past with his engines flaring. His pen moved across the page almost automatically. Rigid, but dependable. Needs to learn adaptability.

The notebook pages were nearly full now, rows of assessments detailed with a precision that was both clinical and deeply human. When he finally closed the laptop, the lamp was the only light left in the apartment.

Nagisa leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. His body ached for sleep, but his mind buzzed with the faces he’d seen.

“They’re strong,” he murmured to the empty room. “But strength won’t be enough.”

He looked toward the ceiling, voice softening.

“One week. That’s all I have. One week to prepare myself… so I don’t fail them.”

The words lingered in the quiet. He shut off the lamp, leaving the apartment in shadow, and slipped into bed. But as he closed his eyes, it wasn’t sleep that met him, it was the faces of U.A.’s next generation, waiting to see what kind of teacher he would become.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered over U.A.’s sprawling campus, painting the glass and steel with a warm, golden glow. The school grounds seemed almost alive beneath it, the tall buildings catching the light like watchful guardians of the future. The faint hum of cicadas carried on the breeze, blending with the rising chorus of footsteps and voices.

Students streamed through the gates in crisp uniforms, some walking with measured calm, others bounding ahead with restless energy. The air buzzed with chatter, friends reuniting after the long summer, trading stories of training and internships, or nervously speculating about what awaited them this year. 

There was a sense of pride in the way they moved too, shoulders squared and eyes bright. For many of them, this wasn’t just school. It was the next step toward becoming heroes.

Laughter erupted near the courtyard where a group clustered around, already teasing one another over whose quirk had improved the most. Further back, a handful of first-years lingered uncertainly, their gazes darting between the massive campus buildings as though the sheer scale of it all might swallow them whole. Above it all loomed the iconic U.A. crest, gleaming proudly in the sun, an emblem that carried weight and expectation in equal measure.

The rhythm of the day had only just begun, yet already the campus felt charged, as though the walls themselves knew what awaited within: a year of trials, growth, and the shaping of futures.

Among them walked Shiota Nagisa, ID card clipped neatly to his jacket, catching the morning light with every step. His pace was unhurried, yet purposeful, blending in with the tide of students while remaining distinctly apart from it. This wasn’t his first time setting foot on campus, but today felt different. He wasn’t simply someone trying to prove his worth.

Today, he was here as U.A. staff.

The thought carried its own weight, subtle but undeniable. Each stride echoed the shift in his role: no longer an outsider peering in, but someone entrusted with responsibility, someone meant to guide. He was standing on a threshold he hadn’t crossed before, somewhere between observer and teacher, between the life he had lived and the life he was trying to claim.

Nagisa’s sharp eyes flicked across the faces passing him. Bright-eyed first-years buzzing with energy, seasoned upperclassmen with an air of confidence — or weariness — earned through real experience. All of them future heroes in training. All of them looking forward, chasing a dream he himself had never quite shared. His chest tightened faintly at that realization, though he didn’t let it show.

Adjusting the strap of his bag, he exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts. He had survived tests harsher than this, worlds sharper than the polished halls of U.A., yet somehow this challenge felt more daunting. These weren’t missions or battles. These were children — students — who would look at him not as an enemy or a comrade, but as a mentor.

And for the first time, Nagisa allowed himself to think: Maybe this is where I prove who I really am.

The faculty room buzzed with the kind of early-morning energy that only the first day of classes could bring. Present Mic was already in full swing, his voice bouncing off the walls as he raved about “the brand-new batch of heroes-in-training.” 

Midnight laughed at his antics, propping her chin on one hand with her usual mix of playfulness and sharpness. Cementoss sat quietly at the side, sipping his coffee in long, unhurried swallows, while Vlad King hovered over a mountain of paperwork at the far end of the room.

And then there was Aizawa, slouched in his chair, cocooned in his yellow sleeping bag like a cat refusing to face the morning. He cracked one eye open just enough to make sure no one was being too loud, then promptly shut it again.

The moment Nagisa stepped through the door, the atmosphere shifted, if only slightly. Conversations dipped. Eyes turned. This time, though, there was no overt surprise, no open skepticism. Just quiet, measured acknowledgement.

Nagisa adjusted his posture, bowing politely. His voice was calm but firm, practiced for exactly this kind of professional introduction. “Good morning. Shiota Nagisa, reporting in. I’ll be assisting Aizawa-sensei starting today.”

A few teachers exchanged glances. Midnight leaned back in her chair, one brow arched, her lips curling in a faint smirk. “So, the quiet one’s back for good. Guess the kids will be seeing a lot more of you.”

Present Mic’s grin was immediate, his tone just as loud as before. “Yo! Hope you’re ready, little bro, Class 1-A doesn’t exactly do easy mode! Better keep those reflexes sharp!”

Aizawa cracked his eye open again, this time fixing it squarely on Nagisa. His voice was low and flat, but it carried enough weight to silence the room. “…He’ll manage. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.”

That seemed to settle it. The teachers drifted back into their routines, papers shuffled, keyboards clacked, Midnight hummed under her breath. Still, Nagisa could feel it: the occasional glance, sharp and assessing, lingering a fraction too long before sliding away.

Their trust wasn’t given freely, and Nagisa hadn’t expected it to be. He didn’t resent the quiet suspicion, it was natural, maybe even deserved. Instead, he let the weight of it sit on his shoulders like armor, a reminder of what he had to prove.

Silently, he thought: I’ll earn it. Step by step. Starting today..

He spent the next hour at Aizawa’s side, checking supply lists, reviewing seating charts, and making small adjustments to the day’s lesson plans. The tasks weren’t glamorous, organizing training gear, ensuring the emergency kits were stocked, flipping through the profiles of incoming students, but Nagisa slipped into the rhythm without difficulty.

Aizawa gave short, clipped instructions, often with little more than a glance or grunt, and Nagisa followed without needing clarification. Where another assistant might have hesitated or second-guessed, he moved with a quiet decisiveness that Aizawa noted but didn’t comment on.

Nagisa himself couldn’t help but draw comparisons. On the surface, this was just ordinary preparation: pens, notebooks, equipment, schedules. But in his mind, it felt strangely familiar. Back in Class 3-E, they had prepared for operations with the same meticulous attention to detail. Every plan had a margin for error, every tool was checked twice, every role accounted for.

Now, the stakes were different. The objective wasn’t to outmaneuver an enemy or take down a threat, but to create an environment where students could learn, grow, and push themselves safely. Yet the precision still mattered. If the training gear failed, a student could get injured. If the seating plan clashed with personalities, conflict could fester. Details decided outcomes, no matter the field.

He glanced at Aizawa, who was lazily scratching notes in the margin of a chart. To anyone else, the man might’ve looked half-asleep, detached. But Nagisa recognized the signs: the careful layering of contingencies, the subtle ways Aizawa had already accounted for possible troublemakers in the class. It was the work of someone who knew how quickly a situation could spiral if overlooked.

Nagisa’s lips curved faintly. So this is what it feels like… preparing for a battlefield where the goal isn’t survival, but growth.

For the first time that morning, a small sense of anticipation stirred in his chest, not the adrenaline of combat, but something warmer, steadier.

The bell rang, loud and clear. Footsteps and voices filled the halls as students poured into their classrooms, carrying the nervous, eager energy of a new school year.

Nagisa walked down the halls of U.A. beside Class 1-A’s homeroom teacher, Shouta Aizawa. The man was wrapped snugly in a yellow sleeping bag, hood half-covering his face, looking every bit as tired and uninterested as he had all week during their preparatory meetings. 

Nagisa, in contrast, carried himself with quiet composure. His steps were light, his posture straight, and his sharp eyes never stopped flicking across the details of the building, the polished floors, the carefully reinforced walls, the faint hum of energy in the air that spoke of hidden security measures. U.A. wasn’t just a school. It was a fortress. And he was about to begin working here.

When they reached the door to 1-A’s classroom, Nagisa slowed. The thing towered over him, thick and heavy-looking, like it had been built to withstand a battering ram. His lips parted slightly, then curved in a rueful smile as he thought, Why is the door so big? Talk about overkill.

Aizawa, predictably, didn’t hesitate. Without a word, he grabbed the handle and slid the door open with the lazy efficiency of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Nagisa exhaled softly and stepped inside, trailing a half-step behind.

The noise in the room evaporated almost instantly. Desks screeched faintly against the floor as students shifted back to their seats, dozens of eyes snapping toward the two newcomers. At the front, a trio of students with green, brown, and blue hair froze mid-conversation like guilty children caught in the middle of something they shouldn’t be doing.

Aizawa’s voice broke the silence, flat and unimpressed. “If you want to play, go somewhere else.” His gaze swept across the class, heavy-lidded but sharp, and the weight of it made several shoulders tense. He continued in the same monotone, “This is the Hero Course. It took you eight seconds to settle down. Time is limited. You kids aren’t logical.”

Nagisa, standing just behind him, kept his expression calm, but inside he could already feel the tension coiling in the room. These students were expecting grand speeches, maybe some flashy display of power. Instead, they were met with Aizawa’s blunt dismissal and his own silent presence at the teacher’s side.

Whispers broke out as the weight of Aizawa’s words sank in. The murmur wasn’t loud, but it rippled across the classroom like a wave. Surprise, doubt, a hint of nervous laughter as students tried to make sense of their teacher’s first impression.

Without another word, Aizawa stepped deeper into the room, his sleeping bag dragging faintly against the polished floor. Nagisa trailed after him, his own posture calm and deliberate. Unlike Aizawa, his presence wasn’t harsh or intimidating, and he allowed his expression to soften just enough to balance out the edge in Aizawa’s tone. Where Aizawa brought silence with severity, Nagisa sought to steady it with quiet assurance.

“I’m your teacher, Shouta Aizawa,” the man introduced flatly, as though he were stating something as dull as the weather. “Nice to meet you.”

The reaction was immediate. The students blinked, shifted in their seats, exchanged wide-eyed looks. None of them had expected this disheveled, half-asleep figure to be their homeroom teacher. A couple of them even mouthed the words that’s our teacher? with expressions of disbelief.

Before the murmurs could swell into noise again, Nagisa cleared his throat gently, the sound sharp enough to draw attention but not demanding. All eyes flicked toward him, curiosity replacing some of the confusion.

“And I’m Aizawa-sensei’s assistant teacher,” he said evenly. His voice was calm, steady, and clear enough to carry across the entire room. There was no flashiness, no dramatics, just a measured confidence that made the students lean in despite themselves. “My name is Nagisa Shiota. I’ll be supporting your lessons this year.”

This time, the silence that followed was different. A few students tilted their heads, eyes narrowing in interest. Others traded glances, surprised not only by his words but also by how young he looked compared to the other teachers they’d seen on campus. He could have passed for one of them, if not for the way he held himself, with the composed, watchful air of someone used to both leading and observing.

Several students leaned forward unconsciously, drawn in by the contrast. Where Aizawa’s presence felt like a heavy curtain being pulled shut, Nagisa’s was more like an open window, inviting but quietly firm.

Aizawa tugged the edge of his sleeping bag higher around his shoulders and muttered, “Shiota, handle introductions. I’m taking a nap.” With no further ceremony, he slumped against the wall in the corner, tugged his scarf around his neck, and closed his eyes. Within seconds, his breathing had already evened out into the steady rhythm of someone perfectly content to sleep through a war.

A ripple of disbelief ran through the class. Several students sat bolt upright, mouths parted in shock. A few whispered urgently to one another, voices sharp with Is he serious? and He’s just going to sleep? One boy with ash-blond hair scoffed loudly, arms crossing over his chest with an irritated click of his tongue.

Nagisa only chuckled quietly to himself, used to Aizawa’s eccentricities after their week of preparation. If anything, the man’s blunt approach set the tone perfectly, it stripped away illusions of coddling and forced the students to deal with things as they were.

Stepping forward, Nagisa moved to the teacher’s desk and rested his hands lightly on its edge. His gaze swept across the room, taking in each student one by one. Some sat tall, radiating confidence as if daring him to acknowledge their strength. Others fidgeted with their sleeves or notebooks, trying to swallow their nerves. And then there were the ones who thought they could mask their emotions, stiff shoulders, eyes that darted and lingered a fraction too long, false smirks hiding uncertainty.

A fresh class, he thought, the realization pressing against his chest. It was a strange, twisting sensation. Part nerves, part anticipation, part something quieter that he couldn’t quite name. It hadn’t been a long time since he’d stood in front of a room like this, but the atmosphere was familiar: the restless energy of youth, the weight of expectation, and the countless paths branching out in front of every single one of them.

Nagisa exhaled softly through his nose, allowing a small, genuine smile to form. He had promised himself that if he was going to do this, he would give it everything he had. “Alright,” he began, his voice calm but steady enough to quiet the whispers that still lingered. “Since Aizawa-sensei has… decided to rest, I’ll be taking charge for now.” His tone wasn’t loud or commanding, but it carried with a quiet clarity that made the room settle. “Before we begin, does anyone have any questions?”

The effect was immediate. Nearly half the class shot their hands into the air, some so quickly that their chairs scraped loudly against the floor. A few leaned forward on their desks, eyes sparkling with curiosity, while others raised their hands more hesitantly, like they weren’t sure if they should speak, but didn’t want to lose the chance.

Nagisa blinked, suppressing the sigh that rose in his chest. Of course… this is what happens when you give students an open floor on their first day. Still, he kept his smile steady, determined not to let his amusement or slight exasperation show. He wanted them to feel at ease, not like they were being mocked.

His gaze moved across the sea of raised hands until it landed on the girl waving with the most energy. Pink skin, short horns, and a grin so wide it looked like she might bounce right out of her seat. She was practically vibrating, her arm pumping like she was trying to flag down a taxi.

Nagisa couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped him. Her enthusiasm reminded him — just faintly — of some of his old classmates in 3-E. The kind of presence that could light up a room without even trying.

“Alright,” he said, nodding toward her with an encouraging tilt of his head. “Let’s hear from you first.”

The girl shot up so quickly her chair squeaked against the floor. “Nagisa-sensei!” she beamed, eyes shining with unfiltered excitement. “What’s your quirk?”

The room seemed to lean in all at once, a ripple of anticipation spreading through the students. Even the green-haired boy in the front row — who already had a notebook open — was practically vibrating, pen poised like he was about to record every word.

For a moment, Nagisa only smiled back at them, soft, calm, the kind of expression that gave nothing away and yet somehow eased the air in the room. His eyes swept lightly across the expectant faces, catching sparks of excitement, curiosity, and even a little awe. Then, with the same steady composure he had carried all morning, he answered:

“…Why, I’m Quirkless.”

Chapter Text

“Huh?!”

The sound rippled across the classroom in a strange chorus, disbelief hitting each student at its own tempo. Chairs scraped, pens clattered, and voices overlapped in whispers that quickly grew louder.

Nagisa’s gaze drifted calmly across the room, cataloging reactions one by one.

The boy with messy green hair — Midoriya Izuku, the one who had scored high in rescue points — looked like the air had been knocked out of him. His pen slipped from his grip, tumbling noisily to the desk, but he didn’t notice. His wide, earnest eyes were fixed on Nagisa with a strange mixture of confusion and something softer. Empathy? Disappointment? It was hard to say, but Nagisa recognized that expression all too well.

Across from him, the girl with pink skin and bright golden eyes — Ashido Mina — slumped dramatically forward, her jaw practically unhinged. She looked like someone had just told her her favorite hero retired on the spot. The energy she radiated moments ago fizzled into an almost comical crestfallen pout.

At the other end, the elegant girl who Nagisa recalled as the recommendation student Yaoyorozu Momo, pressed her hand lightly to her chin. Her brows furrowed as if she were already analyzing the practicality of a Quirkless teacher. She was too polite to scoff, but her silence weighed just as much as any outburst.

Then there was the boy with glasses, posture rigid, every movement neat and controlled, Iida Tenya. His shoulders jerked in visible shock, fingers twitching at his sides. It was clear he was fighting the urge to stand and object formally, to demand clarification in a way only someone obsessed with rules could.

But what held Nagisa’s attention most was the blonde with spiky hair, Bakugo Katsuki. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his entire body vibrated with restrained fury. His palms sparked faintly, the sharp pops of combustion barely contained as his red eyes bore holes into Nagisa. Every line of his posture screamed confrontation, even in silence.

And still, Nagisa didn’t flinch.

He stood before them, posture loose but steady, a faint, almost disarming smile curving his lips. The chaos in the room swelled — murmurs, gasps, the scraping of restless feet — but he remained still, watching, waiting.

Inside, there was no shame, no hesitation. He had made peace with this truth long ago. Not by ignoring it, but by proving, again and again, that power wasn’t determined by quirks, by bloodlines, or by the lottery of birth. It was determined by skill. By will. By surviving against odds stacked sky-high.

Back in Class 3-E, every single one of his beloved classmates had been quirkless. Yet under Koro-sensei’s bizarrely genius tutelage and the brutal precision of Karasuma and Bitch-sensei they had become something far beyond ordinary. Outcasts turned prodigies, failures turned fighters. By the end of that year, they weren’t just students anymore. They were weapons honed sharper than anyone could have imagined. Nagisa had seen them adapt, survive, and succeed against enemies who should have been untouchable. Remembering those days still warmed him, a fond, bittersweet ache curling through his chest.

Later, as a teacher at Paradise High, most of his students had also been quirkless. Children written off by society, expected to fade quietly into the background. But he had watched them rise, stumble, and rise again. They had fought their own battles — personal, painful, sometimes invisible — and grown strong not because of gifts they were handed, but because of choices they made. Their growth, their stubborn resilience, had been proof enough for him.

To Nagisa, being quirkless was never a curse. It was a boundary line. Real, but not unbreakable. He had seen firsthand that limits only mattered if you let them cage you. And he knew, as surely as he knew how to breathe, that strength was not determined by quirks. Strength was skill. Grit. The refusal to give up, even when every card was stacked against you.

So when others stared at him with pity in their eyes, or whispered disbelief at the thought of a Quirkless man standing among Pro-Heroes, Nagisa didn’t feel shame. He didn’t feel anger. He only felt the urge to laugh. Because there was something they didn’t know, something they couldn’t possibly understand yet. Quirks were tools. Useful, yes, powerful, undeniably. But tools were only as effective as the hands that wielded them. And Nagisa had never needed such tools to prove he was strong.

The noise in the classroom swelled and ebbed, students whispering fiercely to one another, sneaking glances at him as if he were some puzzle that didn’t quite fit. Nagisa let it run its course, patient and steady. He’d handled chaos before, chaos far louder, far deadlier. Compared to the knife fights, explosives, and assassination drills of his youth, a handful of incredulous teenagers were hardly intimidating.

His eyes flicked briefly to Aizawa, still cocooned in his yellow sleeping bag in the corner, completely unmoved by the commotion. The man hadn’t stirred once, as if this noise was simply part of the morning routine. That, too, made Nagisa smile faintly.

Finally, he raised his hands and clapped them together once. Snap.

It wasn’t the clap stunner that had once ended fights before they began, but it didn’t need to be. The sound was sharp enough, cutting clean through the chatter. Heads snapped toward him, the room settling almost on instinct. The silence that followed wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Nagisa lowered his hands, his voice calm but carrying. “Better. Now, let’s start fresh. I know my answer surprised you,” Nagisa said, his tone calm, measured, with just a hint of warmth to take the edge off, “but let’s not get too carried away.”

Mina shot her hand up again, eyes wide with curiosity. “But, Nagisa-sensei… if you don’t have a quirk, how are you supposed to teach combat?”

Her question drew a murmur of agreement across the room. The freckled boy with messy green hair leaned forward, pen poised at the ready, practically vibrating with interest. A stern, blue haired boy near the front adjusted his glasses, no doubt analyzing Nagisa’s every word. Even the boy with an odd half-red, half-white hairstyle gave him a long, evaluating look.

Nagisa’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew softer. “Good question, Ashido-san,” he said lightly. His voice was steady, confident without being boastful. “Allow me to answer that.”

And then— he moved.

It was subtle at first, like a shift in the air, a blurring of edges. One heartbeat he stood at the front of the class, posture relaxed, hands at his sides. The next heartbeat, gone.

In a flash of controlled movement, Nagisa slipped through the narrow spaces between desks with fluid precision, silent as a shadow. Before any of them could blink, he reappeared behind Ashido, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.

The girl froze mid-breath, eyes going wide.

The rest of the class erupted in gasps and shouts. A chair scraped against the floor as one student bolted upright. Even Midoriya’s pen clattered uselessly from his hand as he stared, slack-jawed.

Nagisa leaned down slightly, lowering his voice so only Ashido could hear. “See? No quirk needed.” He pulled back immediately, giving her space, and stepped into view again before the students’ eyes could fully track him.

What struck them most wasn’t just the speed. It was the silence. Not a single footstep. Not a whisper of fabric. He had moved through a full classroom of future heroes-in-training, and none of them — not one — had sensed it until he allowed himself to be noticed.

Ashido shivered, then laughed nervously, rubbing at her shoulder. “Wh-what was that?!”

“Technique,” Nagisa said simply, his smile never losing its gentleness. “If you understand the human body, how people move, and how to predict those movements, you don’t need raw power to win. You just need precision, awareness… and timing.”

For a moment, silence held the room again, but this time it wasn’t disbelief. It was awe. Even the loud blond in the back, scowling fiercely, clenched his fists but didn’t spit a word.

Nagisa’s voice remained gentle, yet carried an unmistakable edge of authority that made the room quiet, even without him asking. “Quirks are useful, yes,” he said, stepping away from Ashido and walking slowly back to the front of the classroom, “but they aren’t everything.”

He clasped his hands neatly behind his back, posture impeccable, calm as if he were in complete control of the air itself. “I’ve spent years training in combat and self-defense. I know how to take down opponents much larger and stronger than me. And yes—” his eyes swept across the room with deliberate slowness, as if cataloging each of them again in real time, “I’ve fought multiple quirk users before.”

The weight of his words hung in the air like a held breath.

A few students exchanged uneasy looks. A boy with pointed red hair — Kirishima, the one who prized manliness — leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed in surprise. The round-faced, gravity-defying girl — Uraraka — shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure how to respond. Even the dual-colored Todoroki lifted his gaze from his desk, regarding Nagisa with quiet interest.

And then there was Midoriya. His pen scratched furiously across the page, his eyes gleaming with feverish excitement as he muttered to himself. “Aizawa-sensei has Erasure, but Nagisa-sensei is completely quirkless! That means he must rely entirely on technique! But what kind of combat style does he use? Is it pressure points? Grappling? A modified martial art? Maybe even—!”

The muttering was cut short by a snarl.

“Shut the hell up, Deku!”

Bakugo Katsuki slammed his hands onto his desk with a sharp crack. His crimson eyes blazed, fury rolling off him in waves. He turned his glare toward Nagisa, lip curling in disdain. “And you— don’t think you can stand up there and act tough just because you pulled a parlor trick on pinkie.” His voice dripped venom, growing louder with each word. “You’re nothing but a weak, quirkless extra who thinks he can play teacher. You really expect us to buy that crap?!”

Several students flinched at the outburst. Uraraka’s hands twisted together nervously in her lap. Kirishima frowned, opening his mouth as if to intervene, then shut it when Bakugo’s glare snapped his way. Ashido shifted in her seat, guilt and unease written on her face. Even Midoriya had gone silent, shrinking back slightly as though he’d been physically struck.

But Nagisa didn’t flinch.

Not even once.

His calm expression remained perfectly in place, though his hazel eyes sharpened ever so slightly as he regarded Bakugo. He had seen this kind of anger before. Raw, unrestrained, desperate to dominate everything around it. It was familiar. Predictable.

Nagisa’s footsteps were soft against the floor as he moved closer, unhurried, his presence more unsettling than raised volume could ever be. He stopped just a few paces from Bakugo’s desk, his shadow stretching across it.

“I see,” Nagisa said evenly, his voice soft enough that the class had to strain to hear, but it carried an undeniable weight that silenced the whispers instantly. “You’re Katsuki Bakugo.”

He let the boy’s name hang in the air like a fact being confirmed. His tone wasn’t mocking, nor was it defensive. It was simply… steady. As if he had already known exactly what to expect from him.

“You value strength above all else. That’s fine,” Nagisa continued, his voice never rising, but cutting nonetheless. “But strength comes in many forms. You’ll learn that in my class, whether you like it or not.”

The tension in the room tightened, like a bowstring being drawn to its limit.

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, teeth bared, hands twitching as small pops of heat and sparks hissed from his palms. His crimson eyes blazed hotter, furious at the calm, at the fact that this so-called teacher hadn’t risen to his bait.

“Don’t screw with me,” he spat, the words low and guttural. “You think you can lecture me when you don’t even have a damn quirk? You’re nothing. I’ll crush you the second you step out of line.”

Gasps echoed across the room. A few students instinctively leaned back in their seats as though they might get caught in the blast of his temper.

And still, Nagisa didn’t so much as blink. His smile returned, faint but unshaken, a quiet expression that only made the contrast sharper.

“I look forward to seeing you try.”

The class froze. 

In that split moment, they thought they saw an image of a snake.

Bakugo’s eyes widened by the smallest fraction — just enough for Nagisa to notice — before narrowing into a seething glare once more. The air between them crackled with unspoken challenge, while the rest of the room remained deathly still, caught between awe and dread.

Nagisa didn’t linger.

Without another word, he turned away from Bakugo and walked back toward the teacher’s desk with the same unhurried stride as before, his hands once again folded neatly behind his back. It was as if the heated exchange had already been dismissed in his mind, filed away as nothing more than a routine classroom moment.

But for Class 1-A, the room felt heavier than before.

That faint smile — small, unassuming, yet utterly unreadable — lingered in their minds like a shadow. It wasn’t mocking, nor was it kind. It was something else entirely: the smile of someone who knew exactly what he was capable of, and who didn’t need to prove it with noise or sparks.

Several students shifted uneasily in their seats.

Ashido rubbed her arm where Nagisa’s hand had rested moments earlier, goosebumps still prickling along her skin. “That was… fast,” she whispered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else.

Kirishima leaned back, arms crossed, his brows knit in thought. “Man… that wasn’t normal speed. That was like… trained speed. The real deal.” His usual grin was absent, replaced by a cautious respect.

Uraraka kept glancing between Nagisa and Bakugo, biting her lip nervously. She wanted to say something to diffuse the tension, but the words wouldn’t come.

Even Todoroki, usually aloof and unbothered, stared at Nagisa with quiet calculation. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes narrowed faintly, as though committing the teacher’s every movement to memory.

Midoriya, of course, was scribbling at a speed that made his handwriting barely legible, his muttering spilling out despite himself. “That smile — no, that aura — it completely neutralized Bakugo’s aggression without a single quirk! Was it intentional psychological intimidation? Or… maybe it’s just instinct, refined from experience in life-or-death combat situations—!”

Bakugo’s chair scraped harshly against the floor as he sat back down, arms crossed and jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His palms still fizzed with residual sparks, but he didn’t say another word. Not yet. His fury simmered like an unchecked fire, but for the first time in a while, his classmates noticed a sliver of hesitation hiding beneath it.

And at the center of it all, Nagisa quietly slid into the teacher’s chair beside Aizawa’s desk, as though nothing had happened at all. He picked up the lesson plan Aizawa had left behind, glancing over it with the same calm focus he had shown when checking supplies earlier.

He didn’t need to raise his voice. He didn’t need to justify himself. His smile had said enough.

The silence in the room lingered, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint scratch of pencil against paper and the creak of someone shifting nervously in their chair. Nagisa set the papers down on the desk with deliberate calm, his movements precise. Then, slowly, he straightened, letting his eyes roam across the room.

Dozens of gazes clung to him, wavering between skepticism, curiosity, and something close to unease. He had seen those looks before, countless times. People always underestimated him, whether because of his size, his appearance, or his lack of a quirk. And every time, he had turned that underestimation into his sharpest weapon.

“You’re all here because of your quirks,” Nagisa began, his tone even but commanding. “That much is obvious. You’ve trained, you’ve pushed yourselves, and now you’ve made it into U.A.’s Hero Course. Congratulations.”

A few shoulders relaxed, pride flickering across young faces. But Nagisa didn’t let the comfort last. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, his voice tightening just slightly, enough to hook them again. “Quirks are powerful, yes. But quirks are not what make you heroes.”

The words cut through the air like a blade, and the small flickers of pride dimmed into confusion. Students exchanged glances, murmurs slipping past lips before they caught themselves.

“Quirks are tools,” Nagisa continued, pacing slowly toward the front of the desk, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “They can give you an edge. They can make things easier. But a tool is only as useful as the one who wields it. A sword in the hands of a master can save lives. The same sword in the hands of a fool?” His eyes narrowed, his soft smile never faltering. “It’s just another way to get someone killed.”

A ripple of unease traveled through the room.

At the back, Yaoyorozu pressed her lips together thoughtfully, while Tokoyami’s brow furrowed, his shadow twitching faintly against the desk. Kirishima leaned forward with an almost hungry expression. “So… what you’re saying, sensei, is even if someone doesn’t have a quirk, they can still fight?”

Nagisa didn’t hesitate. “They can fight. They can survive. They can win.” His voice softened, but the conviction in it only grew stronger. “I’ve faced people with quirks. Strong ones. Dangerous ones. And I’ve beaten them. Not because I had a power of my own, but because I trained. Because I learned. Because I refused to stop moving forward.”

That set the class buzzing, the whispers sharper now. Some skeptical. Some impressed. Some uncertain.

But one student, more than the rest, caught Nagisa’s eye.

In the second row, Midoriya was scribbling furiously in his notebook, lips moving soundlessly as he muttered, his pencil darting like lightning across the page. But when Nagisa’s words landed, the boy froze. His hand stilled. His shoulders trembled.

And when Nagisa looked closer, he saw it: a single tear welling up at the corner of the boy’s eye, quickly blinked away before it could fall.

Nagisa’s chest tightened. He didn’t need to know the details, he could already guess. This boy had lived his whole life being told what he couldn’t do. That being quirkless meant worthless. That he could never stand among heroes.

Nagisa knew that pain intimately. And now, seeing Midoriya’s silent reaction, he understood just how deeply those words had carved into him.

He didn’t comment. Instead, he allowed his voice to carry further, as if speaking directly to him without singling him out.

“Power isn’t about flashy abilities or the scale of destruction you can cause,” Nagisa said, his gaze sweeping across the room but lingering just a fraction longer where Midoriya sat. “Real power is knowing yourself — your limits, your strengths — and using every ounce of your mind and body when it matters most. That’s what determines whether you stand or fall. Not quirks. Not luck. You.”

Ashido raised her hand again, a little hesitantly this time. “So… you’re saying anyone can be a hero? Even without a quirk?”

Nagisa turned to her, his smile softening. “If they’re willing to work harder than anyone else. If they’re willing to face risks others won’t. Then yes. Anyone can.”

The words landed differently now. Less disbelief, more contemplation. Even those who had never once considered life without a quirk found themselves shifting in their seats, as if seeing their own futures in a new light.

At the far corner, still bundled in his sleeping bag, Aizawa cracked one eye open, studying his assistant. His lips curved just slightly, not a smile, exactly,