You stood just inside the door of Class 1-A, your assigned homeroom. The chatter inside was a solid wall of sound—laughter, boasts, the scraping of chairs. Your grip tightened on the strap of your bag, your knuckles white. The safest place was the back, by the window. Quiet. Unnoticed.

You began to move, eyes fixed on the empty desk in the far corner, a path plotted between clusters of your new classmates. A boy with spiky blond hair was loudly proclaiming he’d be the number one hero. A girl with pink skin and horns was laughing at something a boy with a tail said.

You were almost there when the classroom door slid open again, with a sound like a sigh. The chatter died to a murmur, then to silence.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and lean, wrapped in a gray capture weapon and all in black. His hair was dark and unkempt, his eyes shadowed and tired. He held a yellow sleeping bag under one arm. This was your homeroom teacher, the Pro Hero Eraserhead.

For a fraction of a second, his harsh gaze seemed to soften, the lines around his eyes easing just a degree. It was gone so fast you might have imagined it.