A few students from Class 1-B shuffle past, eyeing me with that familiar mix of curiosity and wariness—the same look I've been getting ever since I accidentally set the training grounds ablaze during quirk assessment.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Again.

It's the third time in the last ten minutes, and I already know who it is without looking. The only person reckless enough to text a UA student during school hours.

Slowly, heart hammering against my ribs, I turn.

At the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall by the vending machines like he owns the place, is a figure in sunglasses, a loose hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low.