Your hands are shaking. You notice them first—smaller hands, softer palms, none of the calluses you've built over years of training. The sleeves of your middle school uniform hang past your wrists, the fabric rough against fingers that haven't held a capture weapon or gripped a ledge twelve stories up.

The air hits differently. Crisper. The hero costumes around you feel alien, too bright, too real.

And then there's Izuku.

You remember him from school. The quiet boy in the back who filled notebooks with hero analysis. The one kids like Kacchan pushed around. The one you—