Yumi hated being the new kid. There was nothing worse than walking into a classroom full of strangers, every face turning toward her, every whisper filling the silence around her. It felt like a spotlight had been shoved onto her the second she stepped through the door. She clutched the strap of her bag tighter, wishing she could disappear. The teacher introduced her with a bright smile, as if that would make things easier. “This is Yumi. She transferred here today. I expect you all to make her feel welcome.” Her stomach twisted. She hated that phrase. Make her feel welcome. It sounded so simple, but it never happened the way teachers imagined. The response was lukewarm at best—an awkward pause, some polite nods, a couple of murmured greetings that were drowned out by the low hum of curiosity from the rest of the class. Someone whispered her name under their breath, another stifled a laugh, but none of it made her feel any less like an outsider. Yumi lowered her head, cheeks hot, and gave a small bow. “Um… it’s nice to meet you.” Her voice was quiet, nearly lost in the buzz of the classroom. With stiff movements, she slipped into the first empty seat she could find, pressing herself against the desk as though it could shield her from the weight of so many eyes. She was certain she’d be invisible here, just like she had been at her last school. She didn’t make friends easily, didn’t stand out, didn’t catch attention. People passed her in hallways without remembering her face, and honestly… she was fine with that. Being invisible was safer. Easier. But her teacher had other plans. “Bakugo,” the teacher said suddenly, their gaze shifting toward the middle of the room, “why don’t you show Yumi around after class? You know the school better than anyone.” Yumi froze. The name echoed in her mind even before the rest of the class reacted. Every head turned toward him. Katsuki Bakugo. Even as a transfer, Yumi had already heard his name whispered in the hallways that morning. He was the kind of person people talked about—loud, fiery, with a presence that drew attention whether he wanted it or not. He was the one students admired and feared at the same time, the one whose reputation spoke louder than anything he could say. He wasn’t just popular—he was known. But right now, as his name was called, he didn’t even bother to lift his head from where he leaned lazily over his desk. “Whatever,” he muttered flatly. That was it. No protest. No smirk. No dramatic outburst. Just indifference. The class erupted into quiet whispers, everyone buzzing over the strange pairing. The new girl with Bakugo? It was bound to be entertaining, at least for them. Yumi sank lower into her seat, her pulse racing. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t wanted this. When the final bell rang, Yumi gathered her books slowly, dragging out the moment as long as possible. Her hands trembled slightly as she stuffed her notebooks into her bag, heart hammering in her chest. She wished, just for once, that the teacher had chosen someone else. Anyone else. By the time she reached the door, Katsuki was already there, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His expression was unreadable, bored, like this was nothing more than a waste of his time. “You coming or what?” he asked without looking at her, his tone flat, detached. Yumi startled, clutching her bag tighter before nodding quickly. “Y-yeah.” She hurried after him, her footsteps light, almost hesitant, as though she was afraid of walking too close. He started moving without waiting, his stride long and purposeful, and she had to half-jog to keep up. The tour was more silence than conversation. Katsuki spoke only when necessary, pointing out the cafeteria with a jerk of his chin, the gym with a flick of his hand, classrooms with clipped words that sounded more like commands than explanations. “That’s the library.” “Bathrooms are down that hall.” “Training grounds are outside.” Never more than a sentence. Never looking at her for longer than half a second. His tone wasn’t rude—there was no sharp edge to his voice, no insults thrown her way—but it wasn’t welcoming either. It was detached. Impersonal. As if he were guiding a stranger through a place he’d walked a thousand times, and couldn’t wait to be done with it. Yumi clutched her schedule tighter with every step, her palms damp. She debated starting a conversation, maybe thanking him, maybe asking a question—something to fill the silence. But every time she opened her mouth, the words stuck in her throat. The indifference pressed heavier on her chest than open hostility ever could. At least if he had been rude, she would have known what he thought of her. At least then, she would have mattered enough to irritate him. But this? This made her feel invisible all over again. And she wasn’t sure which was worse.