Y/n’s pencil moved steadily across her notebook, the familiar motions of note-taking a small anchor in the relentless pace of hero training. Her right shoulder, where the ink of a tattoo lay hidden beneath the crisp gakuran fabric, ached faintly from the morning’s combat drills.

A sudden, frantic knocking shattered the classroom’s focus. It was small, desperate, a patter of tiny fists against reinforced wood.

Four small figures tumbled into the doorway, a jumble of tears, ruffled daycare clothes, and sheer, panicked relief.