The voice came from somewhere to Ochaco's left. She barely registered it. Her eyes were locked on the screen towering over Shibuya Crossing—the same face she'd seen a thousand times in passing, in class, in the corner of her peripheral vision.

It was Kaminari. His phone was already out, camera aimed up at the billboard where you smiled down at the crowd. Cool. Polished. Untouchable.

She did know. Everyone knew. You'd been climbing for years now—magazine covers, charity galas, that interview where you'd laughed off a question about U.A. like it was a footnote in your life.

He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.