The sun beat down on U.A.’s training grounds, where the air still smelled faintly of smoke and scorched earth from the morning drills. Class 1-A was restless—summer break was finally over, and everyone had returned with fresh energy, loud stories, and that familiar buzz of competition.
The day doesn’t start quiet in Katsuki’s home—it starts like a battlefield. The alarm blares, and he slams it off with more force than necessary. His wife is already in the kitchen, a mug in hand, waiting. “You didn’t sleep again,” she says, sharp but worried, and it hits him harder than any villain’s punch. He hates that she can see through him.
The halls of U.A. had settled into their usual rhythm—voices echoing between classrooms, the scrape of chairs on tile, the pulse of energy only students training to be heroes could carry. Izuku had gotten used to blending into the background, scribbling notes, studying quirks, always watching. Always just behind.