The sun was at its farewell, poised just above the rooftops, painting the sky with molten gold and searing rose.
The lingering daylight scattered across ever-shifting clouds, Japan's silhouette edged in pink, all heat and hope at the close of a long, harrowing day.
Below, beneath a spray of city sakura, three boys walked side by side, still wearing the haze of combat, youth, and relief.
Nagato, Midoriya, and Bakugo had agreed to meet on an old pedestrian overpass—a relic curving above the tide of afternoon trains.
It was their unspoken tradition: gather after triumph and failure alike, nowhere special but sacred because it was theirs. Nagato loitered with his elbows resting on the rail, watching the endless drift of people below.
Midoriya showed up first, hair still mussed, gaze lost in post-exam daydreams.
Bakugo arrived last, windblown, swagger fully intact.
They didn't start talking immediately. Their breaths made clouds in the cooling air, shoulders brushing in the hush.
Bakugo blew into his palms, breaking the silence, voice carrying the perennial rough edge. "So. You guys didn't mess up, did ya?"
Midoriya's answer was a lopsided shrug, but just as he opened his mouth to reply, he tilted his head, nickel-bright curiosity shining out.
"Actually, did you guys... well, did you feel an earthquake or something during the practical? It was like the whole ground shook out from under me."
Bakugo rolled his eyes, a smirk pulling high.
"Must've been your ass creating shockwaves, nerd. Next time maybe try taking a breath before you launch a new city-wide Deku Disaster."
Midoriya shot a sharp side-eye, that one look Bakugo always pretended not to see.
"You gay or something? That's the fourth time you've brought up my ass in the last week."
And for a second, the world stilled just for Nagato's laughter. It wasn't loud, but it was clean and bright, clear enough to snap both their attention back to him, the thread tying their trio together. He raised a palm. "It was me," he said, lips twitching, "the earthquake. Or, you know—Shinra Tensei, if you want to get technical."
They blinked at him in unison.
Nagato smirked, relishing the comic timing. "I might have... levelled the battlefield. A bit more than planned."
A brief pause—and Midoriya burst out laughing, bordering on incredulous, the stress of the week dissolving into amused surrender.
"Only you would break the entire exam field, Nagato!"
Bakugo leaned back, arms crossed, the rare note of admiration almost hidden behind his sneer.
"That was badass! Come to think of it, if I used every ounce of nitroglycerin I have in one go, I'd have cleared the place too. …Only you, freakeyes, could stop everyone from charging in for points, though." Despite the jab, his tone was more brotherly than biting.
"Yeah, but you can't float in the air and freeze an arena," Midoriya chimed in, grinning.
"You're just mad you didn't think of it first."
Bakugo made an exaggerated scoff but didn't argue further—the silent concession of a longtime friend.
The streetlights flickered on beneath them, spilling amber in long lines. The smells of night crept in: yaki-onigiri crisping, soups simmering from distant carts, cool sea breeze mixing with battery-warm pavement. Midoriya's stomach rumbled, and he covered it with a sheepish smile.
Midoriya's voice was soft, almost pleading. "So, shall we grab some onigiri on the way? I'm starving."
Bakugo rolled his eyes. "You a cow or something, Deku? Hotpot. That's what a real winner eats."
Nagato lifted his hand, a mock solemnity in his tone. "I second that. Hotpot is the only correct way to celebrate."
Midoriya grinned, surrendering. "Okay, okay… but Bakugo, your treat then!"
Bakugo barked a shocked, "Nani!?"—voice breaking for a comic instant.
Nagato, pretending to be hurt, added, "Even I agree with that. It's only fair, Bakugo."
'That doesn't make any sense. Fair?! How?!'- Bakugo rolled his eyes.
Bakugo threw his hands up, pretending to storm off before looping back to join them, rumbling, "Fine… but drinks are on you two. And by drinks, I mean extra coke, got it?"
The three of them laughed, the sound echoing into the falling night.
The trio made for a little restaurant tucked between the cracks of an old block.
Its battered Noren curtains hid the golden light and the hum of strangers sharing food.
There, after squeezing into a corner booth, they ordered a steaming cauldron of bubbling hotpot, bowls of rice, hard-boiled eggs, mountains of cabbage, and more onigiri than any rational person would order.
They had only half energy for jokes.
The food slowed them down—peaceful, filling, and almost sacred after a day spent pushing themselves past every boundary.
Bakugo grumbled about how the broth needed more spice. Midoriya described, blow by blow, how he'd dodged a whole volley of robots, voice animated as he mixed shredded scallions into his bowl.
Nagato just listened, answering their questions, holding up punchlines with dry humour or a knowing smile. No one talked about nerves or what might come next.
As they wandered out into the street again, bellies full, the world was deeper indigo, the city glowing soft from every window they passed.
They jogged together for a few blocks—more out of habit than enthusiasm—before splitting off, each boy peeling away at his own familiar intersection, feet light and hearts steadied.
Nagato came home in a gentle daze, his lungs full of broth steam and city air, heart ticking somewhere between exhaustion and anticipation.
His mother met him with a worried smile at the door, but when she saw the glow in his eyes, her shoulders slouched in relief, the lines of longing and hope mingling on her face.
They exchanged a few gentle words.
She ruffled his hair, chiding him for coming home smelling of onions and hotpot, and told him to change for bed.
He obeyed, moving quietly through the house as if not to scare away the luck of the day.
For a while, Nagato lay awake, listening to the slow, classic sounds of his neighbourhood settling.
Dogs barked distantly, someone rattled a bike chain near the train stop, rain gutters pinged with wind-carried leaves.
Soon, he drifted off—limbs heavy, mind swirling with memory and dreams, a smile tugging his lips until the wind outside took the world away.
Two or three days passed in limbo, each hour dragging yet surging past in a blur.
The trio didn't meet, but exchanged dozens of messages—silent check-ins, photos of ramen bowls, a running debate over whether present Mic's greeting was the loudest ever recorded (Midoriya: "Statistically likely it was!"; Bakugo: "You're both nerds.")
Life was quiet.
School was slower while awaiting exam results.
Even the weather seemed to pause, cool breezes rolling in and clouds painting ever-more intricate murals over Japan's horizon.
It happened just as the sun was setting again, painting the apartment in honey and apricot light.
Nagato had just finished stacking his books when he heard his mother's voice rising from the hallway, a note of eager excitement in her rarely-raised tone.
"Nagato~ it's here! The UA letter you've been waiting for!"
In her hand, caught in the glow of evening brightness, was an envelope unlike any other.
Gold-trimmed edges, embossed with the UA crest. She waved it like a passport to another life.
Nagato's heart skipped.
He took the letter with careful hands, almost reverent, and hurried back to his small, familiar room.
On the way, his mother's form paused by the old photograph on the living room shelf. She straightened the frame, her eyes lingering on the picture within—a man with a sturdy build, blood-red hair, Skin pale as moonlight.
She ran a finger across his cheek in the photo, breath trembling.
"Just because it was your last wish to make our son a hero… I'm supporting him. If not for that, I would've never let him go." A tear—quick, uninvited—slipped down her cheek, but she brushed it away with practiced hands.
By the time she moved to the kitchen to prepare dinner, her face was once again composed, voice humming a gentle tune.
Back in his room, Nagato stared at the envelope, pulse thumping.
He traced his thumb over the seal, then peeled it open.
Inside was more than just a letter—a small metallic device tumbled into his palm, no bigger than a thumb print.
He tapped the top, and with a buzz, a hologram flickered above the device, forming the shape of a small, suit-clad creature whose ears twitched in real-time.
The hologram spoke, voice clear and animated.
"Am I a rat? Or am I a human? Hmm—you're wrong! I am Nezu!" The suit-wearing animal looked almost smug, eyes sparkling behind tiny glasses.
"Precisely, Principal Nezu," the recording continued, every syllable perfectly enunciated. "Nagato boy, I have to say you were brilliant in the entrance exams. Whether it was theory, where you ranked third overall, or the practical—well, haha, let's just say we've never recorded anything quite like it before."
Nezu's tail twitched as he went on, "You wiped out all the robots… and the entire city block. But since you made sure the other examinees didn't get caught up in your attack, you received a quota of rescue points as well!" The rat principal winked.
"I must, however, caution you: please try to refrain from such overwhelming attacks in a crowded place. Also, We like having exam facilities. And city infrastructure."
The hologram flickered briefly, as if smoothing its suit.
"But I know you don't need me to lecture you for too long—so: Congratulations! You are officially the highest scorer in UA's entrance exam history. Your combined total points: 743. One hundred and forty-three from the written portion, four hundred seventy-five in villain points, and one hundred twenty-five in rescue. Even All Might never reached such dizzying numbers."
There was a pause, and the sincerity in Nezu's artificial eyes came through the circuitry. "Welcome, Nagato, to UA Academy. We are looking forward to seeing just what you'll become."
The image fizzled out, leaving only the shadow of pride and destiny fluttering in the air.
Nagato leaned back in his creaking desk chair, the weight of months lifting all at once. For a moment, he pushed his hair away from his eyes, letting the last slanting rays of sunset wash over him.
He exhaled, long and low.
Tomorrow, it would all begin.