The next day at U.A. rolled by in that strange lull that always follows a storm.
The chaos, cheers, and adrenaline from the Sports Festival had finally faded, leaving behind an oddly calm aftertaste — like the quiet that lingers when fireworks stop bursting and the smoke is still hanging in the sky.
But this calm wasn't peace — it was anticipation. Everyone was buzzing about internships.
The classroom was alive with noise. People were leaning over desks, comparing agency offers like kids trading cards.
Tablets glowed across the room as names, rankings, and hero statistics flashed on-screen. The air was filled with laughter, excitement, and just a hint of anxiety.
It was almost funny — a room full of aspiring heroes, some destined to stand on magazine covers and battlefields, all acting like they were picking cafés for after-school hangouts.
Ida, unsurprisingly, was immune to the chaos. He sat at his desk like a soldier, posture perfectly straight, hands moving with surgical precision as he scrolled through hero dossiers.
His glasses glinted under the light, every motion precise and deliberate.
His focus was locked on one agency: Native, stationed in Hosu City.
I leaned back in my chair, watching him.
In another world, another timeline, this same choice led him into tragedy. A confrontation that would leave blood on his hands and regret carved into his heart.
But not this time. Ingenium was alive now — recovering, healing.
The butterfly effect was already rewriting fate.
"So, going for Hosu, huh?" I asked casually, though my voice carried an undertone that made him glance up.
He nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Yes. The Hero Native specializes in rapid response and urban mobility. His methods align closely with my combat style. I believe I can learn a great deal from him."
I smiled faintly. "Just make sure you're going there to learn... not to chase something that's already over."
His eyes flickered — just for a moment — the barest shadow of conflict crossing them. But it was gone as fast as it appeared. He smiled politely, that ever-disciplined mask snapping back into place.
"Of course. My motivations haven't changed."
Right.
That's what they all say before they start lying to themselves.
I didn't push it. I just nodded and turned my gaze elsewhere. Some lessons only sink in after they hurt.
Across the room, Uraraka was chatting with Midoriya, her voice light and curious. "So, where are you heading for your internship?"
Midoriya, who was halfway through writing in his ever-growing notebook, froze like a caught animal. "Uh—! Actually, I, uh, got an offer from someone named Gran Torino. He's... an older hero. "
Uraraka's eyes brightened. "Whoa! That's incredible! He must've seen something in you."
Midoriya blushed so hard I could practically hear the blood rushing to his face. "Y-yeah... maybe."
I stayed quiet, but internally, I was sighing hard enough to create wind currents.
All Might really needed to stop playing hot potato with his protégé. You can't just hand your student off like a malfunctioning Amazon package and hope he turns out fine.
Still... it was progress. The kid was learning. Slowly.
By the end of the day, everyone had locked in their choices. Bakugo, after hours of internal arguments that looked like a man fighting his reflection, finally picked Best Jeanist.
Not out of admiration, of course — but because Jeanist was the highest-ranking hero who bothered to offer him anything.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
Jeanist's entire mission would probably be to tame Bakugo's attitude. Good luck with that, denim crusader.
Momo, on the other hand, was practically glowing when she announced hers — Ryukyu.A brilliant move. Tactical, strategic, disciplined — Ryukyu was the perfect mentor for someone like her. The kind of pro who'd teach by example, not by ego.
And then there was me.
I didn't even need to think about it. The moment the offer came in, my decision had been made.
The next morning, the class gathered at the U.A. bus terminal, luggage and hero costumes packed neatly. The air buzzed with chatter, anticipation, and nervous laughter.
Aizawa stood in front of us, scarf wrapped loosely around his shoulders, expression halfway between exhaustion and mild existential regret.
"All right," he began, tone flat as usual. "You'll be interning with your assigned pros for one week. Don't slack off, don't embarrass the school, and for god's sake, be polite. These people are taking time out of their jobs to train you."
His eyes flicked toward Bakugo. "And some of you need that reminder more than others."
Bakugo bristled. "I didn't even say anything!"
"Exactly," Aizawa said without missing a beat.
The class broke into soft laughter. Even Todoroki's lips twitched slightly.
"Internships are about exposure," Aizawa continued. "Different heroes, different philosophies. You're not there to copy them. You're there to understand why they do what they do."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "Remember — every pro hero you'll meet has put their life on the line more times than they can count. Respect that."
He sighed. "I don't want to file paperwork when you inevitably get yourselves killed."
"Such faith," I muttered under my breath.
He didn't even look at me. "I've seen how you people fight. Faith would be delusion."
A few chuckles rippled through the group. He wasn't wrong.
The buses lined up behind him, engines rumbling softly. Everyone began to split into smaller clusters — goodbyes, high-fives, last-minute pep talks.
Midoriya was nervously reviewing his notebook, muttering about "optimal training strategies." Todoroki stood silently off to the side, likely ghosting another text from Endeavor. Bakugo glared at a lamppost for existing. Same old class.
"Good luck out there," Momo said, smiling at me.
"Same to you," I replied. "Try not to let Ryukyu bench-press you."
She laughed lightly. "I'll keep that in mind."
Once the last group boarded, I lingered behind, pulling out my phone to check the message Mirko had sent me.
Coordinates attached. Don't be late. You'll regret it. 🐇
No greeting, no explanation — just pure Rumi energy.
I adjusted my bag, waved lazily at the buses, and stepped aside. The moment no one was watching, I vanished into a ripple of light.
The world stretched — then snapped back into focus.
I stood on a wind-swept cliff overlooking the ocean, the waves crashed below, wild and untamed, the air sharp with salt.
The coordinates had led me to a forgotten corner of the coast — an old, weathered house sitting at the edge of the world. The paint was peeling, roof tiles cracked, and a crooked sign reading NO TRESPASSING flapped weakly in the wind.
It looked abandoned — or maybe it had just given up on the concept of visitors.
I walked up the narrow stone path and rang the rusted bell.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the door burst open.
A blur of white and motion lunged at me.
The world slowed.
Sound warped, wind seemed to hang midair, and I saw it clearly — Rumi's grin, wide and unrestrained, as her leg swung toward my face with the kind of force that could crater steel.
Her kick carved through the air, and I watched the ripples spread — the particles of dust splitting apart as her foot passed through them.
To her, it was a blur. To me, it was a ballet in slow motion.
I stepped to the side, calmly, almost lazily, as her heel missed by an inch. My hand reached out, brushing her leg just enough to redirect the force. She landed in a crouch, her white hair whipping with the motion, eyes bright with mischief.
When the dust settled, Mirko stood in the doorway, grinning — that wild, confident grin of hers that dared the world to challenge her.
"Good," she said simply. "Always be alert."
"Nice to see you too," I replied dryly. "Next time, maybe try a handshake?"
"Handshakes are for people who don't train enough." She jerked her head toward the open field behind the house. "Suit up. We're sparring first. Introductions later."
"Do you ever not start with violence?"
"Nope."
Well, at least she was consistent.
I sighed, activating my hero costume — a sleek silver-and-black design that shimmered faintly.
We walked until the field opened up before us — an empty clearing bordered by the remains of what used to be a training ground. Broken stone targets, cracked walls, and old impact marks covered the terrain.
"This place looks like it's been hit by artillery," I muttered.
"It has," she said casually. "My kicks are artillery."
Fair enough.
Then, without warning, she lunged.
Her first strike cracked the ground. I dodged barely in time, her kick grazing past my ribs with the force of a freight train. She didn't pause — a second, third, and fourth followed, faster, heavier, relentless.
"You don't believe in warm-ups, do you?" I called out, weaving through the barrage.
"Talking wastes time!"
The shockwave from her next kick shattered the dirt, sending dust spiraling between us.
"Not bad," she said, landing lightly, eyes narrowing. "You've got power — and speed. But you're still holding back."
I exhaled slowly. "You're not going to stop until you win, are you?"
Her grin widened, feral and electric. "Exactly."
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "Great. Another Battle Junkie."
Before she could move again, I disappeared — reappearing behind her with a soft flick of my wrist. She stiffened as my knuckles tapped her neck.
"Sorry," I said lightly. "But this was getting repetitive."
She slumped instantly.
I caught her before she hit the ground, muttering, "You're going to be a handful."
Inside her house, the chaos was worse than the battlefield. Protein wrappers, dumbbells, piles of unfinished reports that probably dated back months.
I set her down on the couch, sat nearby, and scrolled through my phone.
Five minutes later, her eyes snapped open, sharp as ever.
"…You," she said slowly.
"Me," I confirmed.
"You're that vigilante from last year. Black Flash."
I stayed silent.
Her grin widened. "Knew it. Watching you at the Festival made me wonder, but seeing your speed up close — yeah, it's you."
"So why send me the offer?" I asked. "What if you were wrong?"
She leaned back, stretching lazily. "Doesn't matter. My instincts are never wrong. Besides… you're strong. I like strong."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "You invited me here because I'd make a good punching bag."
"Exactly!"
I looked around the room, at the piles of paperwork and protein bar graveyard. "You also invited me because you're terrible at cleaning, didn't you?"
She gave a guilty grin. "…Maybe."
I sighed and, in one blur of motion, cleaned the entire house. The mess vanished, the air smelled faintly of lemon, and the reports were perfectly stacked.
When I turned, she was staring at me like I'd just teleported out of a comic panel.
"…You did that in—"
"Eight seconds," I said.
She whistled. "You're wasted on hero work. You should start a cleaning agency."
"Not happening."
She laughed, stretching. "This'll be fun."
"Fun isn't the word I'd use."
She whistled low. "You might actually be more useful than I thought."
"Don't get ideas."
She smirked. "Too late."
I sank into a chair. "So, what's the usual routine? Patrols? Reports?"
She stretched, yawning. "Normally, yeah. But this town's quiet. Villains around here know my reputation — most of them leave before I even show up."
"Smart of them."
"Boring for me." Her grin returned. "Guess that means we'll just have to spar more often."
I shot her a flat look. "This is an internship, not an MMA tournament."
"Fighting is training. Now come on—"
Before I could stop her, she leapt through the window, laughing as she landed in the backyard.
I rubbed my temples. "This woman's going to be the death of me."
That night, under the silver glow of the moon, we traded blows until the air itself shuddered with each impact. Dust and fragments of stone rained down as her laughter echoed through the quiet coastal night.
When it finally ended, she flopped onto the grass, panting, a wild grin on her face.
"You're good," she said, voice breathy but full of life. "Having you around might make my days easier. You can handle the chores, too."
I gave her a look. "You wish."
She laughed, bright and reckless. "We'll see."
Later, as I collapsed onto the old bed in the spare room she'd pointed out, I could hear her voice faintly from the living room.
"Hey, Quick Silver!" she called out. "Tomorrow — we're going all out!"
I smiled into the dark. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
The waves crashed beyond the cliff, the air cool and clean as I drifted off into the dreamland hoping for a more leisurely tomorrow.