Rumi Usagiyama hated being late. She hated traffic jams, hated the paperwork that had held her up at the agency, hated this stupid, clunky city that always found a way to throw a wrench in the works whenever real business was on the line. Her car, a bright red sports coupe, sat frozen in an endless line of vehicles, all jammed together because of some dumb accident on the beltway. She slammed her palm against the steering wheel, and the horn roared, expressing her fury far better than she could have herself.
"Move your asses already, you swamp rats!" she hissed at the closed window, watching as, far ahead at the interchange, a column of black smoke shot into the sky, followed by a muffled boom.
The alert had come in ten minutes ago. Mass attack. Infrastructure damage. Hostages. Her kind of job. And here she was, sitting like a rat in a trap two kilometers from the epicenter while some clown in a minivan bawled his eyes out and exchanged insurance info.
Another blast—closer this time. The ground trembled slightly under the wheels. Rumi clenched her teeth. Enough of this crap.
"Rear door!" she snapped to her comms operator through the built-in earpiece.
"Miss Usagiyama, protocol doesn't"
"OR I'LL KICK IT HER OUT MYSELF!" she roared.
A second of silence, then the rear door of her car clicked open an inch. That was all she needed.
She slipped out through the gap, her feet landing silently on the asphalt. Drivers in the neighboring cars froze with their mouths open as they recognized her. She ignored them. Her world had narrowed to one point: the spot on the map where blood was being spilled.
She surged forward. Not along the road—over it, running across that endless chain of metal and glass. Her body coiled and sprang, her feet pounding on car roofs as she flew like a bullet, leaving behind shouts of surprise and wailing sirens. Air whistled in her ears. She hated working in such densely packed areas, but right now this was the only way.
The closer she got, the stronger the smell became. Not just smoke and burning. There was another note… strange, alien. Cold. Icy, dry cold, like an open freezer door, mixed with something ancient, dusty, as if from a cracked tomb. It overpowered the usual stench of destruction. Rumi stiffened. This reeked of a quirk—but something different. Not raw force, not fire, not electricity. Something subtler — and far creepier.
She vaulted the last row of cars and landed on the shoulder, inside the cordon the patrol was just starting to set up. The sight before her made her freeze for a heartbeat.
Chaos. The usual kind for this type of incident. Torn-up asphalt, burning wreckage, overturned cars. Heroes and medics already working, dragging the injured from the rubble, giving first aid on the spot. But there were details that didn't fit the standard picture.
There — a group of villains. They lay in strange, twisted poses, not bound, but utterly motionless. Their eyes were open and empty, their faces frozen not in pain but in masks of deep, all-consuming despair and apathy. Next to one lay a chunk of a concrete beam—not shattered, but… crumbling like ancient sandstone, coated in frost.
And the cold. That unnatural chill radiated from here. It hung in the air, making the medics' breath mist.
Her sharp gaze swept the scene, analyzing. Main threat: neutralized. Rescue operations: in full swing. She'd missed the fireworks. Damn it.
Then her eyes locked onto a scene near a half-ruined wall. Three of her colleagues — Zenith, Stormbringer, and Photon — were circling someone. Their stances were aggressive, defensive —not helpful. They were demanding something, jabbing fingers at a crouching figure.
Rumi headed that way, her heels clicking sharply on the uneven asphalt. As she closed in, details came into focus.
A boy. A teenager, by the looks of it. Sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, covered in dust, with blood trickling from his nose and temple. Clothes torn, face deathly pale, breathing hard, shoulders trembling—classic signs of shock and total exhaustion after using a quirk. He wasn't looking at the heroes. His eyes stared at nothing—blank and distant.
"Talk, kid!" barked Zenith, a massive hero in a blue suit with a shield insignia. "Who was that? Your mentor? An ally? Where is he now?"
"His… his eyes…" murmured Stormbringer, the young air manipulator. He looked pale and shaken. "I saw him for just a second as I ran in… Felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water inside me…"
"He walked through me!" Photon's voice cracked with hysteria. His body, usually pure light, now flickered like a dying bulb. "He passed straight through my light form! I didn't feel a thing, just… emptiness. And cold. And that whisper in my head…"
The boy only shook his head, as if trying to swat away an annoying fly. He curled up, trying to make himself smaller.
"Enough," came a sharp, commanding voice.
The three heroes flinched and turned. When they saw her, they straightened instinctively, recognizing both her and her reputation.
"Miss Usagiyama," Zenith nodded, trying to keep his composure. "You… didn't see him. There was someone else here. Someone strong—and dangerous. He… he did that to them." He jerked his head toward the inert villains.
"And he's clearly connected to this kid," added Photon, still rubbing his chest nervously as if checking he was intact. "He knows something. Maybe it's his quirk, maybe he's linked to that guy. But he isn't talking."
Rumi's eyes swept over the boy's face. She didn't see a villain or a criminal. She saw a terrified, cornered pup who'd just gone through hell. She saw utter exhaustion, flirting with unconsciousness. And in his eyes… a glimmer she knew well. The glimmer of someone who knows the price of his power—and fears it more than any outside threat.
"You sure you're not confusing cause and effect?" she asked coldly, her voice soft but razor-sharp.
"What do you mean?" Stormbringer blinked.
"I mean," Rumi stepped forward, putting herself between them and the boy, "while you three big tough guys were grilling a half-dead kid, medics over there were pulling people out of the rubble. And unless I've gone blind"— she swept her gaze around — "most of those people are alive thanks to someone neutralizing the threat before we even got here. Or do you think the villains did that to themselves?" She tilted her head toward the emptied-out thugs.
Zenith flushed. Photon looked down. Stormbringer spread his hands helplessly.
"But… Miss Usagiyama, you don't understand," Zenith tried. "That guy… he wasn't a hero. He radiated something… dark. Evil. His methods "
"His methods," Rumi cut in, steel ringing in her tone, "saved more lives today than your protocols and your delays. I didn't see this mysterious stranger. But I see the result. And I see this kid, who was in the thick of it and maybe helped too. And instead of thanking him—or at least getting him to a medic—you're giving him the third degree. That's heroic? That's your idea of it?"
Her icy glare made them step back.
"Go help evacuate the wounded," she ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. "I'll handle things here."
They didn't argue. Under her stare, they slunk off toward the rescue teams.
Rumi turned to the boy. She didn't loom over him—she crouched, meeting him at eye level. Her movements now were precise, restrained.
"What's your name?" she asked—not interrogating, just stating a fact.
He lifted his eyes slowly. Shock, fatigue, and deep, hard-earned wariness stared back at her.
"A… Arashi," he whispered hoarsely.
"Arashi," she repeated with a nod. "I'm Rumi. Tell me what happened here. The truth. I don't give a damn about pretty lies."
He fell silent again, head dropping. The struggle was written all over his face. He was afraid. Afraid of her, of the consequences — of himself.
"They… they're right," he finally forced out. "It was… my fault. My quirk. It… got out of control."
Rumi listened to his broken, disjointed story without interruption. She heard not the words, but what lay between them. Fear. Despair. And… a desperate need to help. A need that had outweighed the terror.
When he finished, silence settled, broken only by distant shouts of rescuers.
"All right," Rumi said at last, rising to her feet. "Got it."
She held out her hand. He eyed it warily.
"Up. You're not mortally hurt, and lying in the dirt's a bad habit."
After a moment, he took her hand, and she lifted him effortlessly. He swayed.
"Your quirk," she said bluntly, locking eyes with him, "is a real piece of crap. Awkward. Scary. For you and everyone else. It reeks of death and despair from a mile away."
He stared, confused.
"Those idiots," she jerked her chin toward her departing colleagues, "are scared of anything that doesn't fit their crystal-clean, spandex-wrapped hero fantasy. They think heroism is smiles, autographs, and punching assholes for the cameras. They don't get that the real shit we deal with sometimes smells just like this." She pointed at him — or rather, at the thing inside him. "Sticky, nasty, leaving stains on the white cape."
She paused, letting it sink in.
"You saved people today, Arashi. You stopped the villains. You did what we were supposed to do, but didn't make it in time. You used your shit to take down worse shit. And for that, you get a 'thank you,' not a finger in your face and a demand for excuses."
He stayed silent, but something flickered in his eyes. Something besides fear. A fragile drop of hope.
"They'll still fear me," he whispered. "Always. My principal said"
"Fuck your principal!" Rumi snapped. "Is he a hero? Ever seen what's left when someone gets torn apart around the corner? No? Then his opinion's worth less than this." She kicked a pebble.
She stepped closer, her voice dropping, but blazing with intensity.
"Listen, and burn this into your skull. The world doesn't care what you think of yourself. Doesn't care what scared civilians or your gutless teachers think. The world wants one thing: to be saved. At any cost. By any method. Even the darkest, nastiest ones. If your power can do that — you're a hero. And if some jackass in blue tights or with a diploma says otherwise—you have every right to tell him to fuck off. Got it?"
His eyes widened. He looked like he might cry—or collapse. But he nodded. Weakly. Barely.
"I… I want to be a hero," he whispered, and those words held ten years of pain.
Rumi studied him. Her sharp eyes took in his stance, the shadow of immense power hiding in that exhausted shell, and the tiny flame of will still burning.
"Then be one," she said simply, like stating the most obvious thing in the world. "Don't ask permission. Don't wait for approval. Just be. And shut them all up — with results. Got it, kitten?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and walked away, leaving him alone amid the chaos —but with something new, something vital. She walked off to give orders, restore order, do her job.
But on her face, hidden from all, for just a heartbeat, something flickered. Interest. Cold, imperious — but interest. In this world of bright, predictable idiots, she'd finally scented something truly wild. And it smelled like serious trouble — and serious opportunity.
Paperwork. Mountains of paperwork. Reports, statements, incident inspection protocols, witness interviews. Rumi hated it with every fiber of her being. She hated sitting in that sterile, disinfectant-reeking office of the temporary operations headquarters while outside the ruins were still smoldering and crews were hard at work. She hated this bureaucratic hell that could turn even the clearest, most heroic act into a mundane incident with bullet points, subclauses, and mandatory fields to fill in.
She signed another form mechanically, her mind miles away. Not at the crime scene, not on the diagram of body placements. Her thoughts were fixated on one particular face — pale, frightened.
Arashi Tanaka.
His parents had taken him away. Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka didn't look grateful; they looked crushed, broken, and absolutely terrified. They were afraid of her, afraid of the environment, but most of all — they were afraid for their son. Their whispered "thank you" as they took him was so soaked in hopelessness that something inside Rumi clenched against her will. This wasn't fear of her reputation. This was a fear honed over years. The fear of people living with a ticking time bomb and already resigned to the fact that one day it would go off.
She brushed them off, pretending it didn't get to her. "Case closed. Child returned to legal guardians. Incident resolved." That's the phrase she put in the report.
But for some reason, this "incident" refused to be resolved. The image of the boy haunted her. His hollow stare. His trembling. And that force swirling around him — heavy, ancient, smelling of graveyard chill and absolute despair. The force he called his curse.
Rumi leaned back in her chair, putting the pen aside. She closed her eyes, and the picture rose before her: three "heroes" in bright costumes pointing fingers at an emaciated teenager. Idiots. Blind, self-satisfied idiots. They saw only the shell, the creepy aesthetic of his power, but missed the essence. They didn't see the will. The will it took to keep something like that caged inside — and still want to save people.
"I want to be a hero."
Those words, spoken in a cracked whisper, rang louder in her ears than any explosion.
She shot to her feet, sending the chair skidding back. The duty officer flinched.
"Enough of this paperwork," she tossed over her shoulder, heading for the exit. "My lawyer can sign the rest. I'm going on patrol."
She stepped into the evening air. Twilight had surrendered to night. The city was lighting up, trying to hide its scars and bruises under the glitter of neon signs. Rumi inhaled the cool air, trying to clear the stench of smoke and official forms from her lungs.
She went on patrol. Not because it was needed — the area was already secured and under control. But because she needed to move. To feel asphalt under her boots, wind in her hair. To think.
Her route was chaotic. She didn't check the radio, barely registered her surroundings. She just walked, one obsessive question looping in her head: "What's going to happen to him?"
She knew the answer. She knew this system too well. They'd mark him as "troubled." Slap a big red flag on his file. Classify his quirk as "high-risk, highly destructive, antisocial, requires restriction." They'd offer him "alternative paths" — clerk, analyst, technician. Anything but the front lines. Anything to keep him out of sight. To keep civilians from getting scared.
They'd break him. Not villains, not disasters. The gray, faceless machine would break him — the system that fears anything that doesn't fit its mold. The system that prefers convenient, predictable mediocrity over the strong but complicated.
"The world's full of assholes whose brains are made of shit," she thought with a bitter smirk. And those assholes would decide his fate.
And what then? Was she going to adopt him? Take him under her wing? Be his mentor? Rumi Usagiyama, world-renowned hero, and some scrawny kid with a shady quirk from a reject school? Laughable. She had no time, no desire, and sure as hell no teaching talent to babysit a troubled teen. Her agency was her life, her baby — a finely tuned machine. She only took the best, the proven, the polished and ready for the job.
But…
The memory flashed again. That moment when she saw the aftermath of his work. Those hollow, emptied-out faces of villains. Not just defeated — gutted from the inside. Stripped of will. And at the same time — an entire square of saved civilians. A paradox. A horrifying, inconvenient, yet utterly heroic paradox.
He was like a raw diamond buried under tons of dirt and prejudice. A diamond the system would happily bulldoze just to keep its glossy floors scratch-free.
But what if… what if she didn't give the system that chance?
The idea struck like lightning. Bold, reckless, so very her. It made her slow her steps.
She pulled out her phone. Not the work one — her personal. Sleek, ultramodern, not a single scratch. She scrolled through the contacts, skipping dozens of names, until she found the one she wanted. It was labeled simply: Nezu.
She'd never called him just for a chat. Their relationship was… complicated. Mutual respect laced with mild disdain. They were opposite poles of the hero world. He — the idealist, building the future within his academy walls. She — the pragmatist, knee-deep in today's filth on the city streets. But they acknowledged each other's strength and competence.
She hit call. The line barely rang once.
"Rumi Usagiyama," came the calm, slightly rasping voice. There was no surprise, no joy — just a faint intellectual curiosity. "A rare honor. I assume you're not calling to discuss the weather or the latest trends in hero costume design?"
"Cut the crap, Nezu," she growled, ignoring his sarcasm. "I've got a business proposal for you. Well, not for you. For your little zoo of gifted puppies you're so proud of."
Silence for a beat. She could practically feel his formidable brain whirring, running scenarios, discarding dozens of hypotheses.
"I'm listening," he said at last, his tone now razor-sharp, all humor gone.
"I found you a kid," Rumi began, sidestepping a maintenance truck. "One of a kind. A quirk straight from the 'what the hell is this!?' category. High risk, massive destructive potential, completely uncontrollable, antisocial to the bone, and reeks so bad it makes regular heroes piss themselves."
"You're describing a textbook villain candidate, not a U.A. student, Miss Usagiyama," Nezu remarked dryly.
"The hell I am," Rumi shot back. "This is one of those rare cases where under the monster's shell hides a kid who goddamn wants to 'save people.' Today he proved it, turning a looter gang into quivering ghosts so bad my squad's still checking under their beds."
She laid it out bluntly, without theatrics. The gutted villains, the saved civilians, her team's reaction. She didn't hide details, nor her own judgment.
"The system will eat him alive, Nezu," she finished, her voice cold, merciless in its certainty. "He's already written off. Dumped in some garbage school for rejects. His quirk scares everyone without enough brain cells to see its potential. And the ones who do see it? They're even more terrified because they know what he could become."
"And you're suggesting I take this… soul-breaker… into U.A.?" Nezu asked. His tone revealed nothing — no approval, no refusal. Just pure, clinical curiosity.
"I'm suggesting you give him a chance," Rumi corrected. "You love bragging that your school doesn't just make heroes — it shapes the future. That you'll work with any talent. Prove it. Take this raw chunk of chaos and show those bureaucratic rats you can carve a real diamond out of it. Or he'll tear your school to shreds. One or the other. Either way, it won't be boring — that I guarantee."
She heard a faint sip on the other end. Tea, most likely.
"Will you personally vouch for him?" came the key question.
Rumi hesitated for just a second.
"I'll vouch for what I saw," she said honestly. "He's a cocktail of insane power and zero self-confidence. A Molotov that's afraid of its own flame. He could become the greatest hero or the biggest disaster. I'm no fortune teller, Nezu. I just see potential. What you do with it — that's on you. You're the genius strategist, so calculate the odds."
A long pause followed. Rumi pictured the gears turning in U.A.'s principal's mind, probabilities computed, political fallout weighed.
"His name?" Nezu finally asked.
"Arashi Tanaka. Municipal Middle School No. 3. The rest you can dig up yourself — I'm sure you've got access to juicier databases than I do."
"I'll review his file," Nezu said, his tone shifting into that of a director making decisions. "And the incident report. No promises, Miss Usagiyama."
"I don't need your promises," Rumi snorted. "I need action. Just remember this, Nezu. While you're deliberating, the system's already sharpening its knives for him. Or worse — someone else will grab him, someone who won't hesitate to use that power. And then we'll all regret it."
"Point noted," his voice regained a hint of amusement. "Thank you for the call. And… Rumi?"
"What?" she grunted, ready to hang up.
"You're showing an unusual… social concern. You're not ill, I hope?"
"Go to hell, you damn rodent," she shot back with unexpected relief — and hung up.
She lowered the phone and looked out at the city again. At its fake glitter and hidden wounds. Something inside her settled. She wasn't a sentimental fool. She didn't believe in altruism. But she believed in strength. And that real strength should always be on the right side.
She didn't know what Nezu would decide. But she'd made her move. Thrown down the gauntlet — to the system and to his pride.
A faint, almost predatory smile curved her lips. Maybe it was a gamble. Maybe she'd just tossed a time bomb into her old alma mater.
But damn, it would be fun to see what happens.
A quiet click of disconnection echoed through the office — an office as immaculate and sterile as its owner's mind. Nezu, the principal of U.A. Academy, slowly lowered the receiver of his private communicator onto the massive oak desk. His small, bead-like eyes glittered as they stared into the void, seeing not the bookshelves nor the data screens, but endless chains of probabilities, hypotheses, and strategic calculations.
Rumi Usagiyama. Cynical, sharp-tongued, unbearable… and surprisingly insightful. Her call had truly knocked him out of his usual rhythm. Not because it was unexpected, but because it carried information that didn't fit into his existing models. A new variable. And Nezu loved new variables. Especially ones so… piquant.
A Quirk that reeks of death and despair. "Hollowed-out villains." A boy who wants to save people.
His paw-like hands folded neatly before his snout. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his whiskers. An utterly heroic paradox. Yes. Precisely that.
He turned toward his main console. Dozens of monitors flickered to life, casting a bluish glow across his pristine white fur. His Quirk, High Spec, was already running at full capacity —processing queries, infiltrating databases ranging from the official Hero Commission archives to much darker corners of the information sphere, where ordinary users dared not tread.
Name: Arashi Tanaka.
Age: 14.
School: Municipal Middle School No. 3.
The initial data was sparse and predictable. Truancy, disciplinary notes for restlessness, average to above-average grades overall — but then… dazzling, near-genius marks in Hero Law theory. An intriguing discrepancy.
The search dug deeper. Medical records. Reports from an incident a decade ago. "Neighbor's Smile" convenience store. Villain attack. Manifestation of an unidentified shadow-like entity. Injured villains exhibiting symptoms described as "deep psychological apathy, temporary loss of will, exhaustion."
Quirk Classification: "Specter: Psychometric Vampirism."
Preliminary Danger Rating: B (with potential for growth).
Nezu gave a soft snort. "Psychometric Vampirism." What a pitiful, narrow term. They'd named it without grasping even a tenth of its essence. They saw only the symptom, not the disease — or rather, not a disease, but a tool.
He dug further. Encrypted reports, scans of researchers' handwritten notes on the boy. And then the picture began to clarify. And become infinitely more fascinating.
Mentions not of a single entity, but several. Of "whispers in the head." Of the need to "hold the wall." Of incidents where Quirk activation dropped the ambient temperature to anomalous levels, and electronics failed. Of a strange, almost mystical vulnerability to fire and high-energy sources.
And then Nezu stumbled upon something truly special. A record stamped: "Top Secret. Eyes Only." An agent's report from an infiltration mission into a minor criminal group several years back. The gang had planned to abduct a child with a "promising Quirk." Their informant, a man with a mental-scanning ability, had tried to probe the boy from a distance to assess his potential.
The report was written in a shaky, erratic hand:
"…not a child. Not a mind. It's a door. An old door, rimed with frost, in a place where nothing should exist. Behind the door… them. Nine pairs of eyes. Nine hungry voids. They looked at me. They KNEW me. My scanner burned out. I… I can't use my Quirk anymore. They're still looking. They're waiting…"
The agent was discharged for medical reasons with a diagnosis of severe mental disorder.
Nezu leaned back in his chair. In his eyes flickered the pure, unclouded spark of intellectual delight.
"Nine," he whispered under his breath. "Nine. Nazgûl. The Lord of the Rings. How trite. And how brilliant."
Not that he was an expert in ancient literature, but his knowledge — and his genius Quirk — was enough to grasp the core. Spirits of nine human kings enslaved by the power of the Rings. Beings that inspire terror, unseen by mortals, feeding on fear and will. Their weapons didn't take life—they devoured spirit.
It all fit. Perfectly. Not "Psychometric Vampirism." But a manifestation of archetypal entities from the collective unconscious, sublimated through the prism of modern pop culture. Incredible! His Quirk wasn't merely physical or mental — it was conceptual. Metaphysical. It tapped into humanity's primal, timeless fears.
Rumi had been right. This was a diamond — a diamond trapped in a cage of fear and ignorance. And, of course, the system would try to polish it into a safe little pebble.
That could not be allowed.
His paws slid back over the keyboard. Now his target was the principal of Municipal Middle School No. 3 — a certain Katsuhiko Godai. A man with the Quirk "Paperwork." Ideal for a bureaucrat. In minutes, Nezu had the full dossier: career trajectory, financial situation (less than stellar), unpaid mortgage, dreams of a transfer to a more prestigious district, several minor reporting violations he'd neatly buried.
Nezu dialed the number. The line picked up on the third ring.
"Godai," came a tired, worried voice.
"Good evening, Principal Godai," Nezu said in his most harmless, almost friendly tone. "This is Nezu, principal of U.A."
The silence that followed was so dead it seemed you could hear a fly buzzing somewhere.
"… Principal U.A.?" Godai finally stammered, his voice suddenly a pitch higher. "Wh-what can I do for you? Is this about the enrollment quotas? I submitted all the paperwork —"
"This is about one of your students," Nezu interrupted gently. "Arashi Tanaka."
The pause grew even more sepulchral.
"Ah… Tanaka," Godai said, a crack in his voice. "I… I warned the commission. His Quirk… it's unstable. Antisocial. Today's incident only proves "
"The incident you're referring to," Nezu cut him off, his voice now cold and precise as a scalpel, "ended with thirty-four lives saved and four armed criminals neutralized thanks to Mr. Tanaka's intervention. I've already reviewed the heroes' reports from the scene. Their opinions… vary. But facts are stubborn things."
"But his methods!" Godai burst out, panic creeping in. "You haven't seen what he does to people! He drains them dry! Leaves empty shells! That's not hero work, that's"
"That's effective," Nezu stated coolly. "And in the absence of any other heroes, his methods were the only functioning solution. However, I understand you. The social aspects… yes. They require fine-tuning. That is precisely what U.A. exists for. We take raw, unrefined talents and hone them — psychologically as well."
"You… you want to take him?" Godai sounded like someone had suggested putting a tiger in his school.
"I want to give him a chance," Nezu corrected softly. "Just like any other child his age. The practical entrance exams aren't here yet. But when they arrive, I expect to see Arashi Tanaka's name among your approved candidates."
"I… I can't!" Godai squealed. "The commission… his file… he's flagged! I don't have the authority to just"
"Katsuhiko," Nezu suddenly shifted to a familiar tone, but with a steel edge. "May I call you Katsuhiko? I fully understand your position. You fear consequences. You fear responsibility. That's reasonable. But let's view the situation from another angle." He paused, letting the other man swallow the lump in his throat. "If you deny him, and he, by force of circumstance, acts again… but this time without any hero witnesses… or worse, if other parties — unsavory parties — take interest in his talent… all questions will come to you. You're his principal. You bear responsibility. You failed to channel his potential into lawful avenues."
"But… but I tried!" Godai whimpered. "I offered him a career in analytics, in support roles!"
"You offered him surrender," Nezu said mercilessly. "And now, the second point. Suppose you cooperate. You give him a chance. And he fails the exams. Well then… you're clean. You did everything you could. You gave him the opportunity, and he didn't use it. You did your duty. But if… if he shows even a hint of success… imagine it. A graduate from your—pardon me—school for troubled teens entering U.A.? That's unprecedented. Funding, media attention, your personal reputation… I hear the mortgage has been weighing on you."
A heavy, shaky exhale came from the other end. Nezu never missed his mark. Fear and greed —the two most reliable levers.
"And if… if something happens again? During the exams?" Godai asked weakly.
"U.A.'s exams are conducted under the strictest supervision," Nezu's voice was smooth and official once more. "Safety is our top priority. The risks are calculated and minimized. Your only task is to sign the clearance. I will take full responsibility for everything else."
The final sentence carried such unshakable authority that Godai's resistance collapsed entirely.
"A-alright," he surrendered. "I… I'll approve him. When the time comes."
"Excellent," Nezu smiled again, though his counterpart couldn't see it. "I'm glad we could reach an understanding. All necessary documents and forms will be sent to you within twenty-four hours. Have a pleasant evening, Principal Godai."
He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Silence reclaimed the office. Nezu raised his porcelain cup and took a small sip of perfectly brewed Earl Grey. His mind was already far from this conversation, spinning new models.
Arashi Tanaka. A boy with nine demons in his head. A being capable of bending primal fears to his will. Perhaps the key to something far greater. Perhaps a catalyst.
He looked at All Might's portrait on the wall. "A hero is one who brings salvation."
What salvation could this boy bring? And at what cost?
Nezu set the cup down on its saucer. The call had been perfect.
Now it was time to prepare the ground. To calculate the exam scenarios. To brief the instructors. Perhaps even… to test a few hypotheses in practice.
A mask of serene, sly curiosity froze on his muzzle.
The game had begun. And it promised to be utterly fascinating.