The next morning tastes like metal and nerves.
U.A. always hums, even before dawn — generators, field barriers, the low thrum of machinery that keeps heroes safe while they pretend to chase danger. The sky glows pale through the glass walls of the training grounds, painting the floor in shards of gold.
I arrive before the others.
It's deliberate. Observation is easiest before the noise begins.
Rows of training robots rest against the walls, their metal bodies waiting for command. The air carries the faint bite of oil and ozone. I close my eyes and listen to the building breathe — circuits humming like the slow pulse of a living machine. Somewhere above, a sparrow lands on the rail and shakes rain from its feathers. The sound is sharper than the echo of my own footsteps.
Aizawa enters exactly on time. His scarf trails behind him, soaked in indifference."You beat me here," he says.
"Habit."
"Good. You'll need it."
He glances at the control room above the field. "Nezu's watching. So is half the faculty. Try not to collapse the facility."
"No promises."
Aizawa ignores the comment and drops a tablet into my hand. "This is the evaluation. Three tests: reaction, endurance, control. We'll see how you handle structure."
"And if I don't?"
He shrugs. "Then I get to tell Nezu I was right."
Students file in shortly after, a stream of bright colors and loud energy. They stop when they see me — curiosity mixing with something like uncertainty. Whispered names drift through the group.
"Who's that?""Transfer?""Looks older.""Feels weird… like the air changes when he moves."
Aizawa doesn't bother explaining. He simply gestures. "Arashi. Step forward."
I do.
He turns to the class. "You all know the drill. Same assessment as your first day — distance throw, mobility run, combat simulation. This time, you'll have a guest."
A low murmur rolls through the group. Someone — loud, blond, eyes sharp with ego — grins. "Guest, huh? Hope he doesn't break easy."
A girl beside him elbows his ribs. "Bakugo, don't start."
"Let him," I say quietly. "I'm curious what makes a hero yell that much this early."
Laughter ripples through the others. Bakugo's grin sharpens. "Careful, old man. I like a challenge."
"Then try not to disappoint yourself."
Aizawa's sigh carries all the patience of a veteran babysitter. "Enough. We start simple."
The Distance Test.
A ball. A line on the ground. Simple.
The students go first — each throw marked by the display screen above: 600 meters, 700, 900. The air smells faintly of sweat and pride.
When it's my turn, Bakugo mutters, "Let's see what the mystery guy's got."
I take the ball in my hand. It's ordinary — synthetic grip, regulation weight. I roll it between my palms, let my breathing steady.
Then I throw.
The air folds. The ball leaves my hand without a sound, vanishing into the horizon like a bullet swallowed by sky.
The monitor sputters, then scrolls digits until the screen flickers red: Out of Range.
No one speaks for a moment.
Then Bakugo lets out a low whistle. "Okay… that's not normal."
Aizawa checks his device. "You didn't break the ball, so I'll call that a success."
Mobility.
An obstacle course built from steel and wires. The others race through with explosions, flames, gravity tricks. My turn is silent.
I move through the air more than around it. The storm within me carries, lifts, shifts — not showy, not loud, just efficient. The world bends slightly with each step, each jump precise enough to look unremarkable.
When I land, the timer blinks: First place.
Aizawa doesn't comment. He just notes it down, expression unreadable.
Combat Simulation.
This one matters.
Two training robots unfold from the ground — each the size of a car, steel joints hissing as they awaken. Their eyes burn red. The others step back, murmuring.
Aizawa folds his arms. "Show restraint."
"Define it."
"Don't kill the equipment."
The first robot charges. I let it close half the distance before moving. A flick of my wrist twists the air around its sensors; it stumbles, confused. I step forward, plant a hand against its chest, and release pressure — not enough to destroy, just enough to remind.
Metal folds inward like paper. The machine collapses, systems sparking.
The second swings its arm. I pivot under it, grab the limb, and let the current of motion pull itself apart. The sound is brief — the clean rip of steel surrendering.
When the dust settles, I stand between two broken machines, breathing steady.
Aizawa exhales. "Restraint… mostly achieved."
From the observation deck, I can feel Nezu watching. His curiosity presses against the glass like sunlight — warm, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
After the test, the students gather in uneven circles. Some whisper admiration, others suspicion. I catch fragments.
"He didn't even use a Quirk signature.""Maybe he's just that fast.""Or maybe he's not human."
I don't correct them.
Uraraka, the girl with kind eyes and a calm voice, steps closer. "That was amazing. Do you really not have a Quirk?"
"I have something," I answer. "It just doesn't fit your categories."
She smiles faintly. "Then make a new one."
Simple words. But they stay.
Later, Aizawa walks beside me toward the dorms. The corridors hum with distant voices and the soft buzz of fluorescent light.
"You handled yourself," he says. "Even Bakugo looks confused, and that's hard to do."
"You expected me to fail."
"I expected you to react. You didn't. That's good."
"And Nezu?"
"He's intrigued. That's dangerous."
We reach the end of the hall. He stops, folding his arms. "Tomorrow's written evaluations. Play along. It buys time."
"For what?"
"For me to figure out what the Commission wants with you."
He turns to leave, but I speak before he does.
"Aizawa."
He glances back.
"Why help me again?"
He considers, then says quietly, "Because I've seen what happens to kids who fight alone. And because I used to think like you."
Then he's gone.
Night drapes itself over U.A. with the soft weight of inevitability. Lights fade, voices die down, the campus settles into its version of calm.
From my window, I can see the training field — scattered with broken machines already being repaired by maintenance drones. They work tirelessly, restoring what was meant to test.
I wonder how many times this world has rebuilt itself the same way: fixing the damage but never questioning the design.
My hands tighten on the railing. The air bends slightly, responding.
"They measure power to understand control," I whisper. "But control… is just another cage."
Below, the machines hum back to life. Above, the stars blink like watchful eyes.
And somewhere deep inside, the storm stirs — silent, patient, waiting.