The day starts with calm, the kind that lies.A clear sky stretches over U.A., the air sharp with early sun. Everything looks organized — the way people arrange pieces before they break them.
Aizawa calls it "practical assessment."Nezu calls it "monitoring progress."I call it what it is: a test.
The students gather on the training field, their uniforms crisp, eyes bright with competition. I stay near the edge, away from the noise. Aizawa's voice cuts through the air. "Today, you'll handle simulated civilian rescue. Prioritize safety. No property damage."
He doesn't look at me, but I know the last part's meant for me.
"Pair assignments are on your screens," he says.
My name flashes beside another: Midoriya Izuku.
The green-haired boy waves from across the field, nervous energy radiating off him like static. "Hey! Looks like we're partners."
"So it seems."
He smiles — genuine, too open for this world. "I've read about wind manipulation quirks, but yours doesn't show up in the registry. It's like… air moves because it wants to."
"It moves because I tell it to," I correct.
His grin falters, replaced by thought. "Right. Intent, not instinct."
He understands faster than most. I file that away.
Phase One: Collapse Zone Simulation
The training area has been reconstructed into a mock disaster — shattered concrete, burning cars, collapsing walls. Smoke hangs low, tinted orange by emergency lights. Students scatter, shouting codes, pulling dummies from debris.
Midoriya adjusts his gloves. "We need to clear that bus first!"
"You give the orders?"
"I… I analyze," he says, cheeks flushing. "You look like you'll do the heavy lifting."
He's not wrong.
I move through the wreckage, the storm beneath my skin reacting to every shifting weight of air. Pressure builds in controlled waves as I lift slabs of concrete, the debris sliding aside as if carried by invisible hands. Midoriya watches, muttering notes to himself between breaths.
"You're stabilizing the flow before applying force… incredible."
"Observation before action," I reply. "Otherwise you create more damage than you fix."
He nods quickly. "That's what All Might always says—"
He stops. His eyes widen. The word hangs heavy in the smoke.
"He's your mentor."
Midoriya looks away. "Something like that."
Before I can ask more, the siren blares — phase two.
Phase Two: Unforeseen Threat
A section of the ground explodes upward. The air fills with dust and motion. From the rubble emerges a larger training robot — black armor, red sensors glowing. It scans, locks on, and charges.
Aizawa's voice crackles through the comms. "Emergency variable. Handle it without exceeding safety limits."
I sense Nezu's eyes behind the cameras. This isn't random. It's directed. They want to see what happens when control meets danger.
Midoriya braces beside me. "You take the lead!"
I don't answer. I step forward, feel the storm coil behind me. The machine swings its metal arm; the impact splits the air. I twist the current around its momentum, redirecting it. The ground trembles, but I hold.
Midoriya lunges, his movement a blur of calculated chaos. He lands a hit that cracks the robot's chest plate — small, precise, brave.
He lands beside me, panting. "We're supposed to neutralize, not destroy!"
"Then keep it busy."
I focus. The air thickens, compresses, and for a moment, everything slows — dust suspended mid-flight, flames bending backward. I push outward. The robot slams into the far wall, embedded but intact.
Silence.
The simulation ends.
Aizawa's voice, low and steady: "Containment successful."
The students cheer. The teachers exchange looks that mean we're not done here.
After the test, the others gather around Midoriya, slapping his shoulders, congratulating him. He laughs, modest, deflecting credit. No one approaches me. That's fine. Recognition is a cage made of attention.
Still, I catch fragments.
"He barely moved.""Did he even use a Quirk ID?""Feels wrong. Like he bends the world itself."
They're not wrong.
Aizawa finds me later, near the storage lockers. "You kept it under control. Barely."
"I didn't break anything."
"Nezu's satisfied. The Commission won't be."
I glance at him. "They're still watching?"
"Always."
He leans against the wall, crossing his arms. "You're stable when calm, but what happens when you're not?"
"Then I'm honest."
His eyes narrow. "That's what worries me."
He leaves before I can reply.
Evening. The campus glows faint gold under the fading sun. I walk the perimeter fence, tracing the invisible boundary between freedom and structure. Beyond it, the city moves — unaware, orderly, small.
Inside, the air is still, too practiced. I can feel the faint tremor of the facility's generators beneath my feet, the heartbeat of something built to contain potential.
A voice behind me: "You handled that well."
Nezu, perched on the fence like a ghost of intellect wrapped in fur. His cup of tea steams faintly.
"You watched."
"I always watch."
"Then you know it wasn't luck."
He smiles, delicate and sharp. "It never is. You're learning discipline, Mr. Arashi. That's progress."
"Discipline isn't freedom."
"No," he agrees. "But chaos without purpose isn't freedom either. It's decay."
He tilts his head. "Tell me — when you held back, did it hurt?"
"Every second."
"Good." He hops down lightly. "Pain means boundaries. Boundaries mean growth. The question is how long you can stand it before you start testing the walls."
He leaves before I answer.
Night folds over U.A., the dorms dimming one window at a time. I sit by the window, looking out at the dark sprawl of the city. The storm inside me hums quietly, alive but restless.
Midoriya's words echo somewhere in memory: 'Maybe you'll change how it works.'
A faint smile — the first in days — ghosts across my face.
"Maybe," I whisper to the glass, "the only way to change it is to break it cleanly."
The air bends slightly, barely visible.
Outside, the stars blink like distant signals — warnings, or invitations.
And deep within, the storm waits, patient as a blade before the draw.