Chapter 2: The Weight of the Air
U.A. High was a loud place.
To Rayan, who had cultivated a life of near-total silence, it was a sensory assault. It was like stepping from a quiet, cold room into a roaring furnace. The air itself felt thick, charged with nervous energy, ambition, and the chaotic, sparking power of hundreds of hopeful teenagers. He could almost see the energy, shimmering like heat haze rising from the crowd.
He moved through them like a ghost. His black gloves were jammed deep into his jacket pockets, his gray scarf pulled up over his mouth and nose—not for warmth, but as a barrier. A habit. Another layer between himself and the world. His hazel eyes, calm and observant, scanned the faces.
He saw a girl with pink hair bouncing on the balls of her feet, her excitement almost vibrating off her. He saw a broad-shouldered boy with what looked like six arms stretching his neck. He saw an ash-blond boy with a volcanic scowl stalking through the crowd as if he owned the pavement, hands in his pockets, radiating pure arrogance.
Rayan felt the familiar, unwelcome chill trace its way down his spine. This wasn't his Quirk; it was the profound, isolating feeling of being an alien. These people... they were proud of their powers. They used them, showed them, were them. His Quirk was a shameful secret, a monster he kept locked in his ribs, and he spent every waking moment checking the integrity of the cage.
"Move it, extra."
A harsh voice snapped him from his thoughts. The arrogant, ash-blond boy had just shouldered past him, bumping him hard. It wasn't a violent shove, but it was aggressive and dismissive, knocking Rayan off-balance.
Rayan looked at the boy, who had stopped and was now glaring back at him. "You deaf? I said move."
Rayan didn't respond. He had learned long ago that confrontation was a liability. Any strong emotional response—anger, indignation—could cause a temperature drop. He simply held the boy's gaze, his own expression flat and cold behind his scarf.
The blond boy's red eyes narrowed. "Tch." He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Annoying face." He then turned and continued his aggressive stomp toward the building.
Rayan let out a slow breath. He saw it mist instantly, a small, white cloud in front of his scarf. He had felt a spark of anger, and had immediately noted the frost that had begun to creep into the very edges of his vision, like a vignette. He forced himself to breathe deeply, evenly. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The frost receded. That was too close.
He continued into the auditorium. It was massive, dark, and packed. Rayan found a seat in the absolute last row, in the darkest corner, as far from the dense cluster of bodies as possible. He sat, placing his gloved hands on his knees, feeling the faint, familiar chill seep through the fabric and soothe his frayed nerves.
The noise was a deafening roar of overlapping, excited conversations. Then, the stage lights flared to life, blindingly bright.
"HELLOOOOO, EVERYBODY! WELCOME TO THE SHOW!"
A voice, painfully loud, electronically amplified, slammed into the audience. It was the Pro Hero, Present Mic. Even from the back, Rayan felt the sound pressure as a physical thing, rattling his teeth.
Present Mic began his hyperactive explanation of the practical exam, screaming about "Villain-Bots" and point values. Rayan tuned out the performance and focused with desperate intensity on the information.
Robots. Machines. Non-living. They couldn't feel pain. They couldn't get frostbite. They couldn't be traumatized.
He felt a strange, unfamiliar prickle in his chest. It wasn't relief, not exactly. It was... potential. For the first time in nine years, he might be able to use his power without the catastrophic fear of hurting someone. He could, perhaps, loosen the locks. Just a little.
"...AND THEN THERE'S THE ZERO-POINTER!" Present Mic shrieked. "IT'S A GIMMICK! AVOID IT AT ALL COSTS!"
As the explanation continued, Rayan noticed a boy a few seats away, a nervous-looking kid with a wild mop of green hair, muttering frantically to himself, clutching a worn-out notebook.
A moment later, a tall, severe-looking boy with glasses stood up and interrupted the presentation. "Excuse me, sir! On the pamphlet, there are clearly four types of villains listed! If this is a misprint, it is a disgrace to this esteemed academy!"
Then, the boy with glasses pivoted sharply and pointed directly at the green-haired muttering kid. "And you! With the unruly hair! You have been muttering this entire time. It is distracting! If you are not taking this seriously, then you should leave!"
The entire auditorium turned to look. Rayan felt a spike of secondhand humiliation for the green-haired boy. He found the glasses-wearer's rigid, public call-out to be deeply distasteful. But he remained perfectly still. It was not his business.
Present Mic quickly clarified the Zero-Pointer, and the orientation ended. The massive crowd began to file out, funneling toward the different bus bays for their assigned testing centers.
Rayan found himself standing before the towering gate of Battle Center B. The air here was different. The excited buzz of the auditorium was gone, replaced by a thick, heavy silence of anticipation. Around him, the other examinees were stretching, bouncing, taking deep, fortifying breaths. They were preparing for battle.
Rayan was doing the opposite. He was forcing his body into absolute stillness.
Don't use too much. Stay in control. The goal is to disable, not to destroy. He repeated the mantra in his head. They are machines. Just machines.
He looked down at his gloved hands. Beneath the black fabric, he knew his skin was unnaturally pale, the faint blue of his veins visible beneath.
"AND... START!" Present Mic's voice boomed from unseen speakers.
For a split second, nobody moved. They were all waiting for a countdown that never came.
"WHAT'S WRONG?! THERE'S NO COUNTDOWN IN A REAL FIGHT! RUN! RUN! RUN!"
The gates slammed open, and the crowd surged forward in a chaotic stampede.
Rayan remained behind for a breath. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the soft hazel was gone, replaced by a flat, pale, icy blue.
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his gloves off, stuffing them into his pocket. He revealed his hands. They were pale, almost translucent. A very faint, almost invisible vapor began to rise from his palms into the cool air.
He took one deep breath, and exhaled a thick, white plume of fog.
Then, he began to run, not a sprint, but a steady, silent jog into the artificial city, toward the distant sounds of clanging metal and explosions. He wasn't running with excitement. He was running with the cold, heavy resolve of an iceberg. It was time to face the cold.