Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's all in your head.

If you keep doing this, you might just end up like me...

Suicidal, Alone, Unhappy, Unwanted...

I would say that's good but-

"CAN'T YOU JUST LET ME BE?!" Chuuya screamed, his voice echoing around the whole graveyard, "It's just taboo for you to see that I'm alone and unbothered, huh?!"

This wasn't normal.

Normally, the Chuuya Dazai knew would have bickered with him until they both collapsed from sheer exhaustion. But this time, Dazai could practically see the last thread of Chuuya's patience fraying before his eyes. Was it something he'd said earlier, or perhaps...

Oh, how could Dazai possibly forget?

Chuuya was still sulking over the death of The Flags. Poor thing. Honestly, when will his loyal mutt learn not to grow attached to people? At this rate, some random kid waving at him from across the street might keel over, and Chuuya would spend the next week moping about it like it was the end of the world. Truly, a tragic flaw.

Dazai crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed with the melodrama unfolding him. They were at the last tombstone of the day—Albatross's—yet instead of feeling satisfied that the mourning spree was finally coming to an end, Dazai found himself wondering if the slug was being overly theatrical.

Honestly, it was bizarre to see Nakahara crouched at a grave, head bowed, completely silent, not crying, not fidgeting—he wasn't even blinking! But of course, if you possessed a fraction of Dazai brilliance, you'd know the teenager was drowning in a sea of sorrow, even if he looked more like a malfunctioning statue

Dazai was aware of it, but that didn't mean he got it. To him, humans were like porcelain dolls—give them a little poke, and they'd shatter faster than cheap glassware. Honestly, what was the point of collecting fragile things if they were just going to keep diminishing?

...

And of course, it started raining. Because why not?

Dazai harbors numerous reasons for his disdain toward the rain, one of which is its detrimental effect on his beauty and charisma. Fortunately, he anticipated this and promptly produced his umbrella, moving closer to the slug to ensure it shielded him as well from their persistentary.

As much as he hated the slug, sick slug sounded even more unbearable.

He gagged at the thought of it.

"Chuuya..." he whined; his face scrunched in exaggerated dismay. "Let's get moving, you've had your emotional highlight reel for the day, and I've got an appointment to ruin Ango's peace of mind. If I miss it, my whole schedule falls apart!"

"You can leave."

Wow. What a response. So dry it could rival a desert. Where was the flavor? The drama?

"If I do leave, who's going to hold the umbrella for you, huh? It's not like your dearly departed pals are going to rise from the grave and-"

"Dazai." His voice cracked, hoarse and trembling, as if he were teetering on the edge of a tearful meltdown. Oh,. Another emotional crisis to deal with. So much for a simple day of mischief. How utterly exhausting.

"Well, they can't, can they?" Dazai replied, rather oblivious.

"Leave."

"You're getting worked up over six people barely knew last year—talk about overreacting! And, since when clones get the green light to have feelings anyway?"Chuuya's head snapped back at that.

"Take that back." He growled, "Right. Fucking. Now."

Dazai doesn't know why he said that. He knows full well that Chuuya is human, but there was no backing out of it now.

"Whatever," Dazai sighed in resignation. "Clones have an uncanny tendency to the most peculiar behaviors, and, predictably, they are never the appropriate ones. I hardly expect mere lines of code to comprehend the kind of information that even eludes human understanding."

Okay, he agrees. That went too far.

The redhead's shoulders drooped at the last sentence.

Without a word, he got up and started retreating to the road, paying the rain no mind.

"Chuuya, I-"

The roar of the engine overwhelmed his words as he watched the teenager vanish into the distance in silence. Not the Port Mafia Headquarters, no... Dazai understood it was a purposeless escape.

Well, it didn't matter because Dazai was certainly sure he'd break into the slug's apartment and apologize sooner or later.

But for now, there goes his ride home.

It was inconsequential; an escape from yet another session on that machine, which emanated an aura of 'Death' that deeply unsettled Dazai. Call it irrational, but that contraption was genuinely terrifying.

.

.

...

Chuuya was the reason for all this.

Verlaine believed it, N did, but those were just people he wanted to be the last kills of his lifetime.

It didn't break his heart that Dazai believed it too.

He believed that Chuuya wasn't human.

Chuuya himself also believed that Chuuya wasn't human.

It confirmed it for Chuuya, there is nothing to live for.

The fact that he couldn't get angry at him made his grip on the steers tighter. His heart was racing more than when Albatross said his last words to him. His breathing was getting shallow. His throat etched, and he really, really wanted to pull on his hair.

It was foolish for him to believe that Dazai would be different. There are a lot of things that could be pinned on that guy as bad. No, evil. From the first day.

He was weird, creepy and condescending as fuck.

It unsettled Chuuya that every time Dazai made contact with him, his face would flush with warmth. Those rare moments when Dazai genuinely cared—when he tended to Chuuya after the toll of corruption, when he consistently watched over him—caused Chuuya's heart to race uncontrollably.

The words he never could have imagined would have come out of Dazai's mouth. it did. He said it. He shouldn't be surprised. He was just spitting facts.

He saw the transparency in his voice. The way he didn't chase after him.

Chuuya understands he was not being melodramatic. It merely stings to realize that even he cannot affirm his humanity. He should not be experiencing emotions. He should not be shedding tears. He should not be heartbroken. not feel betrayed. He should not be screaming aimlessly with his eyes closed...

Now, one might ask, what was wrong with that statement?

It's the fact that his eyes are closed and he's on a fucking bike speeding the fastest he has ever right now.

His eyes snapped open in alarm, and in that split second, he calculated that his chances of stopping before hitting the massive truck ahead were about as good as winning the lottery without buying a ticket. Still, he slammed on the brakes anyway, because why not go out with a dramatic flourish?

Nothing could stop the of curses spilling from mouth he hurtled toward the machinery at breakneck speed. With no time to spare, he squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the inevitable, accepting his fate like the totally mature young adult he fancied himself to be.

So, this was how it going to end, huh? Honestly, kinda embarrassing if you think about it.

Then he heard it—a deafening scream, like some of supernatural ability. Weird. He waited for the crash, for the pain, but... nothing. Also weird. His eyes opened, only to discover longer on his bike. Instead, he was milliseconds away from introducing his face to the pavement in what promised to be a spectacularly grace fashion.

No need to panic—he lands on his hands like pro gymnast and steadies himself. But wait... this definitely isn't Yokohama anymore

Oh no, he somehow ended up in the future...

What in the world were those things?! Giant holograms be off skyscrapers?! Right, maybe he did actually die...

Apparently, the writer of this chaos wasn't done wreaking havoc yet, because Chuuya suddenly found himself staring at a massive... thing? Beast? Whatever it was, it was hideous beyond belief and was currently flying at him at an alarming speed, courtesy of an actual giant of a woman. And no, he absolutely wasn't exaggerating—not even a little.

You'd think Chuuya would've dodged—well, normally he would have—but his feet and hands weren't cooperating, probably thanks to the sheer shock of the situation.

The object barreled into him with brutal force, sending him crashing through the building behind him. Pain exploded in his torso like a firework display of misery.

And just when he thought the universe was done bullying him, a loose brick from the very same building decided to test gravity, plummeting down and landing squarely on his head. The poor brick didn't stand a chance—it split clean in two upon impact.

Guess you could say Chuuya was... hardheaded! Haha...!

Alright, alright, I'll stop.

He saw stars... actual stars... or so he thought. Nope, turns out it was just his head again, currently leaking a rather worrying amount of blood. Well, that was definitely a problem for future Chuuya to solve, assuming there was a future Chuuya to begin with.

The last thing he managed to glimpse was the blurry outline of two men. Who they were? No idea—his vision was doing its best impression a foggy window. They moved, and just like that, Chuuya's world went lights out.

.

.

...

"Flicking off villains without warning is absolutely unacceptable!" Present Mic exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "You injured a listener! And even worse, it was a kid!"

"It wasn't deliberate," Mountain Lady admitted, looking sheepish. "But that doesn't excuse my actions, I know..."

"Exactly! -"

"Hizashi," came a groggy voice, dripping with irritation. "Stop yelling. You're making my headache worse."

"Agreed," Midnight chimed in, rubbing her temples. "You're going to wake up the patients who are trying to sleep."

"This is the coma ward," he hissed, lowering his voice but still managing to sound indignant. "Don't you really want these people waking up now?"

The room fell silent as everyone collectively rolled their eyes at him.

The mission did not proceed as seamlessly as Hizashi had anticipated. In fact, Takeyama decided to take matters into her own hands, picking up a High-end Nomu and flicking it away, much like she handled all her problems. This resulted in the unfortunate situation of being in front of a hospital room, awaiting news about the poor individual who had been attacked by a thrown monster weighing as much as a large helicopter.

Not gonna lie, when he saw the listener, he genuinely thought the guy had kicked the bucket.

A doctor burst out of the room they were standing near, interrupting his spiraling thoughts, and made a beeline for them.

"This kid... has he some kind of healing quirk?" the doctor blurted out. "his injuries sealed up the moment we patched them! And his... neck... oh, it... Just come in here."

The Pro heroes all exchanged looks of suspicion. A healing quirk...? if so, then he would have healed whiles receiving first-aid. Peculiar...

They entered the room, and their eyes darted to two things only...

The serial number on the child's neck!

And the scars littered all over the child's chest.

"Tell me that was from the crash...!" Midnight shrieked.

"Unfortunately," He began, "No. These are all old, they seem to be more than a few years old. The only one that seems most recent is that scar on his gut... it's old alright, but I'm not sure it's more than two years."

A pained expression lay on the kid's face. His fingers twitched and he inhale a huge intake of air before gasping it all out and jolting awake.

"SHIT...!!!" He yelled.

His expression softened slightly as he took in his surroundings. But then, like a storm cloud rolling in, his eyes turned sharp and dangerous, locking onto the adults with a glare that could cut steel—most of it directed at the Doctor.

If Aizawa claimed he wasn't startled, it was only because he hadn't had his morning coffee yet. Seriously, no caffeine, no reactions—it was practically out of nature. But even in his groggy state he couldn't ignore the sheer intensity that glare. Calculating, intimidating, and far too menacing for someone who probably still needed parental consent for field trips. Aizawa had never seen such a look from anyone before—let alone a teenager.

This kid was not normal. Children were supposed to have wide-eyed curiosity, not eyes that screamed "I see through your soul" paired with an expression that belonged on a villain's wanted poster.

The teen was soon wrapped in a blazing red aura, the cupboards around the room flipped open with dramatic flair as dangerously sharp objects zoomed through the air like missiles. They stopped abruptly, hovering inches away from their targets, their menace practically screaming at everyone in the room. Turns out, his quirk wasn't healing after all.

It was Gravity Manipulation.

"H-Hey, little listener..." Present Mic stammered, his usual booming confidence replaced by a cautious tremor. "How are you feeling...?"

"Who. Are. You." the teen growled, completely ignoring the question. "Where am I?! What did you do to me?! Start talking, or I'll turn this room into confetti in five seconds."

Ah, first impressions—the stuff of legends. Surely, he was winning hearts left and right.

His control over his quirk was nothing short of terrifying. He didn't even break a sweat, despite having just woken up from a coma. No dramatic hand gestures, no commands shouted into the air. He simply...

Thought.

"Alright, let's get this straight," Midnight began, her voice dripping with authority. "We're Pro Heroes. I'm Midnight, that's Present Mic, this brooding figure is Eraserhead, she's Mountain Lady, and this guy over here is-"

"A doctor..." the boy interrupted, his voice laced with venom, as if the mere word left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Uh, yeah," Midnight replied, blinking. "You're in a hospital. You got pretty banged up. So... are we cool now? All beef settled?"

"Am I free to go after this?" he asked hesitantly, as though the question itself was somehow taboo.

"Absolutely!" Midnight chirped, flashing a smile. "Just need your guardian's number, and you're all set!"

The boy paused, puffing himself up like he was about to deliver some grand speech. "I... don't have a guardian. I'm from Yokohama... Not from... whatever the hell this place is."

Cue the awkward exchange of looks among the heroes.

"Uh, yeah, about that..." Mountain Lady muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yokohama kinda... stopped existing, like, ten years ago, kid."

And there it was—trouble, served piping hot.

"Don't mess with me!" he shouted, his voice booming as objects in the room started drifting ominously closer, defying gravity itself. "Tell me where I am before I flip this whole place upside down!"

"We're not joking, kid," Eraser finally broke the silence, "We'd take you there, but that place doesn't exist on any world map anymore..."

Shock flickered in those piercing blue eyes before he blurted out, "What year is it?"

Seriously? He didn't even know what year it was?! What next—was this kid going to claim he popped out of some alternate dimension?

"It's... 2125," Midnight answered hesitantly. "You didn't know—?"

"I told you to stop messing with me!" he snapped again.

Great, this guy's temper was going to be the end of them all.

"Where's my phone?!" he demanded.

"Uh, it didn't survive the crash..." Hizashi mumbled awkwardly. "But hey, don't sweat it, little listener We got you a shiny new one to make up for it!"

With a, Hizashi whipped a brand-new phone out of his pocket and waved it around like it was the grand prize on a game show.

Before anyone could blink, the phone was engulfed in a glowing red aura yanked from Hizashi's hand and landed neatly in the boy's grasp.

He inspected the device like it was a set up bomb or something, he seemed bewildered by the sight.

"What the fuck is this?! This isn't a phone...!" He growled, "You just cut out a small rectangle from a television!"

What truly terrified the heroes was the pure, unadulterated panic etched his face when it powered on. He nearly flung the cursed thing across the room, and Nemuri swore she crossed herself in a dramatic show of relief when it miraculously didn't slip from his grasp. That phone cost a fortune!

"What the—"

Nemuri decided it was finally time to address the very large, metaphorical pachyderm in the room.

"So... what kind of phones did you use back then, kid?"

Or not... Nemuri just didn't want to take any risks, who knows? One question about those numbers and her neck sure would have detached from her neck just there and then, considering the outstanding control the boy had over his quirk!

Hey... he could be a UA student! He's far more advanced than any of the students in the Hero Course! Of course, excluding the big three.

He gave her a grimace, so it deserved its own awards ceremony before muttering, "The ones that folded... I've never seen anything like this before. Maybe I really am dead."

They exchanged looks again, each glance heavy with confusion, disbelief, and just a sprinkle of "what is even happening right now."

Despite technological time travel, he wasted no dialing a number. (For someone who just discovered futuristic alien device, he figured it out suspiciously fast...) But all he got was the robotic rejection: "The number you've dialed does not exist, please try again later."

He cursed loudly, his composure crumbling like a cookie under pressure. Whoever he had called must have been seriously significant to him.

"I'm out here," he announced with the confidence of someone who decided to fight a bear, "I'll survive on my own."

"Sorry, little listener!" Hizashi chirped in with an obnoxious manner, "it's crime to be aware that a kid is roaming on the street without permanent supervision and not doing anything about it!"

"And what in the absolute three of idiocy we just had, did I ever request for guardians?!" he barked, his irritation practically slapping everyone the head "You can't stop me. One false move, and you'd be dead before you even realize it."

I've seen fair share of disasters, but this This was like VIP tickets to Pandemonium Live. The wasn't bluffing either—his entire aura screamed "Mess around and out... with scalpels." Hizashi, bless his disposition, could almost see imaginary scalpels hovering ominously inches from forehead. The kid's tone wasn't just a warning—it a full-blown neon sign: Try me, and you be a very regrettable individual."

Still, despite the threat level, Hizashi couldn't help but feel bad for the kid. He probably didn't know any better... Maybe he'd been fending for himself all this while. And honestly, the thought of him wandering aimlessly around Mustuafu was enough to send chills down Hizashi's spine.

What would really keep him up at night, though, was the idea of the kid falling under the sway the LoV. With a quirk that strong, the potential for villainy was off the charts. Hizashi thought about the kid himself. Sure, had a shell harder than titanium, but underneath it? Surely there was a chance for redemption! He needed right kind of people around him... and, well, Hizashi had been toying with the idea of adopting a kid recently, so...

No time for daydreaming; priorities first. Step one: figure out how to knock the kid out without harming him—or, critically, himself.

Without a word, he signaled Aizawa—who looked as perpetually exhausted as ever—to nullify the kid's quirk so the plan could commence.

Aizawa let out a sigh that could have powered a wind turbine, clearly dreaming of a nap, and activated his quirk His perpetually parched eyes widened as the erasure took effect. The red glow vanished, and the floating objects promptly obeyed gravity, clattering to the ground with apophony 'clinks' before the kid could even blink.

Hizashi didn't waste a second. Cranking his voice to maximum—no room for half measures here—he unleashed a banshee-like yell at the boy.

The poor kid's reaction was almost comical clutching and yanking at his hair in agony and disbelief. He held on longer than anyone else ever had, but eventually, with all the drama of a poorly written soap opera he passed out. That excruciatingly long 'eventually' was the most Hizashi had ever to scream to incapacitate someone.

This kid was definitely built different.

Both Aizawa and Hizashi exchanged worried glances, silently questioning what Takeyama had just gotten them into.

Chapter Text

Chuuya was having the worst day of his life —which was saying something, considering he’d lived through explosions, betrayals, gunshots, deaths, and even Dazai’s nonsense.  

First, he’d almost wiped himself out on his own damn bike. Embarrassing. Then, somehow, he’d landed in some futuristic nightmare full of people wearing ridiculous costumes and walking around with tails and animal heads like it was completely normal.  

Did he make a comment? No, because that would make him the asshole here, and Chuuya was many things , but prejudiced wasn’t one of them. (Still, he’d be lying if he said the sight wasn’t making him reconsider his life choices.)  

And then—because fate apparently had a personal vendetta against him—a giant woman decided he wasn’t disoriented enough and threw some hideous creature at him. While he was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on.  

What was worse? He didn’t even dodge —was this world messing with his instincts now? That was ridiculous . Chuuya would never fail to dodge an attack, crane-induced head trauma or not.  

Just when he thought he’d hit rock bottom , a brick—an actual, sadistic little brick —landed on his head .  

So now, here he was— restrained to a hospital bed , processing the last brutal few hours of his life while futuristic weirdos interrogated him for personal details. Which, obviously, he was gonna be lying about because who in their right mind would just hand that out?  

And as if the universe hadn’t dragged him far enough , they hit him with the worst news yet —Yokohama? Didn’t exist here. Instead, they handed him a weird piece of tech , called it a phone, and expected him to roll with it. Liars..  

Naturally, he tried calling Kouyou first. She didn’t pick up.  

Most people would think he’d go straight for Dazai next—but that guy was dead to him .  

Honestly? None of this was his problem anymore.  

He sighed , dragging a hand through his aching head , tuning out his frustration for just one goddamn second.  

And then—  

"Uhm... Kid...?"  

Right. The interrogation. After tying him up. How polite.  

Chuuya tilted his head ever so slightly, voice dropping to a deadly growl .  

"What. Do. You. Want."  

"We need to ask you a few questions," some wannabe authority figure said, voice overly polite—like he wasn’t addressing a restrained person. "Of course, if that’s alright with you."  

Chuuya rolled his eyes . Like he had a choice.  

"Go for it," he deadpanned.  

"What’s your name?"  

He didn’t even hesitate. "Christopher Columbus."  

The man blinked. "I-Is that... actually your name, or...?"  

Chuuya gave him a flat look , expression twisting with disdain, "What do you think, dumbass?"  

"Kid, we need you to take this seriously," the officer tried, voice straining with forced patience . "We've sent your picture to nearly every country on Earth, and none of them recognize you as a citizen."  

Chuuya snorted , tilting his head just slightly in mock interest .  

"And you think I give a damn about that?" His voice dripped with irritation , every word punched out like he was fighting off a headache. "If it weren’t for that hobo with the nullification ability eyeballing me like I’d pull something, I would’ve been outta here already. And maybe—maybe—if I was feeling generous, you’d all live to see another day."  

He leaned back , crossing his arms with all the nonchalance of someone who absolutely did not care about this so-called predicament.  

"Just let me go, and I promise not to cause any trouble." He shot a pointed glare toward the man in question. "The only reason I’m not struggling is because I don’t want that guy with the megaphone jammed into his larynx screaming in my face again. My poor eardrums..."  

"Let’s try this again," the officer sighed, clearly running out of patience . "What’s your name, kid?"  

Chuuya didn’t even blink before answering. "Nazomi Foyozo."  

The officer's expression barely changed . "My quirk says you’re lying."  

Chuuya paused for half a second before snorting , tilting his head like this was the most entertaining thing he’d heard all day, "Wow," he drawled, mockery dripping from every syllable. "So now I’ve got a walking lie detector interrogating me? That’s new. You guys are dead set on figuring me out, huh?"  

"Nakahara Chuuya," he finally replied, voice edged with finality . "Take it or leave it."  

The officer exhaled, relief evident in his forced politeness . "Thanks for your cooperation. Now, how old are you?"  

"Fourteen." He was sixteen —but there was no way in hell he was handing over the truth.  

The officer’s eyebrow arched , expression dripping with sarcasm .  

Right. Lie-detecting quirk.  

Chuuya exhaled through his nose , suppressing his annoyance . There had to be a loophole somewhere. Maybe—just maybe—if he thought about being fourteen while answering, that would count as the truth.  

It was worth a shot.  

"I am fourteen," he vocalized, voice flat , eyes bored . "Believe it or not?"  

That seemed to seal the deal for the officer, who immediately scribbled the answer down in his notebook, looking oddly satisfied with himself.  

Chuuya exhaled through his nose , resisting the urge to roll his eyes .  

"Moron..." he thought. Seriously? What was the point of a lie-detecting quirk if it could be outmaneuvered this easily?  

"Who were your previous guardians?"  

Chuuya kept his expression carefully neutral .  

"Never met 'em," he muttered truthfully, voice low, dismissive . "Been on the streets since I could remember."  

It wasn’t a lie , and more importantly—it was useful . That little detail alone could shut down any further digging into his records , giving these idiots a neatly wrapped excuse for why no country recognized him .  

So let them take the bait.  

The officer’s expression softened , pen pausing mid-motion .  

"...Sorry to hear that..." he murmured, tone laced with pity . "That explains a lot. Thank you. That must’ve been hard for you."  

Chuuya stiffened .  

Out of all the infuriating things in the world—aside from that suicidal maniac—pity ranked near the top of his list.  

What gave this guy the right to assume his life had been some tragic sob story? Like he knew anything about him, about how he lived, about how he survived .  

But snapping now would only make things worse.  

So Chuuya swallowed the urge to scoff , expression remaining neutral —controlled.  

"What’s your birthdate?" the officer continued, carefully. "If you remember..."  

Chuuya’s jaw tightened , his words gritted through clenched teeth. "April 29th."  

The officer didn’t react much , just scribbled something down before continuing. "Where were you before you arrived here?"  

Chuuya exhaled slowly , like he was thinking —when he was just deciding how much nonsense he could get away with.  

"Somewhere that’s none of your damn business."  

The officer’s lips pressed together , clearly holding back frustration .  

"Right." A pause, then another scribble in his notebook. "Do you have any known medical conditions or injuries we should be aware of?"  

Chuuya leaned back , expression bored . "Unless you count having a brick thrown at my head, I’m in perfect condition."  

The officer didn’t look amused .  

"Kid, this is serious."  

"So is my concussion."  

The man sighed sharply , clearly on his last nerve , but pressed on, "Do you have any living relatives?"  

"No." Chuuya answered without hesitation— flat, final . He wasn’t technically lying.  

The officer scribbled something down , eyes flicking back up.  

"Where were you before you arrived here?"  

Chuuya exhaled slowly, like he was considering how much nonsense he could get away with.  

"Yokohama." He kept his expression neutral .  

The officer paused , brows furrowing slightly, "The pro heroes said Yokohama doesn’t exist."  

Chuuya’s fingers twitched . Right. That was a problem.  

His voice came out smooth , unimpressed. "Then maybe your geography’s messed up."  

A long silence. The officer moved on, "Do you have any identification?"  

Chuuya smirked , tilting his head ever so slightly, "What do you think?”  

"I'll take that as a no..." The officer sighed, closing his notebook with a finality that made Chuuya exhale in relief . "The interrogation is finished. I hope you get the rest and treatment you deserve, Nakahara-kun."  

"Good riddance." Chuuya grumbled , shifting slightly against the restraints.  

Just before leaving, the officer exchanged a few quiet words with the rockstar wannabe , whose face lit up —not just in amusement, but something more.  

Excitement? Satisfaction? Hell, if Chuuya knew—he was terrible at reading emotions, especially the kinds that set off alarm bells .  

Then the rockstar ran straight to the hobo , saying something in fervent whispers . The hobo’s reaction? Deadpan. Flat. Like he’d just been handed a mess he didn’t want to deal with.  

And then— they both looked at him through the window.  

Chuuya’s brows furrowed , a strange unease curling at the edges of his already foul mood .  

That was... concerning.  

Both men entered the room, their expressions starkly opposite —one buzzing with energy, the other exhausted just from existing .  

"Little listener!" the rockstar beamed , practically vibrating with excitement.  

Chuuya thinks his name is Present Mic...? Whatever. Not like he cared either way.  

"There’s great news!!!"  

"What." Chuuya growled , voice flat , expression unreadable —but anyone with half a brain could tell he was two seconds away from losing it.  

"We’re adopting you for the meantime!" Rockstar Wannabe beamed , the sheer enthusiasm in his voice almost offensive . "During that time, we’ll see if we can get you into U.A.—"  

"Cut the crap!" Chuuya bellowed , his disbelief spiking straight to outrage. "I’m not going home with ANY of you! Let me go, and I’ll be outta your lives like I was never here—"  

"Look," the hobo finally spoke , tone drenched in exhaustion . "I’m not happy either, but then you had to spawn out of nowhere and dump more work on my plate." His gaze narrowed , annoyance bleeding through . "The idea of having a kid as loud as you in my residence does NOT sound appealing AT ALL—but yet, here we are."  

Chuuya scowled , fuming , arms crossed , jaw clenched —but…  

Okay.  

Wait.  

Fine. Fine.  

If he actually looked at the situation instead of blindly resisting, there were a few advantages here. Free accommodation while he figured out how to get back to Yokohama? No need to pay for anything? They’d take care of the annoying logistics while he focused on getting out of here?  

If they asked questions, a little lying never hurt anybody , did it?  

"Fine. Whatever. I have conditions though," he finally relented, voice flat , but firm. "Only if you’ll allow me to."  

"Don’t worry about anything! We’ll follow through with any condition you list!!!" Rockstar Wannabe boomed , his energy offensive as ever.  

"Good." Chuuya’s eyes narrowed slightly in approval before laying down the rules.  

"Number one: No unnecessary physical touch, interrogating, or staring —got it?" His tone hardened , making it crystal clear this wasn’t negotiable.  

"Number two: No cameras. I don’t like to be watched or listened to ."  

A pause—his arms crossed tighter , gaze cold .  

"Number three: You’re my guardians —NOT my parents."  

The final statement hit , his voice sharper, dead serious .  

No misunderstandings. No weird emotional attachments. No one trying to replace anything or anyone in his life.  

He wasn’t playing around .  

"Also...why the heck do you have to scream in every sentence you say?!" Chuuya grumbled , already regretting asking.  

Hizashi beamed , unfazed.  

"BECAUSE THAT’S JUST HOW I ROLL, LITTLE LISTENER!!!"  

His grin widened, proud , like volume itself was part of his personality.  

"Besides—" he jabbed a thumb toward Aizawa , eyes glinting with amusement —"Someone has to balance out Mr. Sunshine over here!"  

Aizawa sighed deeply , clearly used to this nonsense but unwilling to participate in it .  

Chuuya blinked slowly , watching the dynamic unfold.  

Yeah. These guys were ridiculous.  

A-anything else...?!" The rockstar—ugh, what were these weirdos' names?  

He couldn’t keep calling them hobo and wannabe rockstar forever.  

Fine. Whatever.  

"What are your names?" Chuuya finally asked, not because he cared— he didn’t —but because calling them dumb nicknames forever sounded exhausting.  

An icebreaker, except he wasn’t trying to make friends.  

"I'M HIZASHI YAMADA!!!"  

Chuuya barely held back a wince . Of course, he shouted—why was he even surprised at this point?  

"Shouta Aizawa," the other grumbled , like even saying his name was too much effort.  

Aizawa immediately followed up, voice dull, tired , like he already regretted asking. "What’s yours?"  

"Nakahara Chuuya," he muttered back.  

Another question," Chuuya exhaled , choosing to ignore the absurd yelling from earlier. "Why the hell are you dressed like that? You headed to a costume party or something?"  

He expected Aizawa to answer— pragmatic, deadpan, to the point —but of course, it was the other one.  

"WE'RE HEROES!!!" Present Mic declared , arms outstretched like he was making a grand announcement . "We strive to protect Japan at all costs! Our LIVES depend on it!"  

Chuuya blinked slowly .  

That sounded way too dramatic for something that was supposedly a job.  

"And," Mic continued, grinning , "we're teachers at U.A. High School—the country’s finest hero academy! And if all goes well after we talk with the principal… You’ll be enrolled there!"  

Chuuya stared . Processing.  

Then—  

"You’ve got to be joking."  

Present Mic grinned wider , completely unfazed . "No joke, little listener! U.A. High is where future heroes are made! A prime opportunity to build a new life!"  

Chuuya’s eye twitched .  

"I don’t need a new life—my old one was perfectly fine before I got dragged into this futuristic circus!"  

Aizawa sighed , rubbing his temple like this conversation was physically draining him .  

"Listen, kid." His tone was flat , no-nonsense . "I don’t care how you feel about it right now. The fact is, you're here, and unless you’ve got some miracle way of returning to this nonexistent 'Yokohama'—which, might I remind you, you don’t—you need a plan."  

Chuuya’s jaw locked , irritation still swirling , but—he hated to admit it— Aizawa had a point .  

Mic nudged his colleague , grinning.  

"Don’t worry, we’re not making you join immediately! We’ll talk with Principal Nezu first, work out the details! Who knows—you might LOVE being in UA!"  

Chuuya scoffed , crossing his arms.  

"Yeah, sure. And maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up with wings and fly outta here."  

Aizawa ignored the sarcasm, already heading toward the door, "We’ll let you rest for now. Try not to throw a tantrum before we get back."  

Mic winked , shooting Chuuya a thumbs-up, "Sleep well, little listener! Big things are ahead!"  

The door clicked shut , leaving Chuuya alone with his thoughts —and a newfound headache.  

It didn’t help that a certain god was continuously degrading him mentally.  

...  

.  

...  

A redhead , a mafioso , with heterochromia —one blue , one brown . Freckles, trauma, and a fiery attitude — restrained in the backseat of a car, heading to only God knows where .  

Chuuya exhaled slowly , patience running on fumes .  

"I’m asking for the third time—" his voice dropped , irritation leaking through his tone — "Where the hell are you taking me?"  

"SHOPPING!!!"  

Hizashi’s voice practically exploded through the car, far too enthusiastic for the situation at hand.  

Chuuya blinked once .  

Hah. These guys really were stupid. Time to give them a raincheck.  

"And what if I decide to run away?" Chuuya tilted his head , unimpressed. "What then, when you realize a very powerful fourteen-year-old is running around unsupervised ?"  

Aizawa barely even reacted , eyes half-lidded in pure exhaustion.  

" You’d only run away if you were stupid, kid," he said, tone dry, flat . "And so far, you’ve proven otherwise."  

Chuuya huffed sharply , irritation spiking .  

" If I’m so trustworthy, then why am I tied up?"  

The car came to a stop .  

Aizawa barely glanced back, voice unchanged .  

" Promise you won’t try anything first. Then we’ll gladly take it off."  

Chuuya’s eye twitched , but after a long, exasperated sigh , he muttered—  

" Fine. I won’t try anything. Now can you release me? I’m getting beyond uncomfortable back here."  

 Two days before the interrogation, Chuuya had already braced himself for whatever mess awaited him.  

But today— instead of dumping him at their so-called home —the wannabe rockstar and his eternally exhausted companion decided it’d be a great idea to take him shopping . Apparently, he needed supplies to live, or whatever.  

More importantly, they didn’t have any of it , which meant he had to pick.  

Which led to this.  

Chuuya stood there , arms crossed, expression impassive , staring down an oversized black hoodie like it had personally wronged him.  

It was ridiculous —three times his size, completely unnecessary , yet…  

Damn it.  

He wanted it.  

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.  

Chuuya tensed slightly, barely suppressing the urge to glare at the sudden voice that broke his concentration .  

He turned his head just enough to see the culprit—a blue-haired girl, bright-eyed, practically radiating energy , staring directly at him with way too much enthusiasm for a casual conversation.  

"Oh! Did you want that?!" she asked, gaze bouncing between him and the hoodie .  

Chuuya blinked once , then scoffed , crossing his arms.  

"No." His voice was flat, immediate, maybe a little too quick .  

The girl hummed, tilting her head.  

"Really? You’ve been standing here for a while!"  

Chuuya’s brows twitched , irritation spiking .  

What was with this girl ?  

"So? I’m thinking." He muttered, defensive .  

"About what?"  

He exhaled sharply , already regretting engaging in conversation.  

"None of your damn business."  

She didn’t seem fazed by his tone—if anything, her curiosity doubled .  

"Aww, don’t be shy! Oversized hoodies are comfy!" she beamed, hands clasped together like she just discovered the greatest fact in the universe .  

Chuuya stared , trying to figure out what the hell he did to deserve this interaction.  

"And how exactly is that relevant to me?" His voice was sharp, dry , like he was hoping she’d take the hint and move on.  

She did not move on.  

"I’m Nejire, and because!" Nejire spun slightly , eyes bright, expression eager —like she was on a personal mission to convince him. "Big hoodies are cozy! You can curl up in them, hide your hands, pull the hood over when you wanna look mysterious!"  

Chuuya blinked , barely holding back a disbelieving look .  

What the hell was this energy?  

"I’m not buying an oversized hoodie just to play dress-up," he muttered, turning back to the clothing rack, feigning disinterest  

"Orrr—" she leaned in slightly , voice playful , "you do want it, but you’re too proud to admit it!"  

Chuuya froze .  

A half-second of silence .  

Then—  

“You talk too much.”  

Nejire giggled , completely unaffected , before nudging the hoodie slightly toward him.  

"So? You getting it or not?"  

Chuuya exhaled slowly , mentally debating how much pride was worth compared to comfort .  

Damn it. Damn it.  

He was getting the hoodie  

Chuuya gritted his teeth , grabbing the hoodie with zero hesitation but an expression that screamed I-don’t-care-I’m-just-doing-this-to-get-her-to-shut-up.  

Nejire beamed , practically bouncing at the sight of his decision.  

"See?! Told you oversized hoodies were awesome!"  

Chuuya huffed , shoving the hoodie under his arm like it was some random piece of trash , but inside… well. Damn it. It felt stupidly soft —comfortable, even.  

Not the point. Not the point.  

"Whatever." He muttered, fully expecting her to drop the topic.  

She did not drop the topic.  

"Ooooh, do you need other clothes too?! What’s your style? Dark, mysterious, mafia vibes?" Nejire’s eyes practically sparkled , listing off options faster than his brain could process .  

Chuuya stared , because— what the hell?  

"Stop talking."  

Nejire giggled , completely unaffected , already grabbing another hoodie—this one deep red , heavier fabric.  

"This one matches your hair! You’d look so cool in it!"  

Chuuya exhaled slowly , debating whether escaping now was worth the consequences .  

This girl was too much .  

And the worst part?  

She wasn’t wrong about the hoodie.  

Chuuya pinched the bridge of his nose , resisting the urge to groan audibly .  

This girl was unstoppable .  

"Why are you still here?" he muttered, exasperated , eyeing Nejire like she was some sort of hyperactive puzzle he didn’t have the patience to solve .  

Nejire giggled , completely unbothered by his irritation.  

"Because you’re fun!" she chirped, spinning slightly as she held the red hoodie up to his frame like she was mentally dressing him already .  

Chuuya tilted his head , gaze sharp .  

"I am not fun."  

Nejire ignored him entirely , clearly thrilled by her new mission.  

"Ohhh! Maybe jackets suit you better?! Do you like coats? Trench coats? Leather jackets?" Her hands fluttered between racks , pulling clothes like she had an unlimited supply of energy to burn .  

Chuuya sighed through his nose , quickly realizing that this was a lost battle .  

So instead of fighting it—he turned slightly , making direct eye contact with Hizashi and Aizawa, who were standing off to the side, watching this mess unfold.  

"Are you seriously letting this happen?"  

Aizawa barely reacted, just blinked slowly , while Hizashi grinned , arms crossed like this was the best entertainment he’d seen all day .  

"She’s got a talent for pulling people out of their shells, y’know!"  

Chuuya’s jaw clenched .  

"I don’t have a shell."  

Nejire gasped dramatically, shoving a trench coat in his direction.  

"Ooooh, this one SCREAMS mafia boss—look at the vibe!"  

Chuuya was about two seconds away from walking out of this store entirely.  

Chuuya exhaled sharply , finally grabbing the trench coat from Nejire’s hands—not because he wanted it, but because if she kept shoving clothes at him, he was going to lose his mind.  

"Fine. Whatever." He muttered, pretending not to notice the way she lit up at his response.  

Nejire clasped her hands together , bouncing slightly on her heels , eyes practically shining .  

"See? Told you it’d suit you!"  

Chuuya rolled his eyes , but somehow, this interaction wasn’t as unbearable as before. That was concerning .  

"You’re oddly obsessed with fashion," he grumbled, adjusting the coat on his arm like he wasn’t totally sold on it yet.  

"Well, duh!" Nejire grinned , tilting her head. "Clothes are how you tell people who you are! The right outfit gives off the perfect vibe!"  

Chuuya blinked , staring at her longer than intended .  

That was… weirdly insightful.  

Nejire noticed immediately.  

"Ooooh, did I say something deep ?!" she teased, laughing.  

"No." Chuuya looked away, annoyed —at her, at this conversation, at the fact that she wasn’t completely wrong .  

Nejire giggled , nudging him playfully.  

"Come on, Nakahara-kun, what’s your vibe ?"  

Chuuya glanced at the coat , at the hoodie, at the entire pile of stuff he wasn’t expecting to walk out with today .  

A thought crept in—one he immediately ignored.  

"None of your business."  

Nejire just laughed , and somehow, Chuuya didn’t hate the sound of it.  

Not completely.  

Chuuya sighed , rolling his shoulders as he glanced between the clothes Nejire had practically thrown at him. The hoodie, the trench coat—hell, even the suggestions she made were oddly… fitting.  

Still, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that.  

"I’m not someone who gives off ‘vibes,’" he muttered, voice flat , shifting the trench coat under his arm like it was just fabric.  

Nejire tilted her head , blue eyes curious , but not in an annoying way—more like she was actually trying to figure him out .  

"That can’t be true," she mused, eyes narrowing slightly, thoughtful . "Everyone has a presence—something that makes people see them in a certain way!"  

Chuuya huffed , eyes flicking toward the hoodies again.  

He knew what people thought of him.  

A hothead , a fighter , someone too sharp for his own good , packed into a frame that made people underestimate him right up until the moment they realized their mistake.  

That was his presence .  

That was his reputation .  

But somehow, talking about it —especially in the casual, almost playful way Nejire was asking—felt strange .  

"Whatever," he muttered, shifting his weight slightly. "Not like it matters."  

Nejire smiled , bright , nudging the hoodie toward him once more.  

"Maybe," she mused, voice lighter , "but I think picking clothes is kind of like writing your own story! You decide what people see first—what impression sticks!"  

Chuuya blinked , staring at her just a fraction longer than intended.  

Writing his own story.  

That was… not the worst thought.  

Not that he’d ever say that out loud.  

Instead, he grabbed the hoodie, still annoyed —still unwilling to admit she had a point —and muttered,  

"Fine. But I’m not taking advice from you."  

Nejire laughed , leaning in slightly.  

"You already did, Nakahara-kun~!"  

Chuuya exhaled slowly , knowing— with full certainty —that this girl was going to be insufferable .  

But… he didn’t hate it.  

Not completely.  

Chuuya sighed , shifting the hoodie under his arm as Nejire continued scanning racks with boundless enthusiasm . At some point, he’d reluctantly grabbed a few more essentials—a couple of shirts, gloves, proper boots—whatever would keep him comfortable enough in this absurd situation.  

Still, he kept his selections simple . He wasn’t here to reinvent himself —he was here because he had no choice .  

Nejire had chattered the whole way , tossing out opinions about color palettes, layering, vibe . Chuuya had mostly ignored her, responding in grunts, scoffs, and the occasional sarcastic remark when she got particularly persistent.  

Yet somehow, he hadn’t told her to shut up .  

That part was unexpected .  

As they made their way to checkout, Chuuya caught his own reflection in the store’s glass display. The trench coat still rested under his arm, along with the absurdly oversized hoodie. It didn’t look like him —not entirely.  

It looked like someone adapting . Someone making adjustments in a situation he didn’t control .  

A strange feeling settled in his chest.  

Not quite frustration. Not quite acceptance.  

But something in-between .  

He paid it no mind as they stepped out onto the busy streets, bags in tow, the city buzzing around them.  

"Back home, then?" Aizawa muttered, clearly ready to be done with this trip .  

"Finally," Chuuya exhaled, shifting the weight of the bags slightly in his grip.  

Nejire spun happily , waving at him before skipping off toward her own path.  

"See you around, Nakahara-kun!" she called, bright, effortless, like she’d decided this was a guaranteed fact .  

Chuuya didn’t respond —not verbally.  

But somehow, his grip on the hoodie tightened just slightly.  

Maybe this wasn’t completely terrible.  

Maybe.  

Chapter Text

Wake up.

Wake up, I say!

Do you honestly think you deserve a nap...?

"I'm awake." Chuuya grumbled, "I've been awake, but you just have to repeat yourself, don't you?"

Now Chuuya was upstairs Aizawa and Hizashi's cozy little home, tucked away in the guest room they'd set up for him. It was decent—double bed, walk-in closet, private bathroom, and a desk that screamed “study or else.” Not that he planned to stick around long to bother with any of “hero school” nonsense they were trying to sell him. Sleep? Forget it, Enemy wasn’t the issue—these clowns weren't too dumb to try. No, the real problem was his uninvited head mate who apparently had no concept of “off” button.

You’re a failure.

"Tell me something I don’t know."

You’re a killer.

"And the sky is blue. Next?"

Oh? Does that not bother you?

"W-wait, how- why are you even talking to me...?"

Because I want to, darling.

"...Right." He hoped that would shut it up. The idea of enduring a deep, gravelly voice spouting existential nonsense all night long was rapidly the ranks of his personal nightmare fuel.

But since when has something Chuuya has hoped for come true?
It only gets worse...

The first flash comes when Chuuya’s eyes finally begin to shut—when exhaustion finally tempts him, when sleep almost takes hold.

Weak.

The voice isn’t loud, but it slams into him like an earthquake, rattling him awake, dragging him back into the present.

You falter too easily. You always have.

Chuuya exhales slowly, pressing a palm against his temple.

He has to ignore it. Push past it. Breathe, but Arahabaki isn’t just a presence—it’s a parasite, burrowing into him like it was woven into his very bones, forcing him to remember what it wants him to remember.

And so, the next torment comes unbidden.

"And since when did clones get the green light to have feelings anyway?"

Dazai’s voice. Cutting. Familiar. Final. Like it always has been.

Chuuya stiffens.

"Take that back. Right. Fucking. Now."

His own voice. He's hearing it.

It's finally time, he's finally unhinged.

Not just anger—something deeper, something heavier.

He knew.

Arahabaki’s whisper is sharp, lingering, curling around his thoughts like chains he can’t tear free from.

That is why he never chased after you.

Chuuya opens his eyes fast, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of it press against his ribs.

He hates this. He always has.

Hates that it can reach into his mind, stretch into his past, twist his memories like they were never his to begin with.

You tremble, Chuuya.

Chuuya looks down.

He hadn’t realized it—but he does.

Even now, you hope.

His breath comes fast, sharp, frustrated—no, no, he doesn’t. Chuuya doesn't!

F u ck.. .!

He doesn’t hope...!

He doesn’t believe.

He knows the truth.

And the truth is this: Chuuya Nakahara isn’t human enough for that kind of hope.

You know that and yet…

Arahabaki laughs, quiet and lingering, something that sounds less like amusement and more like a slow, steady unraveling.

You fight me.

The next torment hurts more than the last.

His own curses spilling freely, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs, the bike sliding too fast-Then, the scream. Not his own.

Something bigger, heavier, ancient—something that ripped through space itself.

And then—nothing.

You did not crash.

You were taken.

Chuuya grits his teeth, curling his fingers into the sheets, resisting the urge to throw something across the room.

And yet, they let you leave.

Dazai let you leave.

Arahabaki twists the knife deeper—not mocking, not angry, but confirming what Chuuya already knows; There was no one who would stop him from disappearing.

No one would have.

No one should have.

Not even Dazai Osamu, in all his brilliance, Would.

Chuuya does not sleep that night.

He does not rest, does not settle, does not breathe deep enough for exhaustion to pull him under.

Arahabaki does not let him. Instead, it keeps whispering.

Long after the memories have settled. Long after the weight of absence has carved itself into his chest.

His eyelids remain hesitant to close, weighed down by fear, while his thoughts spiral uncontrollably. Countless events have unfolded, leaving Chuuya struggling to grasp their meaning fully, yet one undeniable truth etched deeply into the curve of his neck.

Even after losing track of the spent time fixated on the ceiling, Chuuya continues to hear the one voice has always been with him, a voice that will never abandon him.

You can pretend,

You can lie to yourself.

But in the end, you will always belong to me.

To be honest, Hizashi was feeling unusually optimistic about today—would you believe it?

You probably would.

Even after waking dear gloomy husbando out of bed, nearly falling victim to the dangers of oxygen and spending minutes searching for his 'iconic' shades only to discover them sitting smugly on the bedside table, he still had a sense something good was coming his way.

That something good revealed itself as he waited for Aizawa outside their room, conveniently located right next to the little listener's. 

The sound of a door clicking open caught his attention and out a short, ginger-haired, sleep-deprived little listener who looked they’d been a heated argument with their mattress—and lost. Hizashi only noticed the exhaustion when the boy to him, face radiating pure "I need caffeine or death."

"Good morning..." the boy croaked, voice like he’d just wrestled a bear in his dreams.

Wait—did he just—was this kid greeting him? Hizashi blinked. Was this the same listener who usually acted like pleasantries were a cardinal sin?

"G-Good morning...! You don’t look like you had much sleep, Nakahara-kun! Should we reschedule the meeting with Nedzu so you can get some more rest?"

A flicker of pure dread flashed through Nakahara’s eyes before he grimaced like someone had just stepped on his tail. "...That was today...?"

"Yep! But don’t worry, we can reschedule—"

"No, just... let me get ready," Nakahara mumbled, heading back into his room and shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Hizashi stood there, one foot in. Was this really the same kid they’d taken shopping? That kid been rude, colorful in language, and permanently annoyed at the world. Could it be? Was Nakahara starting to trust them? Nah, no way.

That would be too easy.

His thoughts were interrupted by an exaggerated groan from the room he’d been loitering in front of. "Yamada, where are my shoes...?"

"On the shoe rack, where they belong, dear!" Hizashi called back cheerfully.

The reply was an unimpressed scoff. "You really should stop moving other people's things around."

"If I left things where you place them, love, this place would look like a war zone!"

Hizashi didn’t need to see Aizawa’s face to imagine the epic eyeroll that followed. Classic.

Still, he did wonder. Maybe, the little listener was like that to strangers... or he was just starting to accept his fate as their new ward. Yep, probably the latter.

"So many options..." muttered Chuuya at one glance of his closet.

He went with a white tank top, black jacket, some boots and some black, leather trousers, not forgetting his choker and gloves.

As he tied his hair into a low ponytail and ran his gloved fingers through his orange bangs, he couldn't help but think, where the hell was his hat?! If that hat wasn't back in Yokohama the time he returned, whoever was responsible for him here wouldn't live to see another second. Man, woman—didn't matter. Justice would be served, mafioso style.

But first, first: he needed a new fake persona.

This world seemed a pastel-colored fever dream with its whole heroes-versus-villains setup. If he kept acting like the mobster he was, everyone would immediately peg him as a villain.

Not that Chuuya couldn't wipe the floor with every so-called hero if push came to shove. He just didn't feel like dealing with the PR nightmare that would follow.

Bad reputations were such a hassle, and honestly, he had no idea how this place even worked. What if he actually did try defeating every hero, and then what? When he finds out it's actually true that there's no Yokohama nor Port Mafia?

Why did they keep calling abilities "quirks"? What kind kindergarten-level nonsense was that?

For now, it was probably safest to play nice.

On top of that, he'd have to seriously dial down his ability if he wanted to avoid ending up some lab experiment again. That would suck, hard.

The people here didn't seem to understand what real abilities were anyway. That girl from earlier—Nejire, was it? —she clearly had some kind of power (although not obvious), but here, abilities were as common as bad haircuts.

Everywhere Chuuya looked, people had weird appearances, wild facial features, and hair colors that screamed "midlife crisis," yet no one batted an eye. No one except him, of course.

Where he came from, abilities were tied to the soul, not the body. Here, these so-called quirks felt like watered-down knockoffs. Babies' first abilities, maybe? Actually, scratch that. Babies with abilities sounded horrifying. 

Anyway, back to the persona thing. It needed to be something easygoing, low-maintenance, and definitely not a pain in the ass to pull off.

Right now, Chuuya had four ideas.

• The Soft-Spoken, Reserved Student – Chuuya keeps a gentle, polite demeanor, choosing his words carefully and maintaining a calm presence.

  • Strengths: People lower their guard, view him as harmless, and allow him to observe and interact freely.

  • Weaknesses: Could be too passive, harder to justify moments where his sharpness slips, and Arahabaki taunting him constantly for suppressing his fire.

• The Witty, Charming Outsider – He plays the cool, observant type, polite but sharp, someone who can make people laugh without revealing too much.

  • Strengths: Builds quick bonds, allows him to gather information, lets him have controlled conversations without seeming suspicious.

  • Weaknesses: Might accidentally draw too much attention, risks people pressing too deep, and could conflict with his need to keep a low profile.

• The Sincere but Guarded Newcomer – He lets just enough vulnerability show, making others want to pull him in, but keeps most details vague or redirected.

  • Strengths: Encourages trust without full exposure, keeps people invested in him, and allows for emotional manipulation when needed.

  • Weaknesses: Requires careful balance—too much openness could backfire, while too much mystery could raise suspicion.

• The Quiet but Playfully Sarcastic Type – Chuuya interacts at a distance, making dry, teasing comments that keep conversations light while keeping most of himself hidden.

  • Strengths: People feel comfortable around him, he maintains just enough charm to socialize, and no one questions why he keeps certain things private.

  • Weaknesses: If he slips too much, he risks revealing too much intelligence, knowledge, or depth, making people curious rather than dismissive.

Those were all good, but they their drawbacks, considering he'd shown more of his tsundere side to Nejire, and the odds that she could be a U.A student was obviously so high that he had another one in mind.

Low-Effort Persona

• Tsundere First, Gentle Second – He keeps up his snarky, tough attitude, making sure people don't think he's too easy to approach while also maintaining just enough charm to interact.

• Politeness When Required – He knows how to hold himself properly, act like a respectful student when adults are watching, and navigate conversations smoothly.

• Denying His Softness – His instinct is to care, but when someone points it out, he immediately shrugs it off or dismisses it as a mere inconvenience.

• Carefully Controlled Outbursts – He can’t afford to be fully unhinged, so he ensures his anger, sarcasm, and sharpness never cross the line into something suspicious.

Yeah... this might just work!

(And no, Chuuya absolutely does not want anyone pointing out that this approach is basically the same as his personality. No, thank you very much.)

Chuuya feels somewhat ready for this meeting with that Nedzu guy. Or at least he’s convincing himself he is.

“Nakahara-kun!!!” Hizashi’s voice boomed from downstairs.

Ah, right. They were waiting for him.

“Yes, yes I’m coming!” he called back, rolling his eyes.

Still, he couldn’t stop the nagging thought: ‘If it were that bandaged lunatic, he’d probably have prepared way better than this.’

Hell, the guy would’ve known heroes were going to nab him before they even thought about doing it!

(And no, that is definitely not Chuuya’s way of admitting he misses the psycho. Nope. Not at all.)

"So, Nakahara-kun did you have any formal education prior to this?" The question came from what could only be described as a rat—or maybe a bear. No, wait, a mouse? Whatever it was, it resembled an oversized rodent not awkwardly on its hind legs, dressed as if it had just stepped out of a corporate meeting in its tailored suit and tie.

Honestly the strangest quirk Chuuya had encountered since arriving here.

Though confused, he answered, "Nope, I've been on the streets for as long as I can remember."

They had stepped into what was supposedly the ''s' office. Chuuya still hadn't seen Aizawa that day, who had left earlier. Hizashi had mentioned he was the homeroom teacher some class—one Chuuya couldn't bother to remember the name of.

Chuuya already pitied that class-whatever it was called.

As for the principal, any expectations Chuuya might have had were instantly irrelevant. It was a rat.

No, Chuuya wasn't exaggerating or being metaphorical. It was an actual bear-mouse-rat-something wearing suit, questioning him with the kind of politeness and professionalism that felt surreal.

Apparently, his answer had stunned the two adults. Or rather, it seemed to evoke a mix of shock and pity.

"I-I am so sorry to hear that," the creature sympathized. "Well, I'm sure you've been informed about why you're here, so why don't we begin?"

"Hit me with it," Chuuya said with a shrug.

"Do you have any knowledge in kanji whatsoever?"

"Yep, I can read and write, but that's about it." He replied, hoping his answer would let his approval to this school stay non-existential.

"Well, that's great news Nakahara! Do you speak any other languages apart from Japanese?"

Should he tell them? Well, if he said no, and someone were to do something outrageous to him right then and there, and a few French words were to slip out, they would find him suspicious...

"I speak French and English as well, please."

Hizashi gasped involuntarily at that, and Chuuya doubted it was because he could speak three languages at once.

Oh, it was probably because of the 'please'.

Heh, it was kinda funny, he should say that word more often, just for the reactions of course.

"What is your quirk?"

"Gravity Manipulation."

"Oh, may I have the pleasure of having you explain it to me?"

"Uhm, my quirk deals with everything involving gravity. It's... just gravity...?"

"Hmm, does it have any drawbacks or limits?"

"I can't use it on liquids, or gases. My current weight limit is..."

Right, he'd have to dial down his ability... his current weight limit would be 400,000 tons, dividing that by any single digit still won't work... Eh, let's go with 200,000 and see, after all, dialing down his ability doesn't mean he should be weak.

But still, wasn't that too powerful? It might have made them question what type of training he underwent to be able to overcome such a weight.

Ugh... this was exhausting. Never in Chuuya's wild dreams—or nightmares— hallucinations would he have believed it if someone had told him he'd be doing this nonsense in the future. Hell, past Chuuya probably would’ve knocked you out cold even suggesting it!

"I have no clue what my current weight limit is," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "All know is last time I struggled with lifting something, was a fully loaded cargo ship. Managed to carry it, but then I passed out and spent days in the hospital." 

Yeah, maybe not the smartest thing to share.

Nedzu's eyes flick with worry and disbelief. 

"Why would you ever need to carry such an object?"

Chuuya froze. How was he supposed to answer that? 

"Wouldn't you like to know..." he muttered, crossing his arms and pretending to be uncomfortable.

"Alright then," Nedzu continued cautiously, "do you have any allergies we should be aware of?"

"Bricks," Chuuya replied instantly, deadpan. "I swear, if I see one, I’ll lose it." 

Nedzu turned to Hizashi, clearly baffled.

"D-don’t ask," Hizashi stammered nervously, laughing weakly "Just… don’t." 

"Oh...okay, one last question Nakahara-kun,"

"Just call me Chuuya," he cut in, "that applies to everyone, so don’t think it’s some special treatment."

"Sure thing, Chuuya! Now, are you okay with fighting in what you’re wearing?"

"Yeah... why?" he replied, already dreading answer and cursing himself for not begging higher power for him to vanish into thin air.

"Because!!"

"Examinee no. 1, are you ready to begin your practical exam?" boomed an overly enthusiastic, familiar female voice through the speakers She sounded like she was having the time her life, which just it more confusing why they even needed speakers if she going to shout that anyway. 

"... as ready as I'll ever be..." Chuuya muttered, the words dripping with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for dentist appointments. 

The room was enormous, so huge, it was as if someone had mistaken "practical exam" for "training dragons." Its sleek floors, soundproof walls and single, lonely light source gave it the charm of a high-tech broom closet. Chuuya couldn't help but wonder if the other students’ exams were equally ridiculous or if he’d just won some kind of weird lottery. The sheer emptiness of the space made it feel like he starring in some avant-garde play no one asked to be in.

He rolled his shoulders and let out a sigh, already the weight of exhaustion press down on him. And this was just the start. Fantastic. 

"You've really set the bar high as a quirk user, so naturally, your exam will be three times harder than the regular one," she began, her voice laced with a mix of sternness and a touch of sadistic glee. "This is because you need to prove you're twice as good as the students who have already passed, just to keep things fair and, of course, for the sake of transparency."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," he muttered, clearly less thrilled about this "fairness."

"Splendid! Let the torment—uh, I mean, the exam—begin!!!"

The front of the room's floorboards vanished, sliding below the surface like they had somewhere better to be. Then, with dramatic flair, a new set of floorboards rose up, proudly presenting a gang of masked figures dressed like budget ninjas.

Oh, fantastic...

Not just ten. Nope, not even twenty. There were thirty of them! (He was well-informed, thanks to the overly helpful lady on the loudspeaker.)

As if that wasn't enough chaos, five kids popped up the same way, looking every bit like hostages, complete with ropes binding them and shiny knives chilling way too close to their necks.

...Yet another challenge.

Yep, the fatigue's coming back. Oh, heavenly god up there, grant Chuuya wings... for he doesn't feel like having the energy to fight these... people while dialing down his ability.

Oh...boy.

For now, all he can do is hope he doesn't reveal too much.

Chapter Text

The place went silent after the sudden intermission of the introduction of the opponents and hostages, and Chuuya could swear he almost dozed off at that moment, clearly waiting for the green light to start the exam.

(That sounded familiar)

" And since when did clones get the green light to have feelings anyway?"  

"Shut it." He muttered under his breath.

Why? When I'm having so much fun?

He sighed dramatically realizing he might have to put his inner monologue on mute for a bit, since apparently a sadistic deity had decided to make him the star of their twisted little game.

"Alright, Examinee No. 1, me explain the rules of exam," the woman announced, clearly picking up on his growing impatience. "You can either knock your opponents out of bounds, render them unconscious or injure them just enough so they can't attack you—all while ensuring the hostages remain unharmed and unaffected. Your grade entirely on the condition of the hostages at the end. If you're overpowered, just yell 'Mayday,' and we'll wrap this whole thing up. After that, you're free to go!"

As if knowing his next move, she added with the tone of a person putting on a pointed smile, "Oh, and one more thing. Under no circumstances are you allowed to kill, permanently immobilize, or infer severe harm to your opponents."

He rolled eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. Did she think he was that stupid? As if he'd go around creating a murder scene when the likely reward was a one-way ticket to whatever high-tech prison they were running. (Not that he was sure he could escape anyway, given their absurdly weird gadgets...)

Chuuya tilted his head slightly, scanning the battlefield, then let out a quiet, unimpressed sigh.

"Bon sang…"

He wasn’t even sure who he was annoyed at more—the exam officials for setting this up, or the masked idiots who actually agreed to be part of it.

He shifted his gaze to the hostages, eyes narrowing slightly.

They were all staring at him, terrified, waiting for some kind of rescue plan. Chuuya clicked his tongue, shaking his head slightly.

"Tsk. Vous n’êtes même pas capables de vous défendre, hein?" He muttered mockingly.

One of the kids whimpered, looking ten seconds away from crying.

Chuuya rolled his eyes at that, not showcasing actual annoyance, groaning as if that was his problem now. "Alright, alright, relax, je vais m’en occuper." 

The masked figures moved—all at once.

Chuuya didn’t react at first. He just watched, calculating, waiting.

Then, smoothly, effortlessly, he sidestepped the first attacker, grabbed their wrist mid-strike, and flipped them over his shoulder like they weighed absolutely nothing. Before their body even hit the ground, he twisted, dodging the next opponent by a hair, using their own momentum to slam them into the one behind them.

"What is this, a group discount?" he muttered, kicking another straight in the chest, sending them skidding across the floor.

Three down. Twenty-seven to go.

Annoying.

He moved fast, dodging strikes, redirecting blows—subtly shifting the gravity of objects in his range just enough to disrupt weapons and mess with their timing. But they were adjusting fast.

One anticipated his next move, cutting off his escape route.

Another took advantage, forcing him into a moment of hesitation.

"Tch."

This was the problem; He was holding back, avoiding using too much of his power—if he went all in, he’d reveal too much, and that was not an option. A blade nicked his sleeve, not deep enough to cut, but enough to tell him exactly where this was headed.

Alright. Fine.

If they wanted to make this difficult? He’d make it worse.

"D’accord~. You want a real fight?" His eye twitched involuntarily.

He ducked low, twisted sharply, grabbing one attacker by the collar and flipping them clean over his head—but not just with strength.

For half a second, their body felt unnaturally light—until the moment ended, and they dropped with full force, the impact cracking the floorboards beneath them. The subtle gravity shift caused just enough disruption for the next wave of attackers to lose balance for a split second.

That was all he needed.

Chuuya moved fast, exploiting every weakness, grabbing, twisting, striking—efficient, ruthless, unforgiving.

Bodies hit the ground one after another. Grunts and pained sounds were heard. Winces were given out,

Until—

Silence.

Panting slightly, Chuuya shook out his arms, rolling his shoulders one last time, looking more mildly inconvenienced than victorious. His gaze shifted to the hostages, and he tilted his head slightly, offering a mockingly gentle smile.

"Ah, il n’y a pas de quoi."  He gently vocalized.

One of the kids let out a choked sob.

Chuuya sighed deeply, rubbing his temple, "Tsk. Pas besoin de pleurer." 

Another kid hiccuped, trying and failing to stop herself.

"Mon dieu, are you all this dramatic?" He groaned, "Weren't you all here just for me to save you all? Wouldn't your parents come pick you up or something?"

One of the kids sniffled.

"I wanna go home...! Please don't go!"

Chuuya stopped, blinking once.

...Tch. Fine.

"I’m not leaving, kid," he muttered. "Where the hell are your parents?"

The same kid sniffled harder.

Chuuya groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face feigning pure suffering.

"Ugh. C’est ridicule."

He moved quickly, cutting the ropes with smooth, effortless precision, watching the kids stumble forward, free but still shaking. One of them grabbed onto his sleeve, barely meeting his gaze.

"Thank you...!"

Chuuya clicked his tongue, looking away with a slight flush of his cheek.

"Merde, don’t make it weird."

And with that, the fight was done.

He just exhaled sharply, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered, "Is that all?"

Aizawa had spent years training and observing fighters.

Students who had potential. Heroes who had mastered control. Individuals who refined their skill to the point of effortless execution.

But none of them moved like this.

Chuuya didn’t just fight well—he fought like the battlefield belonged to him.

Aizawa replayed the footage, watching with sharp focus, tracing every frame, every movement, every calculated shift in Chuuya’s stance.

It was instinct.

Not just learned technique, not just training, not just a refined understanding of battle. This was deeply ingrained, subconscious precision—the kind of control that didn’t require thought because it had already been programmed into the body itself.

And that wasn’t normal, at least for people his age.

Around him, Pro Heroes were still buzzing, still throwing praise, analyzing details, unraveling what they had just witnessed.

"A 14-year-old just took down thirty opponents!"

"He barely even used his quirk—his raw ability carried him!"

"Fourteen! And he’s already this sharp?"

Aizawa barely listened.

Instead, he kept watching.

Not the excitement. Not the spectacle. Not the admiration in their voices.

He was watching Chuuya himself. Because something about him felt different. It wasn’t just the efficiency in his movements—it was the way he carried himself after the fight.

No celebration. No visible frustration. No sense of accomplishment.

Just quiet, controlled indifference—as if he had been expecting this outcome from the beginning. He did show this potential earlier when he was being hospitalized, when he used his ability effortlessly, when he threatened them in a way that meant he was true with his said intentions, the weight in his voice. 

Aizawa exhaled lightly, fingers tapping against the desk in a slow rhythm.

There was something about Chuuya’s fighting style that stood out beyond just skill level.

It was the way he adjusted mid-motion, the way his body read the battlefield before his opponents had even committed to their attacks, the way he never wasted a single movement.

That wasn’t hero training. That wasn’t structured martial arts. That was adaptability sharpened through necessity.

Through survival.

His gaze lingered on the footage, studying the way Chuuya redirected momentum effortlessly, using angles, timing, and just enough force to ensure each takedown was final, decisive, controlled. It wasn’t aggression—

it was precision.

There were no wasted strikes, no unnecessary violence—only exact calculations, adjustments made in real-time, decisions executed within fractions of seconds.

And yet, Chuuya had done it all without hesitation. Without thought.

Aizawa frowned slightly, pulling up Chuuya’s file again, scanning the records.

Age: 14. Background: Unrecorded. Quirk: "Gravity Control."

The age stood out again.

Not because he questioned it—just because something about Chuuya’s presence didn’t quite fit the mold of a typical first-year student. It wasn’t his physical appearance.

It wasn’t even his combat ability.

It was the way he carried himself outside of fights, the way his exhaustion didn’t feel like someone facing their greatest challenge, but someone going through motions they were already too accustomed to.

Aizawa thought back to their brief conversations over the past week—not that they had spoken much, but the small interactions still left an impression. There was a weight to Chuuya’s way of speaking—not the weight of someone overconfident, but someone who understood the dynamics of control in a way very few his age did.

Not reckless. Not arrogant. Just definitive, absolute, settled within himself. That wasn’t something that could be taught in classrooms. That was something built through experience.

Aizawa sighed quietly, shutting his laptop.

The room was still filled with speculation.

"If he’s this capable now, imagine where he’ll be in five years!"

"He must’ve trained under top instructors—"

"With technique like that, he could rival some of our strongest fighters—"

Aizawa didn’t engage. Instead, he simply muttered to himself, voice low and unreadable: "You’re all looking at the surface level."

No one questioned him. Not yet.

Because while they saw talent, potential, and technical mastery, Aizawa saw something else entirely. Something sharper. Something more definitive.

Something that could not be taught.

And for the first time, despite only knowing Chuuya for a short period—

Aizawa felt something close to respect.

Because whatever had shaped Chuuya into this, whatever had refined his instincts into absolute precision, whatever had molded his combat ability into something far beyond standard hero training—

It had made him into something undeniable.

And somehow, Aizawa had been the first to truly recognize it.

Although not entirely.

Chuuya hated the thought of strolling through the hallways of a school he didn’t even have a uniform for.

No, scratch that—he wasn’t even officially a here! What if, in very next second, whoever dragged him into this mess decided they were done playing around and poofed him back to wherever he came from? The whole thing was absurd, like, couldn’t they at least have waited until the students were back in their classrooms? Was that really too much to ask?

"Examinee no 1, quickly move to Present Mic's office on the fourth floor on the right hallway, the exam has ended."

Unbelievable. So annoying.

He could hear the students' loud chatter the moment door clicked open. And, of course not, he definitely wasn’t shaking like a leaf. Absolutely not. 

He didn’t understand it. Wasn’t he supposed to be the epitome of overconfidence? The overpowered, oblivious, cocky teenager in the Port Mafia? why in the world was he standing here with this ridiculous wave of nervousness clouding his brain? Why was his heart pounding like a drum solo?

There had to be some logical explanation for this... anxiety.

Maybe it was the thought of all those eyes staring at him.

Or the idea of them whispering about him.

Or, heaven forbid, they might even...

...

No, no. Since had he ever cared about such nonsense? Let them flap their tongues as much they wanted—it’s what tongues were designed for, after, to spew a never-ending of nonsense.

One thing was clear:

If he didn’t start moving right this second, his brain might just short-circuit from sheer overthinking.

And, knowing his stubborn streak, he’d probably dig his heels in and refuse to budge until every last student went back to class.

With a single over-top exhale that could have landed him a starring role in a soap opera, he convinced he was ready. Or at least, he was halfway decent at fooling himself into thinking so.

Predictably, the moment the door swung open, the chatter came an abrupt halt, and every single pair of eyes in the room turned to him. They didn’t even bother pretending they weren’t staring—kids these days, with their shameless gawking! With a perfectly timed eye roll he strutted down the hallway like he owned the place, ignoring the low of whispers trailing behind him.

At least, that’s what he hoped he looked because, on the inside he wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow him whole. Right then and there.

Honestly, he hadn’t been lying when he said he, positively despised being the center attention. The worst. Truly.

Kaminari is blonde.

In every sense of the word.

Sure, he'll deny it, but deep down, knows there’s a teeny, microscopic, almost invisible speck of... call it “dunce energy” in. Just a smidge, okay? He’s not saying he’s dumb! He’s just... unique. When others used “blonde” as an insult around him, he decided he’d shake things up at U.A High and build a whole new reputation.

Picture this: he becomes a hero (obviously the main goal), earns the respect of everyone who finally sees how brilliant he is, and maybe even picks up some cool friends along the way! There was just tiny problem—he kind of forgot about whole “reinvent myself” plan during the first week. So naturally, people figured he was, well... not exactly a genius.

Still, it didn’t stop anyone from treating him like a part of the gang.

In fact, his dunce energy became somehow his trademark—something that made people instantly recognize him. And honestly, there’s this tiny voice in head whispering that he really shouldn’t be happy about that. 

(They’re looking down on you!!)

But it’s fine. It’s barely a thing.

Fast forward three weeks into the Hero Course and he’s already made tons of friends in 1A! Like Mina (the absolute coolest), Kirishima (best bro for life), Sero (my guy), and Bakubro! Sure, the rest of 1A are his buddies too, but this is the main crew, alright?

"You have to start playing 'Hunt-Countdown'! It's literally the best game ever," Denki declared, his face glowing with excitement as he bragged about this mysterious new game he'd discovered—where he did remained in divine mystery. "You guys are seriously missing out!"

"Denki, you are hyping up this game way too much," the pink-haired girl interrupted, unimpressed. "You also said you dropped your phone in the bathtub this morning, how are even still playing?"

"Haha... I’m not," he admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. "Still trying to get the thing to work."

The other blonde in the group rolled his with a disdainful scoff "...Idiot."

"That... was... RUDE!" Denki exclaimed, clutching his chest as though personally wounded.

"What are you, five?!" Bakugo snapped back, glaring at him like a grumpy older sibling.

The rest of the group burst into laughter, thoroughly entertained by the chaos classic lunchtime scene: Bakugo yelling at him into oblivion while Denki flailed dramatically.

Not ready to back out just yet, Kaminari upped the game. "Fine! I’ll just... dramatically leave and sulk in class," announced, striking exaggerated poses and flipping his imaginary cape as he turned to make his exit with his eyes sealed shut.

The original plan was simple: take ten dramatic steps forward, spin around, and drop the bombshell truth that he was, in fact, lying. Easy enough, right? Well, it would have been if Denki hadn’t decided to close his eyes for flair. About five steps in, he collided with something—or rather, someone.

Now, Denki wasn’t delusional. He knew he was buff, but whatever he just walked into felt like slamming into a brick wall wrapped in form. For a solid second, he genuinely believed someone had built a wall right in the middle of his path. 

The impact sent him stumbling back, but of the person moving an inch, it was Denki who bounced off like a rubber ball. His brain scrambled for an explanation. Pro hero? Probably Superhuman strength? Definitely. A bad blur to his eyes? Absolutely.

He rubbed his eyes once more, squinting harder. Was he hallucinating or...?

Standing in front of him was a short guy with wild, grown-out red hair, the kind of stunning blue eyes that could probably see right your soul, and a fashion sense so iconic it might as well have stepped off a runway. He looked like someone you’d call a peer, if peer also happened to be a walking style statement.

The guy seemed like he was about to blow up him, but instead, he sighed dramatically like he was in some tragic soap opera and looked away. "Sorry... I wasn't looking," he muttered sounding like he was apologizing for existence of gravity itself.

He extended a hand, and Denki grabbed it eagerly, like they reenacting a dramatic scene from a buddy cop movie. Just as Denki was about to say something, his friends came storming in—led, of course, by Bakugo, who looked like someone had just told him explosions weren’t cool anymore.

"Haha... sorry! Our friend here’s kind of dunce," Mina chirped, all sunshine and sparkles.

"H-hey!" Denki yelped, his pride wounded.

"Hope all’s cool!" Sero chimed in, slapping a casual hand on Denki shoulder like they were old war buddies.

The guy blinked, clearly baffled by the social ambush, then quickly composed himself, putting on a tough-guy facade. "It was my fault. I wasn’t looking. Sorry for bumping into you... again," he said, sounding like he was auditioning for a role as brooding antihero in a teen drama.

", looks like it’s good now, right, Denki?" Kirishima declared, smiling so brightly you’d think he was handing out friendship bracelets.

"Yep! I’m Kaminari Denki. What’s your name?" Denki asked, grinning like he’d just won the lottery for cool new acquaintances.

"...Nakahara Chuuya. Just call me Chuuya, alright? It’s not some special privilege, so don’t go acting like it is."

"Well, nice to meet you, Chuuya! This is Mina, Sero, Kirishima, and Katsuki." 

"So, Chuuya, why aren’t you in uniform? Is this your hero costume? Wait, are you in Class 1B???" Mina fired off questions faster than a speeding bullet.

"Oi, can you ask one question at a time, you pink-haired extra?!" Bakugo barked, clearly irritated.

His outburst, as dramatic as it was, didn’t really matter—everyone was too focused on Chuuya’s answers to about his temper tantrum.

"I'm not a student here," he began, "Well, at least not yet."

...

Not yet?

Kaminari wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew a new student showing up not even halfway through term was downright bizarre. Seriously, who does that? But then again, the idea of having such an iconic classmate totally over thought any logical idea he might have had. Priorities, right?

And guess what? He was the first one to meet the new student in person!

...

Not that this whole "new student" thing was officially confirmed or anything. Minor details.

"EEK! I can't believe it!" Mina squealed, practically vibrating. "New-!"

"Shh! Lower your voice, would you? People are staring, and this isn't even confirmed yet! I just finished my damn exam!" he hissed, his irritation barely masked by his whisper.

"Sorry, Chuuya-san, but a new student?" Sero chuckled, clearly unbothered. "You can't expect us not to get hyped about that."

"So, what's your quirk?" Kirishima asked, grinning ear to ear.

"...You'll find out soon enough," he muttered cryptically, clearly unimpressed by their enthusiasm. "I’ve got to go. See you... maybe."

Without waiting for a response, he spun his heel heading straight for the staircase to the fourth floor like a in a hurry—or possibly a man escape.

"What was his deal...?!" came the familiar growl.

"Come on, Bakubro, maybe he had a reason for not telling us," Kirishima said, trying to calm things down. "You don't have to be cranky about everything!"

"Reason, my ass! He just wanted to look all mysterious and crap!" Bakugo snapped.

"Well, not gonna lie, he kinda nailed it," Sero chimed in, shrugging.

"Okay, but seriously, who else thought he looked like the ambassador for Gucci and Valentino? It wasn't just me, right?" Mina added with a smirk.

There was something about that guy that made Denki want to be his friend—like he had some kind of magnetic energy or something.

Or maybe it was just the fact that he looked like the bad-boy, rebel, second male lead straight out of a K-drama.

Seriously, his hair was wild, and those eyes? How could anyone have eyes that were that blue? It had to be his quirk. There was no way genetics alone pulled that off.

Whatever it was, Denki couldn’t shake the feeling...

Chapter Text

"So, Chuuya, you... did outstanding work out there...!" 

This was Hizashi's attempt at a new conversation their recently adopted teen. Conversations with Chuuya were usually one-sided; he would often only hum or nod in response.

Or- he'd just... blow up at them. ONLY when they got too pushy with their questions!

Chuuya avoided communication as much as possible, spending most of his time locked in his room and only emerging to eat.

Hizashi wanted to change that. Noticing that Aizawa had also noticed Chuuya's withdrawn.

It was understandable, though. You couldn't expect a child who had been on the streets, parentless and likely traumatized, to immediately warm up to people he hadn't chosen to be his guardians. He still didn’t trust them, and honestly, Hizashi couldn’t hold that against him.

Hizashi resolved take things slow, waiting for Chuuya open up in his own time.

Chuuya hummed a response as he hurriedly made his way up the stairs, his footsteps quick and determined.

"I was thinking of making Kani Chahan for dinner—can you help?" Hizashi asked, keeping his voice calm and at just the right volume to avoid startling him.

Chuuya froze mid-step. "K... K-Kani Chahan...?"

"Yeah!" Hizashi beamed with enthusiasm. "Why? Are you to allergic crab? I can always make something else—"

"No," Chuuya muttered softly. "No... I'll help. Let me just... change first."

He said he would help! But why was he being so kind all of a sudden? Just five days ago, he had menaced four Pro-Heroes—and even a doctor—with sharp surgical tools, his intent clearly deadly. Now here he was, calm, cooperative, and almost... friendly.

Could he have changed?

Maybe— just maybe.

But now, he had to ensure this time with the little listener was put to good use. Fortune If luck favored him, he'd score some juicy tidbits about the kid—like favorite pastimes, odd quirks, mysterious friends from the past, and, of course, the million-dollar question: what on earth led him to suddenly pop up in Mustuafu? Oh, and let’s not forget the curious case of his obvious vendetta against that doctor.

He also decided it was time to and, without question, take a bath.

Seriously, no "maybe" about it. That English class in the afternoon was a train wreck. Were students even attempting to form coherent sentences, or was it some avant-garde linguistic experiment?

He laughed to himself, one student's masterpiece of mangled English that could only be described as a work accidental comedy.

Oh, and earlier, the little listener had mentioned he spoke both French and English!

He had seen him in action with French, chatting away in the old exam room, but English? Not a word yet. Maybe today would be the day to coax some English out of him too. Challenge accepted.

In the kitchen, the two stood in front of the counter as Hizashi unpack the groceries he’d picked up earlier.

“So, little listener,” he began, “You looked pretty shocked when I mentioned Kani Chahan. Why’s that?”

His companion’s eyes grew distant as he replied, “It’s… nothing important…”

No! He was shutting down again! Mission: Get Listener to Open Up was officially underway!

“Come on, spill! I want to know!” Hizashi urged, “Only if you’re comfortable sharing, of course.”

The listener’s eyes focused, locking on Hizashi briefly before he let out a resigned sigh.

“It’s just… I-I used to make this same dish for a… friend? Acquaintance? Back at home…” he muttered hesitantly “That fishy bastard wouldn’t eat at all if I didn’t.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah—he refuses to eat ANYTHING that doesn’t have crab in it! At least, for as far as I know… And don’t even get me started on how annoying is—especially to me! I don’t know what I ever did guy to make him treat me like personal toy 24/7. He’s clingy, disgusting, and just plain insufferable! Who doesn’t wash their hands after—well—everything?!! On top of that, he does the grossest stuff and parades around wrapped in bandages like it’s some kind of avant-garde fashion statement! And—!"

Hizashi stifled a laugh, barely able contain himself, cutting Chuuya off mid-sentence.

"He—He actually walks around in... bandages???" Hizashi choked out snickers.

Don’t even get me started," Chuuya groaned, eyes. "I swear, he’s got to be practically translucent under those. No sun whatsoever. And then there’s that bandage over left eye—, what’s the deal with that? He has one creepy, dark red eye glaring at me like I’m his next victim. He thinks he looks all cool and edgy, but honestly? He just looks like a total idiot who wandered out of a horror movie."

After a while, the laughter finally settled down.

"Do... you miss him?" 

Hizashi watched as a furious red flush crept towards the listener's ears, and he quickly turned away, avoiding his gaze.

"...'M-miss' i-is a... strong word...!" 

Ohhh~ so that’s what it was! This was Chuuya’s relationship with this person? What a revelation! Hizashi had never imagined Chuuya could feel anything beyond loathing or cold indifference toward anyone, let alone someone whose description sounded, well... deeply questionable.

Apparently, the listener had caught onto his train of thought.

"IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!!!" 

Hizashi erupted into another fit laughter, nearly over with the effort. 

"How about we cook this meal to commemorate the glorious occasion of you not having to cook for him anymore?" he proposed, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Chuuya's previously animated demeanor vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by a grimace of guilt so heavy could sink a ship.

Right— won’t eat unless Chuuya makes him, and now that Chuuya isn’t there, he’s probably living off stale air and bad decisions.

The listener released an overly dramatic sigh before flashing a bittersweet smile. "Ah, absolutely. Let's celebrate the fact that the mackerel won’t be bothering me! For... veeery loooong time..."

"Hey... you know," Hizashi began softly, "You don’t have to-"

"No!" Chuuya cut him off, determination blazing in his eyes. "I want to! I’m going to dazzle your taste with phenomenal cooking! So much so that Aizawa-san’s color will return from whatever blackhole they’ve vanished into."

 "You go do whatever the heck you heroes do," he added, "Or you know, rest! I've got it all covered. Just don't expect me to make it speedy; I like to take my time when cooking."

"Will do, Chuuya-kun!" Hizashi chuckled at the sudden mood swing whiles leaving.

Before the door closed, he heard a silent mutter, 

"I really do hope you're eating over there, bastard..." 

Hizashi just couldn't help but smile at that. Guess the listener had a much bigger heart than he deduced...!

And that was a good thing!

People with hearts tend to care—it's kind of their thing.

The Demon Prodigy, however, is not part of this "people" club.

What even does the term refer to, anyway? A gathering of two or more humans in any context? Sure, that sounds reasonable.

But The Demon Prodigy? Not human. Not even close.

It also lacks the essential toolkit for identifying humans—no heart, no empathy, no clue. It's like expecting a toaster to understand what a croissant is. Absurd, right?

I mean, how can one prove that something is "thing" when said "thing" doesn't even grasp its own existence? It's a philosophical facepalm waiting to happen.

"You’re zoning out again, Dazai."

Ah, that dreaded voice. to reality.

Dazai, Mori, Koyou, and Hirotsu lounged in the impeccably furnished surveillance room, surrounded screens of cameras around every corner of Yokohama. The reason for their little gathering? The mysterious vanishing act of their prized new weapon, Nakahara Chuuya, who had apparently decided to pull a disappearing stunt a month after the tragic demise of the Flags.

The said day had kicked off with Dazai finally deciding to swallow his pride and make amends with the slug a day after that 'graveyard drama'. He figured it’d be a simple plan break into Chuuya’s penthouse (standard procedure), crack some concerning jokes (his specialty), throw out some cryptic nonsense that Chuuya would misinterpret—and voilà! Misunderstandings erased like magic! Piece of cake, right? What could go wrong? Well, everything, obviously. 

Because, of course, nothing goes right for The Demon Prodigy.

Absolutely nothing.

And naturally, he wasn't there.

In fact, it looked like the slug had pulled a full Houdini act—vanished without trace.

All was left behind. The usual suspects: clothes, hat, keys, shades, and—wait—

His bike Still parked there radiating smugness it had won an award for Most Neglected Object of the Year.

It looked suspiciously pristine, as if it been lounging in a spa instead of enduring the rainstorm earlier. No mud splatters or water streaks—just tires that seemed to chuckle at the very notion of wear and tear, as mocking redhead's legendary speed fueled escape.

Even his penthouse seemed to join the conspiracy, devoid of any trace of life, smelling more like an unused library than a home. Clearly, this was a man who had perfected the art of vanishing.

...

His bed was impeccably made, not a single wrinkle daring to defy its perfection.

The wine bottles? Virtually untouched, standing like disciplined soldiers on a shelf.

Nada. Zilch.

And now his eyes are glued to the surveillance footage, captured from what can only be described as the most cinematic angle imaginable.

There he is—on his bike, riding with his eyes shut tight like he's auditioning for a reckless daredevil gig. His face? A masterpiece of irritation, angrily yelling something unintelligible, as though arguing with the wind.

Heading straight for a gargantuan truck.

The footage loops to show the slug—yes, the slug—vanishing into thin air, right after an overpowering light blinding the camera.

Again, and again. And again.

"We require your input, Dazai," Mori reiterated, his tone edged with irritation.

"And I require solitude," Dazai replied. "I intended to arrive alone, of course, you all felt compelled to trail after me, didn’t you~?"

The sharp crack of graceful fists colliding with armrests punctuated his remark.

"Do you honestly think I would ever allow Chuuya to just vanish?!" Koyou snapped, her tone an uncharacteristic break from usual grace. "You’re contributing nothing—just merely sitting there and observing! And to think I haven’t yet accused you of fabricating the footage and offing him."

"Now, now," Mori interjected cheerfully, "I don’t believe we should be assigning blame. While it’s that Dazai-kun was the last to be seen with Chuuya-kun, we ought to work together to determine where he’s disappeared to."

"Surely, if he intended to eliminate Nakahara, he would have done so long before him joining the Port, right, Dazai?"

There was no response.

Hirotsu exhaled a silent sigh in reaction.

Dazai’s gaze grew even darker as the scene replayed, his expression remaining inscrutable.

“Continue the footage,” he directed the individual overseeing the surveillance. “Increase the volume to maximum and switch to the camera closest to the truck while you’re at it."

After fast-forwarding briefly, the truck driver resumed his journey after ensuring he hadn't hit anyone. Soon, five individuals appeared from various directions, converging in the middle of the road to converse.

Among them was woman accompanied by four young men, all clad in expensive, formal attire. The woman appeared to assume a leadership role, while the others displayed distinct physical modifications.

One of the men wore a mask that completely obscured his facial features, including his hair. Another had razor-sharp teeth and claws resembling blades. The remaining two bore an uncanny resemblance to each other, like twins, with every detail of their appearance mirroring opposites—black and white, like the concept of yin and yang.

The woman was tall and slender, with long, silky hair cascading down her back. Her condescendingly red eyes, accentuated by bold and intimidating makeup, added an air of authority to her presence. She was dressed an elegant yet formal red, black gown, complemented by long black gloves that exuded sophistication. On the nape of her neck, a mysterious tattoo depicted a scarlet bird perched on a black rose, adding an enigmatic allure. Her menacing and eerie smile, reminiscent of Dazai's infamous smirk but employed far more frequently, completed her striking appearance.

"Do you think it worked?" asked man with razor-sharp teeth, his voice tinged with anticipation.

"Are you doubting my intelligence?" the yin and yang twins replied in unison, their distorted voices unnervingly synchronized, as though they shared a single soul. "I did my part—you did yours, he his. Now, it is Lady Scarlet's turn to fulfill her role for Arahabaki's return."

"Lady Scarlet is undoubtedly a genius," the masked man commented. "After all, such power should never rest in the hands of a child, especially one so emotionally fragile. If negotiating with him hadn't been such an obstacle for the Port Mafia, gravity manipulation would have been a valuable asset to our project. Now that he’s distanced from the Port, both worlds will be ours for sure."

She chuckled in response. "There there... Chuuya will not pose any trouble for me whatsoever. While I am rather flattered by your words, one must acknowledge that anything can happen. We must now prepare for the Mafia's inevitable attack—or perhaps even Dazai's. He, of course, will find a way to reach MHA. By then we must ensure that redhead is securely in our grasp. Only then can proceed with executing our plan."

Initiating Operation; Erasing the Existence of Experiment A-258.  

Dazai felt an overwhelming surge of panic that he could not suppress, his hands gripped the armrests of the seat tightly, such that his knuckles went white.

Koyou gasped audibly, her hands flying to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.

Mori responded with a thoughtful hum, while Hirotsu shook head with an expression of clear disdain.

The footage continued without interruption.

"How can we be certain the Port won't find out about this?" the sharp-toothed man questioned again, his tone edged with suspicion.

"Oh, they'll find out, no doubt about it," she replied, her voice dripping with a sickly sweetness. "That's the idea. They need to see this—only then will they know where Chuuya is. Otherwise, our would be so dull, so uneventful. Without Dazai showing up, Chuuya might not even overpower us, and it would just be an ordinary mission. No excitement, no drama, no betrayal—just the lifeless body of a handsome teenager who, if fate hadn't been so cruel, could have been an invaluable asset to us by now... You know that's not how I do my things around here."

Her eerie red eyes suddenly shifted, locking onto the exact camera with an unsettling intensity. With a mocking smile, she added, "And if that happens, we'll finally have everything we've ever dreamed of..."

The footage abruptly went off, as though the camera itself had recoiled in fear from the sheer force of her piercing glare.

"I'm leaving," Dazai murmured, "Do not follow me. I might not be back for a long time."

He was stopped by a firm grasp on his wrist. "Where are you going...?" her voice carried a fragile mix of hope and dependence.

"My coordinates are 128.341.347," he replied with a hint of pity in his tone. "I strongly advise against coming with me. I can handle saving him alone."

"If you're that certain, then go ahead," she said, her voice steady yet tinged with concern. "These people seem far too dangerous, even for someone like you, Dazai. So be careful."

The unspoken plea lingered in the air—'Bring him back; he's all I have left...'

Dazai offered a subtle nod, gently freeing his wrist from her hold. Without waiting for further protests, he strode out of the room with unwavering resolve.

A strong feeling of determination overwhelmed him as memories of that night flooded his thoughts... It was his fault.

His fault that Chuuya was in Danger...

He couldn't afford for Chuuya to die.

He couldn't afford for HIS slug to die.

Even if it meant these two worlds would suffer the consequences, he wouldn't allow a human as beautiful as Chuuya to die.

Even if it meant he'd die in the process (who even appreciates his existence???) the slug mustn't die.

No one can hurt Chuuya.

Absolutely no one.

"CHUUYA!!!" Hizashi exclaimed, his face lighting up with joy. "Your cooking skills are absolutely impeccable! Five-star Michelin quality!"

"I agree," Aizawa added with a nod of approval.

After a long, exhausting day dealing with the usual chaos in 1A, Aizawa had come home expecting little more than some peace and quiet. Instead, he was greeted with a delightful surprise when Hizashi announced that Chuuya had volunteered to make dinner.

Of course, it was just like his exuberant partner to coax their newest teen out of his shell. what a success it had been.

For the first time, the redhead didn’t snap back his usual retorts. Instead, he huffed, his face ting with a faint blush, and turned away in embarrassment. "Tch... y'all are just overreacting... it's not that good..." he muttered, clearly flustered by their praise.

"But it is!!!" Hizashi exclaimed, "Who taught you to cook like that!?"

Chuuya's expression shifted, the lively spark in his eyes fading as wave of nostalgia crossed his expression.

"Her name's Koyou," he said softly. "She took me in—well, she's been like an older sister me ever since..." He, then shook his head as if to dispel the memories. "You know what? Let's just finish dinner. That exam wiped me out, and I could really use some rest."

He was wrapping things up... but really, who was Aizawa to pry the truth out this kid?

"We don't know much about you..." Aizawa began again, attempting another angle. "What are your hobbies?"

The kid shot him a deadpan look, letting out a sigh that could rival a melodramatic soap opera. "Well, I like win—uh, I mean... I like riding my bike, training, listening to music and..."

"...sketching," he mumbled under his breath, as if confessing to a crime.

Aizawa and Hizashi exchanged a glance.

"I know I know, it’s stupid-"

"No, it’s not." Aizawa interjected firmly. "It not stupid all. You don’t have to pretend to dislike something you enjoy in order to satisfy others. Don’t be ridiculous."

"Exactly! He’s totally right," Hizashi chimed in enthusiastically. "Sketching is a talent! With enough practice, might even start calling your works drawings instead of sketches. You just need to have confidence in yourself! That's when you truly upgrade!"

Chuuya pressed his lips into thin line.

"...Thanks, I guess..."

He stood, picked his plate, and carried it into the kitchen. 

Moments later, he reappeared and ascended stairs. "Good... Aizawa-san, Hizashi-san..."

The soft click the door echoed after him.

Was this the same teenager they had met only a few days ago?

It was the middle of the night, and Chuuya found himself wide awake, glaring at ceiling like it had personally offended him. The god, for once, had decided to stay eerily quiet.

And somehow, that silence was even more unnerving than his usual smug commentary...

12:00 a.m.

He sighed. If he didn’t manage to sleep soon, his morning "tsundere persona" was going to look more like a "grumpy raccoon."

The sudden thud of something tapping against his window broke the silence and sent him tumbling out of bed.

...

There, perched on the windows, was a tiny scarlet bird with a fine beak and long tail. It was unfamiliar, but what wasn’t for debate was the pure determination it had as it pecked furiously at the glass like it attacked it "Tch—annoying pest," Chuuya muttered, running a through his hair. "Why do I feel like this is going to be one of those nights?"

He flung the windows open with dramatic flair yelling, "Hey, go back to wherever you fucking came from!"

The bird, however, unfazed. Instead, it a bold little hop closer. He had to admit, even in his annoyance, the bird was ridiculously good-looking, its vibrant feathers practically glowing like a tiny feathery.

But why on earth wouldn’t it leave? What kind of stubborn bird was this?

He gave it a gentle nudge, hoping it would the hint and scram. Instead, the audacious thing hopped right onto his hand it owned the place.

Panicking slightly, he waved his hand wildly, expecting it to be startled and fly off like any self-respecting bird should.

Nope. The bird merely fluttered back to its original post on the windowsill, looking smugger than ever, as though to say, “Nice try, buddy.”

He growled and shooed the bird again, but instead of retreating, it flapped smugly closer, landing on his shoulder like had just found its new favorite perch.

Weirdly enough a strange wave of calm washed over him quelling his urge to pick the bird up and launch it the nearest bush. A faint red glow surrounded him, and suddenly he felt... peaceful?

He froze, wide-eyed, as it reminded him suspiciously of No Longer Human. The eerie whispers in his head went silent, and for the first time, headache decided to pack its bags and leave.

"W-what..."

The bird chirped if in response, prompting him to instinctively close the window and carry the bird to the desk in his room. He set it gently on the table and observed it in silence. The moment he released with the bird, the whispers and the headaches returned, flooding his mind.

"What are you...?"

A red glow enveloped one of the pens lying on the desk, and a sheet of paper moved closer in the same manner. The pen began to in English cursive, seemingly guided by the bird's intent focus on the act of writing.

I Do Not Recall Anything from the I Was Last Human—Only My Name and the Fact I Was Once One. I Am Not Familiar with the Ways of a Bird—That Is Why I Am Here. I Can Sense Deep Pain and Sorrow Within Your Soul as It Reaches Out to Me for Temporary Solace...

It Is Entirely Your Decision Whether You Wish to Link Your Soul with Mine for the Time Being. I Request Only Eight Months of Shelter. At the End of That Period, Will Either Transform Back or Depart... What Is Your Answer, Chuuya?  

It stared at him with those little bird eyes practically begging for a response. 

After a dramatic pause, he caved in. I mean, come on, what kind of trouble could a bird possibly cause him? It's not like it could overthrow his life or anything. Worst-case scenario it squawks a bit and becomes a feathery nuisance.

Besides, there were perks to consider—like finally getting a break from entertaining Arahabaki during those endless nights. Honestly, it seemed like a win-win situation.

Sure, the whole soul-linking concept was...weird. But hey, you only live once, right? With a shrug, he agreed to everything else. What could possibly go wrong?

"Fine... but I don't trust you well enough to link my soul with you," He replied, "You know, I still need it and stuff."

The bird chirped, as if happy with his response.

"What's your name?"

I'm Scarlet! Nice to Meet You. I Already Know Your Name by the Way.

"Yeah, I can see that..." He couldn't help but think.

I Sense You Have Trouble Sleeping! Will You Allow Me to Help?

"Sure I... guess?" He muttered indecisively.

The bird hopped unto his hand again, and a weird black symbol resembling a rose appeared on his palm, glowing slightly.

"Wha...??"

The comfort arrived again, his headaches leaving and the voices muting up.

The bird hopped off.

You May Now Get Some Sleep, Chuuya. Have a Goodnight's Rest!

He blinked... this was too much to process.

A bird- once human- named Scarlet- had the same ability as Dazai- except it could leave marks on him in exchange of nullifying his ability????

Wha????

Chuuya blankly stood up and returned to his spot before this- bizarre nonsense... and found himself surprisingly...

Dozing off...

And that- that, was without a doubt, the best sleep he had ever gotten in his entire life...

Chapter Text

I did not arrive in this world by chance, nor by the sterile rhythms of nature. I was summoned—drawn forth beneath a vaulted sky braided with constellations so stubbornly luminous they refused to dim, even as centuries crumbled beneath their gaze. The lattice of stars that hung over Astraeris the night I came forth did more than glimmer. They waited.

In Astraeris, light wasn’t a tool—it was a temperament. It pulsed in every hallway like a living hymn. It murmured through the architecture, nested within the silverstones we walked upon, and inked the air with the ghost-song of history. The palace didn’t merely glow—it resonated. It was a cathedral carved from moonlight and memory.

On the night of my emergence, the Crimson Comet tore a streak of burning prophecy across the highest spire, setting the heavens ablaze in shades no painter could emulate. My birth was greeted not with lullabies, but with hushed reverence—as if the stars themselves paused in orbit to bless a sovereign not yet crowned.

They named me Scarlet.

Not for pigment—but for pilgrimage.

It meant strength. Passage. Bloodline etched in flame. My cradle was forged from woven starlight and ambition. I was not merely the daughter of rulers—I was their legacy incarnate.

By the time I could balance my weight on the marble veins of the palace floors, I was expected to bow—not just before council members or foreign emissaries, but to the sky itself. My posture was polished into sculpture, envied even by the dancers trained beneath waterfall arches. I could read ancient histories not simply aloud, but with sharpened insight, dissecting war strategy while my tutors leaned forward, wide-eyed, breathless with awe.

It was known. Whispered in court, etched into scroll margins, sung in lullabies carried by palace wind: I was destined for the throne.

Everyone believed this—everyone but my parents.

Their smiles were curated. Their applause gentle, deliberate, like they were clapping for a portrait rather than flesh and bone. They praised me when I returned from battle drills streaked in soot and pride—but never again did they call me “heir.”

Not after Siria was born.

Ah, Siria. My soft-lit moon. My melody in pale curls.

She once curled beside me during night storms, clutching my sleeve when thunder threatened to unravel the eastern wing. I brushed her hair each morning with oils scented like cloud nectar, and let her select silks for her gown—even when her choices clashed like rival kingdoms. I never corrected her. I adored her. My loyalty was instinctual, unconditional.

But innocence curdles. Slowly.

By five, she refused my hand in public—slipping away like mist before sunrise.

By seven, she began speaking over me in council, her voice tremulous but insistent.

By twelve, her gaze twisted—like a flame doubting its own origin.

And by sixteen... she wore the crown.

Our father, King Arclion, faded not with drama, but with silent erosion. Winter stole his strength. Spring muted his voice. The law was clear. The bloodline unambiguous. I was the Firstborn of the Starbound Line. Scholar. Warrior. Diplomat. The living vow of Astraeris.

But politics are rarely loyal. And love even less.

My mother stood before the Council clothed in shades darker than mourning—robes spun from grief and manipulation. Her expression unreadable. Her decision—unforgivable.

“We grant the crown to Siria.”

The chamber became a tomb. I did not look to my mother. I looked to my sister.

Siria’s hands were clasped, trembling like she hadn’t expected it.

But her eyes shimmered with triumph.

On the third day of her reign, I was summoned—not for reconciliation, but judgment.

The courtyard had been polished for ceremony. I was bound with flame-thread—not rope, not chain, but a sacred binding once reserved for oaths. It glowed as it restrained me, igniting pain so elegant it felt personalized. I remained a princess. They wanted no blood. Just silence.

Siria stood beneath the obsidian arch in a gown embroidered with phoenix wings. Gold caught in every movement, radiance pooling at her feet. I hated myself for admiring her.

“You are sentenced,” she whispered. “For your treachery. For falsifying heirship. For manipulating hearts.”

She didn’t shout. She didn’t cry.

She erased me.

For two days, they lashed me with cords infused with celestial venom—pain designed not to mark the skin, but the soul. Each lash dissolved fragments of memory. Childhood. Joy. Sword forms. Siria’s laughter under waterfall blossoms.

Gone.

They fed me silence. Starved me of sound. I did not scream.

My body was repurposed—turned into a portrait of pain they could admire, erase, then discard.

On the third day, they prepared the pyre.

Cedar and blood perfumed the air. Sacred oils spilled in halos across moonstone. This was no rite of passage. It was theatre. Weaponized tradition in silk.

The execution platform shimmered like a mirror—so that the condemned could witness the choreography of their own destruction.

The sky above Astraeris darkened into violent lilac. An omen.

The stars did not dim.

Siria watched.

Her gown refracted starlight. Her lips bore my color. Her eyes—

No longer afraid. Only triumphant.

She didn’t call me her sister.

Astraeris flame consumes in layers—illusion first, then devotion, then identity.

As the heat crept upward, my memories blistered.

Midnight picnics with Siria. Our laughter echoing through marble halls. Her hand in mine.

All of it ignited.

Just as the fire cinched my lungs, time fractured.

A sound like silk shredded by blades reverberated across the courtyard. Reality folded inward. A portal tore itself open above the execution dais, leaking crimson and black light into sacred space.

And from its fractured belly stepped four figures.

The first was faceless— masked, not devoid. Cloaked in robes that shimmered like liquid void beneath moonlight. His presence carried prophecy more than name. I later knew him as Masked Darkness—but his title felt like ritual.

The second slinked into view, a grin carved from nightmare. His teeth gleamed like weaponry. Every twitch hinted at catastrophe. Razorbane. A creature who flirted with calamity.

Then came the twins.

They moved like mirrored regrets—one clad in white etched with silver, the other in obsidian streaked with violet. Their faces mirrored perfectly. Eyes moved in sync—Vyx and Voidei. Order and entropy bound together in rhythmic terror.

Razorbane approached first, flicking claws as the guards froze mid-motion.

“Well, well,” he purred. “They were really going to kill you.”

“Unimpressive,” said Vyx.

“Predictable,” added Voidei.

Masked Darkness remained behind, gaze unreadable. I met his absence.

I asked one word: “Why?”

He answered with a pulse—thought pressed into skull.

“This is not your end. It is your beginning.”

The flames hissed, then extinguished.

My bonds unraveled. My body fell forward—not into pain, but into silence vast enough to be mistaken for divine mercy.

They surrounded me—not as saviors, not as allies—but as collectors.

“We gather the lost,” whispered Razorbane. “The broken artifacts discarded by lesser gods.”

“I’m not a relic,” I rasped.

Masked Darkness stirred. “No. You are a weapon the heavens misplaced.”

The courtyard reshaped. Time discarded. The stars no longer watched.

Only I remained.

Scarred. Awake.

And no longer bound.

“What do you want?” I asked, voice hoarse, scraping through a throat hollowed by fire but sharpened by defiance. A whisper, yes—but no longer a plea. It rang like tempered steel.

“You,” Razorbane replied without pause, his grin splitting his face too wide for courtesy, teeth like fractured glass glinting under unseen moons. “Your elegance. Your rage. Your silence. Your mind wrapped in martyrdom like silk hiding blades.”

I blinked slowly. Not from weakness. From weighing truths he wasn’t meant to touch. “There’s nothing left of me.”

Voidei tilted his head, expression unreadable save for the glimmering white of his eyes—narrowing, calculating. “False,” he said, voice pure as frost. “You burned. But you didn’t break.”

Vyx’s tone slithered in next, silk wrapping stone. “And broken things don’t ignite this brightly.”

That’s when Masked Darkness stepped forward—not walked, no. He moved like thought manifested. His robes didn’t rustle—they whispered across the marble, smoke gliding on frozen wind. He didn’t speak aloud. He threaded sensation through bone. I felt him inside me. Not words, not sound. Images. Names. Plans.

A god.

Arahabaki.

A name forbidden in courtly tongue, kept locked in the Order’s annals—dust-choked tomes only the reckless dared translate. Divine chaos, bound to gravity’s disobedience. A power not gifted by lineage, nor earned by realm. If tethered, it could remake laws. Rewrite inheritance. Reshape Astraeris. No longer ruled by bloodline—but by fury. By merit. By precision honed through pain.

“You want me to help capture it.”

“You want to reclaim your throne,” Voidei added, voice cool as eclipse-shadow. “Or burn it down.”

Razorbane crouched beside me, taloned fingers grazing the stone near my charred hand—not touching, but tasting proximity like a predator coiling for pleasure. “Your soul,” he said, almost reverently, “is fertile, Princess. It can grow sharper things than crowns.”

I swallowed. Slow. Deliberate. My hair, once coiled in triumph, now hung in singed ribbons across my shoulders—pride in ruins, vanity dissolved. The symbol of my flame-thread oath had faded from my forearm. That sacred ink would never return. They had erased me from Astraeris.

So I whispered into the void blooming between gods and ghosts: “Tell me what I must become.”

Masked Darkness raised a single hand, fingers unfolded like a spell unfurling—and from the seams of reality itself, conjured a vision.

A bird.

Scarlet incarnate. Too radiant for mortal perception. Plumage stitched from sigils older than written language. Eyes carved from sharpened dusk. Her form shifted—fluidly. Woman. Songbird. Storm. Grace painted to deceive.

“You will not become a monster,” Masked Darkness said—not in air, but within me. “You will become their expectation. Their prophecy. Their mistake.”

The magic stitched itself in my chest, slow and scorching. Before I could name it, it bloomed—a seal where fire once kissed my skin. A black rose veined in blood-red light. It pulsed.

“The Red Veil Drapes Over Naive Eyes.”

My new truth.

My new weapon.

I could shift into forms woven to deceive even celestial watchers. I could nullify divine power with a touch. My mark—the black rose—would brand any opponent I chose, temporarily collapsing the gift they clung to. Hours of silence. Hours of revoked supremacy. A pause in corruption. A reckoning.

But it came at a cost.

Each use burned a sliver of me—not flesh, but soul. The fire they failed to destroy still lived. And now, it obeyed me.

“Eight months,” Vyx said, eyes gleaming with mathematical cruelty.

“Until Arahabaki awakens,” Voidei finished, his voice a thread winding tighter.

Razorbane smiled, a hymn of stained teeth and unholy reverence. “Do your dance, Princess. The veil is yours.”

And Masked Darkness did not bless me, did not bow. He simply stepped back, allowing the first flame of my rebirth to ripple across the marble.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t laugh.

I didn’t mourn.

I made my choice.

A portal opened. Shattered reality like split glass across twilight. I stepped through.

They taught me grace before they taught me truth.

That was their mistake.

The Red Veil clung to me like loyalty done right. My gloves—serpent-black, elegant, sly—coiled up my arms. My dress formed from pure vengeance. High collar. Exposed spine. Insignia carved from memory—the black rose encircling a crimson bird. My trauma had blossomed into couture.

My eyes? No longer tender. Crimson now, cracked with soft lightning, a storm disguised as sentiment. I could still smile like they remembered—but the soul behind it had sharpened.

I was no longer Scarlet.

I was Lady Scarlet.

Not a name. A lens. A promise wrapped in ruin. The whisper had matured. The voice had arrived.

And Chuuya... was the thread.

They told me he was volatile. Fragile. More scar than skin. Overflowing with ability and sorrow. But when I watched him—watched through shadows stitched into dimensional fracture—I didn’t see power.

I saw longing.

Not for glory. Not for vengeance.

For understanding.

So I crafted the lie tailored to that yearning.

I would become his sanctuary. The calm in his storm. I would quiet the dissonance in his head, cushion his guilt, and speak in cadence he’d mistake for truth: that no one cared for him—not truly. That everyone sought his ability, not his soul. That he was isolated by design.

It wasn’t difficult.

Kindness in small doses. Gentleness where chaos lingered. Silence that listened. I mirrored his dread without remedy. I offered solace without condition. I became what the others refused to be.

That was the bait.

Then came the convergence.

The truck. The intersection. The watchers.

The driver blinked, stunned. Then recoiled in silent confusion.

I made sure they saw me. The Port Mafia. Dazai. Even fragmented remnants of Astraeris orbiting nearby.

I walked into traffic as prophecy incarnate. Cloak billowing like a curse softened by elegance. The others flanked me—Razorbane flicking chaos from his claws, Vyx and Voidei stepping in sync, Masked Darkness drifting behind as if the world revolved around him.

.

I smiled after my little speech—and every surveillance camera short-circuited.

Their panic was symphonic. It told a tale—that something greater had entered Chuuya’s orbit. Something too vast to quantify, too engineered to question.

The final image left on their corrupted footage?

Me.

My tattoo surged. Light snapped. The feed looped. They saw prophecy, not threat. Divinity, not sabotage.

And by the time they tried to find me, it was already too late. My veil had fogged their minds. I had already begun rewriting the script tied to Chuuya's soul.

That night, alone in my borrowed form, I stood before a cracked hotel mirror. My reflection looked back with mathematical precision—less a girl, more a cipher wrapped in beauty, sharpened to provoke awe. Dazai would not see softness. He would see rivalry. The world wouldn’t see innocence. They would see flame wrapped in intellect.

I whispered into the quiet:

“They stripped me of title. Burned me for loyalty. Gifted my birthright to a child who never saw me. Now I wear truth like perfume. Lies like silk. Arahabaki will be mine. The redhead will kneel without knowing why. And if they dare intervene again... I won’t erase them. I’ll let them rot in awe.”

He sat still again.

It had been one hour, twenty-six minutes, and thirty-nine seconds. His body was motionless, but his mind leaked from his posture—slouched shoulders, fingers twitching like broken antennae searching for direction. The pencil hadn’t moved, and yet he stared at it like he expected it to solve him.

Pathetic.

I perched silently on the window ledge, feathers catching the warm hue of the late sun. Pretty light. Unremarkable target.

Chuuya barely glanced at me, and when he did, it was with that same storm-eyed melancholy he wore far too often. I tilted my head—not in concern, but in performance. I’d learned quickly that subtle gestures lowered his defenses faster than words.

I hopped forward. Nudged his sleeve once.

The sigh came on cue. “It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Lie. Obviously.

So I pecked again, just slightly harder. Watched irritation flicker across his brow—there it was. Anger. Better than sadness. Anger could be redirected. Molded.

“Stop that,” he snapped.

He raised his hand—not to strike, but to scare. I recoiled with precision. Eyes widened. Fear triggered guilt. Guilt-triggered apology. Humans were so easily programmed.

And he did exactly as expected.

“I didn’t mean to… You were just getting on my nerves.”

I stared. He was trying. Trying not to look weak. Trying to retain dignity. And failing beautifully.

I activated the pen—red glow, silent movement. Avoided his scribbled mess and chose a fresh sheet. Wrote slowly, deliberately, with curated emotional restraint.

I should be the one apologizing. I understand silence. I understand how it protects the pieces you don’t want seen. But I can listen, if you’ll let me.

Nothing too empathetic. No emotional saturation. Just enough to suggest a connection while maintaining distance. This response always worked best on souls used to being abandoned. He blinked. Tension unfurled. A sigh. A slowed pulse.

Then the real gift: “Have you ever missed home?”

Yes, boy. But not the way you think.

I missed the throne denied to me. The sweet cradles of loyalty before they snapped into snares. I missed the power sewn into gowns. Not comfort.

But I chirped.

Once.

Not bright. Not cheerful. Just enough. That chirp was not affection—it was manipulation dressed in nostalgia.

When he smiled faintly, I registered it with cold interest. That smile would die later. Preferably by his realization. When he found out I was never his to trust. That no one ever really was.

He sighed again. I remained still.

Let him confess to me. Let him paint himself open.

Let him believe.

I would not correct him.

Chuuya sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth beneath his elbows, pencil poised but unmoving in his hand. Outside his window, the light was beginning to fade, filtering in through the cracked pane in golden streaks, the kind that always seemed too soft for the mood he was in. Scarlet, the small red bird who had somehow become the quiet center of his world, watched him from the nearby windowsill.

Her feathers caught the light like embers, and when he glanced over, she tilted her head in that way only birds—or maybe former people—do when they're trying to understand something unspoken.

For a while, neither of them moved. Chuuya simply stared, his expression unreadable but far from empty. Scarlet broke the silence first—not with words, of course, but with a hop forward and a gentle nudge of her beak against the hem of his sleeve. A small touch, but persistent. Chuuya sighed, weary in a way that felt older than his years.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, though the phrase dropped heavy in the air, as hollow as the pages of his untouched notebook.

She nudged again.

This time, a flicker of irritation crossed his face.

“Stop that, will you?” His voice was sharp, sharper than he intended, and his hand jerked upward—not violently, but enough to make Scarlet retreat a step, startled. Chuuya froze. His raised hand hung in the air for a moment too long, and then slowly dropped back to his lap. He hadn’t even touched her, and yet the act of threatening to, of reacting like that, made guilt crawl under his skin like an infection.

She was only trying to help.

That thought alone landed harder than he expected. Scarlet’s gaze hadn’t changed. If anything, she was waiting, giving him space without leaving it entirely. Something in her stillness felt too forgiving. It made him want to shrink into his hoodie and disappear completely.

His voice came out low and awkward, the syllables catching like gravel in his throat. “Hey... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do anything. You were just getting on my nerves, that’s all.” He winced even as he said it. The words felt like weak camouflage over something more fragile.

Then something shifted. One of the pens on his desk—just like the one from the day before—began to stir, as though moved by an unseen force. It lifted soundlessly, leaving behind a faint crimson glow as it drifted through the air and hovered over a blank page, deliberately avoiding the one Chuuya had been scribbling on. Without pause, it began to write:

I should be the one apologizing, Chuuya. I won’t push you anymore. I know what it feels like—to want to stay silent, to keep things close because you’re afraid speaking them aloud might make them real. But Chuuya... if something’s hurting you, maybe telling me would help. That’s the only way I know how to repay you—by listening.

The pen stilled.

Chuuya stared at the message in disbelief, every part of him tense. That shouldn’t have surprised him. Scarlet had done this before. And yet, now... now it struck a different chord. Maybe because the words weren’t asked, they offered. Not pity. Not pressure. Just something... softer.

He sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple. “You’re really not going to drop this, are you?”

A chirp answered. Not too bright. Not too sharp. Just right.

His lips quirked into the faintest smile. Then it vanished as quickly as it came.

“Have you ever missed home?” he asked suddenly. “I mean... really missed it? The kind of missing that turns your stomach inside out and makes the air taste wrong?” He looked at her again, slower this time. “Because that’s where I’m at. I don’t even know if ‘home’ exists anymore. But I remember it. I remember how I felt there. And being here—it’s like watching that memory fade every day while pretending you’re okay.”

"I'm not a person who's okay with that, I cherish every single one of 'em, even the embarrassing ones..."

Chuuya hadn’t come down for dinner.

This wasn’t out of the ordinary. He was a quiet presence in the house—introverted, contemplative, and often quick to excuse himself from communal routines with a mumbled “not hungry.” While curry nights were usually met with enthusiastic chatter, Chuuya sometimes chose solitude over steaming bowls and conversation, and that was respected. Yet tonight, Hizashi couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The rhythm of the evening felt out of tune, like a missing chord in a familiar melody.

He ascended the stairs with deliberate steps and knocked softly on Chuuya’s door. No answer came. He waited a moment longer, then reached for the handle. The door creaked open without resistance—it hadn’t been locked, not even properly closed. That in itself was strange. Chuuya wasn’t careless.

The room inside was dim, quiet, and empty of its usual occupant. Perhaps he was in the bathroom, already asleep beneath layers of sheets—but something on the desk caught Hizashi’s eye before any further guesses could form. It was stark against the usual clutter: a sketchbook, open and turned toward the door as though waiting to be seen.

Aizawa had followed silently, ever the observer. Both men stepped inside with muted caution, drawn to the sketch as if summoned.

At first, it seemed ordinary—pencil work in monochrome, with faint hints of red pastel that bled into shadows. But as they leaned closer, the drawing revealed itself in unsettling layers. It depicted a bird, elegant in posture and regal in bearing, almost too pristine to be real. Each feather had been drawn with sharp precision, and yet there was fluidity, grace, and an eerie presence woven between every line. The eyes of the bird pierced through the page, reflecting more than light—there was awareness in them.

And then, on one of its wings, a detail emerged: a black rose. It was subtle, tucked into the curvature of the plumage, but unmistakably deliberate. A mark left with intention.

There was something deeply personal about the image. It didn’t feel like fantasy or stylistic exercise—it felt like memory, translated through graphite and pigment. It had the energy of experience, not invention.

“Have you seen anything like this before?” Hizashi asked, his voice losing its usual edge.

“No,” Aizawa said. “But he didn’t make it up.”

There was tension buried in the drawing. Not just in the subject matter, but in the sensation, it stirred—as if the creature depicted was watching them back. Its gaze followed their movements, regal but unreadable. There was beauty in its presence, but it was distant. Untouchable.

“You think it’s a dream?” Hizashi ventured, unsure if he wanted the answer.

Aizawa didn’t hesitate. “Dreams don’t leave marks like that.”

"Not from what I know."

They didn’t take photographs. They didn’t touch the sketchbook. Something in them warned against it. A fragile trust hovered in the room—if it existed at all—and neither wanted to disturb it.

As they stepped out, Aizawa left the door ajar, the gesture- deliberate, uncertain. They descended the staircase in wordless accord, the echo of their steps filling the quiet house.

“He’s not from here, is he?” Hizashi asked once they reached the stairwell, voice hushed.

“No,” Aizawa replied slowly. His tone held weight. “But I think something else came with him… and I’m not sure it’s something we should look forward to.”

(Get ready for some serious mood change. Like VERY serious)

Pink_Alienqueen(￣3￣)╭ — Two minutes ago*

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—!!!!!!!!

Yaomomo ❤ — Two minutes ago

Mina, darling, I share your enthusiasm, but perhaps limit the screaming just a little?

!I'mstill_here! — One minute ago

OH MY GOSH—PRACTICAL CLASSES?!?!!? ACTUAL. TRAINING. IN. UNIFORMS. I am vibrating. Like. Literally. My desk almost flew.

CLASS_REPRESENTATIVE_OF_1A — One minute ago

Please ensure we maintain proper spelling and punctuation in all group messages. While our excitement is understandable, clarity and grammar are paramount when addressing one’s peers.

Pink_Alienqueen(￣3￣)╭ — Just now*

Remind me again why we added grammar police to the chat... (¬_¬")

Music_is_the-vernacular-of_the-human-soul— Just now
Smooth one, Mina. Real smooth. Next time, punctuate the scream 😐

💥KING💣EXPLOSION💣MURDER💥 — Just now.
FOR ONCE I AGREE WITH THE PINK ONE, FOUR EYES! HELL YEAH— TIME TO SHOW EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU WHAT A REAL BOOMING ENTRANCE LOOKS LIKE 💥🔥 PREPARE TO GET SENT FLYING BACK TO WHATEVER TEENY ROCK YOU CRAWLED OUT OF YA LOSERS!

YOU'RE FRANKLY WELCOME. 😎

Mina froze mid-scroll, her thumb still hovering above the last dramatic explosion of emojis she'd sent to the group chat. Her brain was buzzing, half from anticipation and half from caffeine—thank you, grape soda—and she was just about to send another string of heart-eyed faces when a shadow fell across her desk.

She blinked up.

Oh no.

Oh no-no-no-no yes.

They were here.

The classroom door slid open like the start of a new season in one of Yaoyorozu’s favorite dramas—ominous music not required, but definitely implied—and in stormed Bakugo Katsuki, exuding more chaotic energy than the group chat on a collective sugar bender. His boots hit the polished floor with the aggression of someone trying to teach gravity a lesson in dominance. That scowl? Trademarked. Bulletproof. A national treasure of rage.

And trailing behind him?

Class 1-A—pouring in like a caffeine-fueled avalanche of adrenaline, volume, and unpredictable quirks.

Kirishima fired off a toothy grin and finger guns like he was greeting a live studio audience.

Ochaco? Bouncing. Full-on spring-loaded, her eyes lit up like fairy lights strung across an emotional festival.

Jirou strolled in with one earbud jammed in, the other ear tuned into Denki—who was juggling three pens like he believed pen-juggling was a required skill for survival in post-apocalyptic society.

Even Todoroki was present. Quiet. Calculated. Sipping from a thermos Mina was 94% sure contained soup and suppressed feelings.

But Bakugo was the one she locked onto first. His energy was seismic.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t have to. His whole aura delivered the message.

“Clear out,” he barked—not at her, not at anyone in particular, but with enough force to scatter emotional debris. “I’m not sitting near sparkles.”

Aoyama raised his chin with grace and defiance.

“I sparkle with dignity, thank you very much,” he replied, a glittering shield of self-love firmly intact.

Bakugo’s eye twitched.

Mina counted that as a win.

Aizawa hadn’t arrived yet, which meant this was officially pre-class chaos time. Mina leaned toward Yaoyorozu’s desk, stage-whispered, “It’s starting. It’s really starting.”

Yaoyorozu merely nodded, composed as ever, but Mina saw the way her fingers tapped the edge of her book—rhythmic. Ready.

There was something electric in the air. Like the beginning of a tournament arc but without the announcer yelling through a megaphone. The desks felt more like launchpads than furniture, and for once, everyone—everyone—seemed to be vibrating with the same question:

boosted diction, and extra flair woven through the wording. I’ve kept your tone and structure completely intact, just layered some sparkle on top.

What kind of practical was this going to be?

Mina clutched her phone to her chest like it was a sacred artifact—precious, revered, irreplaceable—eyes wide with anticipation.

Let the mayhem commence...

The classroom had finally quieted into a gentle hum of nerves and whispering anticipation. Desks were filled, seats taken, and the usual chatter had simmered down into jittery energy as everyone waited for Aizawa—who was always late by exactly enough seconds to feel intentional.

Mina sat upright, eyes darting toward the door. She half-expected him to stumble in, wrapped in his capture weapon, eye bags deeper than Denki’s excuses.

But this time... it was different.

The door didn’t slide open with its usual nonchalance. It didn’t creak or hiss or groan beneath Aizawa’s habitually exhausted aura. Instead, the lights above flickered once—barely noticeable—and the door opened slowly, silently. Like the beginning of a scene. A performance. A new arc.

Aizawa walked in, but something about him felt... off. Not bad. Just peculiar. Like he’d been watching all of them from some secret room where the plot thickens and decisions get made.

He stopped mid-step, gaze sweeping over the class without blinking. No tired sigh. No slouch. Just quiet intensity.

“I trust you all slept enough to survive what’s coming,” he said coolly. “Listen carefully. Today marks the beginning of your practical course series. In other words: your training just got real.”

A hum of reactions rippled through the class. Jirou sat up straighter. Iida nearly vibrated into another dimension. Bakugo cracked his knuckles with dramatic emphasis.

But Aizawa wasn’t finished.

“We’ll be adjusting the curriculum to reflect higher-level combat interactions. Class will take place both on-site and off-grid,” he said, pacing slowly. “And since you’ll need to learn how to work with unpredictable variables... we’ve added one.”

He stopped.

Mina leaned forward, her brain already chasing the implications like glitter on caffeine.

“We have a new student joining you,” Aizawa said. “He’ll be working alongside you during practicals. Nakahara Chuuya. You’ll treat him as you would any other teammate.”

He turned toward the door.

And that’s when Mina’s heart practically yeeted itself across the room.

Because in stepped Chuuya, all cool and effortlessly refined, like someone had bottled elegance and laced it with danger. His steps were quiet. His posture radiated unspoken confidence. The orange-red hair. The black coat. That sharp-eyed gaze that hinted he’d already calculated everyone’s weak spot just by blinking.

Several students gasped audibly. Uraraka elbowed Yaoyorozu gently. Kaminari gawked with open admiration. Even Todoroki tilted his head a fraction—not out of confusion, but intrigue.

But the Bakusquad? Oh, they just exchanged knowing smirks. Kirishima gave Mina a subtle side glance that said We told you so. Bakugo didn’t look up, but Mina swore she saw the hint of a nod, like this new variable was one he’d already measured for volatility.

Mina couldn’t stop grinning.

It was him. It was the guy.

The mysterious stranger from earlier who had claimed—so calmly, so casually—that he was starting at UA. And now he was here. Actually here. Standing in their classroom like the setup to a plot twist.

Her excitement doubled, tripled, quadrupled until she was practically bouncing in her seat.

And mentally?

She made the call.

Bakusquad membership: unlocked.

The classroom buzzed with curiosity, barely contained behind polite smiles and subtle stares. Chuuya Nakahara had officially arrived—standing near Aizawa’s desk with the composure of someone who’d stepped into foreign territory but made it feel like home. His uniform fit perfectly. His posture was dignified but relaxed. And his gaze? Sharp. Like he could read the mood in the room faster than Iida could recite the school rules.

Mina leaned forward in her seat, elbows on her desk, grinning so hard it was a miracle her face hadn’t cracked into confetti. This was so much better than imagined. He looked even cooler than last time.

Not only was he here, not only was he real—he was surrounded by half the class already.

And boy, were they doing what 1-A does best: Question Blitz.

“So, what’s your quirk?” came from Uraraka, eyes sparkling.

Chuuya blinked once, then answered simply.

“Gravity manipulation.”

Heads turned. Some brows shot up. That wasn’t exactly standard issue.

“I can redirect or increase the gravitational force on myself, objects, even areas,” he added with casual precision. “Makes falling and fighting more interesting.”

Denki looked amazed. “Whoa, like a zero-gravity kick or something? That’s insane!”

“Sounds elegant,” Yaoyorozu murmured, nodding thoughtfully. “And dangerous if used creatively.”

Jirou leaned in. “Any side effects?”

Chuuya tilted his head slightly, thoughtful.

“If I overdo it, yeah. Headaches. Balance issues. Kind of turns the world into soup for a bit.”

“Sounds like my Monday mornings,” Mina piped up, making a few people chuckle.

“Who’s your favorite hero?” Kirishima asked next, voice bright, a little more casual.

Chuuya paused.

“It’s hard to pick, but I’ve always respected Kamui Woods. He’s precise. Uses the battlefield intelligently. Never wastes motion.”

Aizawa-sensei's neutral face turned to face him in what seemed to be disbelief, but Chuuya shot him a glare in response.

She wonders what relationship Chuuya had with their homeroom teacher.

Iida looked impressed.

“An excellent choice! Coordination and efficiency are essential pillars of successful heroism.”

“Okay, real question though,” Denki grinned. “How’d you get your hair that color? It’s super manly!”

The room rippled with laughter. Even Todoroki cracked a faint smirk.

Chuuya ran a hand through his fiery red hair and shrugged.

“It’s natural,” he said, a little wryly. “I think I just annoyed the genetics lottery into giving me something dramatic.”

Mina giggled.

“You look dramatic in the best way possible.”

He smiled at that. Not smug. Not flirty. Just soft.

Then someone—not cruel, just curious—asked the next one.

“Do you live with your family?”

The air didn’t freeze. It just stilled. Like someone had shut a book mid-page.

Chuuya’s eyes lowered for a breath. When he looked up, the smile returned, tight but intact.

“I don't live with 'em. I barely ever get to see their faces. I'd appreciate it if this was a closed topic.”

Again, something shifted in Aizawa-sensei's eyes...

No one pressed. His tone wasn’t defensive—it was decisive. Kind. But guarded in a way you couldn’t argue with.

Mina tilted her head, watching him.

Something about the way he deflected reminded her of Aizawa—quiet strength wrapped in unanswered pages. And just like that, her internal squad radar pinged again.

Confirmed: Bakusquad material. Mystery backstory? Check. Cool under pressure? Check. Stylish deflections and gravity powers? Double check.

She leaned toward Kirishima and whispered,

“I’m inducting him for real this time.”

“I thought you did that two scenes ago,” he whispered back.

“I did,” she said simply. “This is the ceremonial reaffirmation.”

He chuckled softly and glanced away, leaving her to do the same.

Mina smugly raised her hand as an idea popped into her mind.

“So, Chuuya, do you have a love interest right now~? I mean, look at you. It’d be totally wrong for you not to have one!”

Noticing their teacher closing his eyes with a neutral expression, Mina figured he wouldn’t care about where the question led, so she took it as a green light to continue. The whole class quieted down, waiting for his response.

Chuuya's face flushed a bright red, and he stammered, caught off guard.

"...I-I don’t—"

“—think this is ANY of your business...!”

Groans and disappointed murmurs rippled through the room.

“Are you guys even allowed to ask such questions...!?” he added, his tone tinged with irritation, throwing pointed looks at Aizawa-sensei.

Without missing a beat, another hand confidently shot up.

“I know this is sudden,” Jirou began, “but are there any things you really dislike that we should avoid doing? Honestly, our little group doesn’t have much in the way of boundaries, so it’d help if you set some lines we shouldn’t cross.”

He looked at her with approval, seemingly impressed by such a thoughtful question.

Without missing a beat, another hand confidently shot up.

"I know this is sudden," Jirou began, "but are there any things you really dislike that we should avoid doing? Honestly, our little group doesn’t have much in the way of boundaries, so it’d help if you set some lines we shouldn’t cross."

He looked at her with approval, seemingly impressed by such a thoughtful question.

“It’s not something I like admitting,” Chuuya muttered reluctantly, “but I can get pretty cranky when things don't go my way. I tend to do stupid things when I'm angry, so if I ever say or do something mean in the heat of the moment, don't take it to heart. I'll come back to apologize once I've cooled off.”

His voice was low, edged in that kind of vulnerability that came not from weakness, but from brutal honesty.

“If you want me to respect you, respect yourself. Don't mind if my words come off a bit blunt—they're usually true. So, take them seriously.”

He paused, a deeper breath pushing through his chest.

“And I suppose I should warn you about this: if I'm angry for a reason you have no clue about... fuck off and stay out of my way, or I'll do something you really won't like. I'm not kidding, so keep your distance until I'm back to being all sunshine and lollipops...”

His gaze darkened, sharpening into something less poetic and more primal. And his voice dropped—rougher now, laced with razor edges and a chilling promise.

“It's for your own good. I won’t hesitate to knock some teeth out, regardless of the consequences, if any of these boundaries are crossed.”

He let the words linger.

“I trust that's clear to everyone, 1-A, with no room for misunderstandings?”

A hush swept through the room like someone had opened a window to a thunderstorm. A few whimpers escaped, followed by shaky affirmations. Even Bakugo, ever the volatile one, tsked but kept his mouth shut.

Aizawa-sensei had finally opened his eyes, tracking the mood like a hawk, taking in whatever this interaction had become between the class and its newest addition.

Then—

Like flipping a switch—

Chuuya’s posture relaxed. The menace evaporated. He tilted his head slightly, that signature smirk returning like he’d pulled off a theatrical monologue.

“Apart from all that, I don't bite at all,” he offered with a shrug.

Then with perfect comedic timing—

“...Well, unless you want me to,” he added smoothly.

Laughter—tinged with nervous relief—bubbled across the classroom. Even the tension couldn’t hold back the soft chuckles and exasperated fond eyerolls. Somehow, Chuuya had turned menace into charm, and landed himself squarely in the realm of fascinating mystery with just the right touch of chaos.

He made his way to his seat, unfortunately located near the front of the classroom due to his height—an indignity he seemed to accept with silent suffering.

Aizawa watched silently as Chuuya took his seat, the air still buzzing from the storm of questions and occasional threats. Once the room regained a whisper of order, he stepped forward, arms tucked in the swaddled mess of his capture weapon, gaze fixed and tone dry as sandpaper.

“If we’re done treating introductions like a red carpet interview, I’d like to move on.”

A pause. He gave the students a beat to sit up, shut up, and focus.

“From this moment forward, your practical coursework begins. It’ll be ongoing, intensive, and subject to unpredictable variations. I don’t care how confident you feel now—you won’t be by the end of the week.”

He shifted, eyes scanning the room with deliberate precision.

“Your training will take place on-site and off-grid. That means locations will change. Environments won’t be tailored to your comfort zones. If you’ve got allergies, phobias, or unresolved vendettas, work through them quickly. They won't be considered.”

His gaze narrowed.

“Regarding your hero costumes. If you took the instructions seriously, you should have already submitted your preferences, design sketches, or physical specs to the support course, that includes you, Chuuya."

Chuuya huffed audibly and rolled his eyes, "I submitted it, I'm many things but not stupid. You, by now should've been able to figure I would."

"That team doesn’t chase after anyone. If you forgot, congrats—you’ll be training in standard issue until you fix it.”

He let the implications hang, then added bluntly—

“Your gear—just like your quirks—should evolve with your skills. What looked cool on paper won’t save you in a high-pressure simulation. So, if you prioritized aesthetics over function, you’ll find out exactly how dumb that was.”

A flicker of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, barely visible.

“Now, unless anyone’s planning a dramatic fainting spell, you’ll change into your gear and report to the ground floor, east wing. The training zone is already set. If you’re slow, I’ll know. And if you’re loud... I’ll regret being awake.”

He turned toward the door, already halfway done with their nonsense.

“Move.”

The class got going, and classes at UA just got a quadrillion times better!!!

EEEEEK!!!

"You're screaming in my ear..." Shoji groaned unexpectedly disgruntled.

She shot him an apologetic 'tee-hee' before scurrying off along with the class.

Mina hopes she could get some more read on this new guy, but he looks friendly enough. Worst thing that could happen is he rejects the offer to be in the Bakusquad or he pisses Bakugo off, but those thoughts seemed far away.

For now, she was on her way to becoming a hero!  

Chapter Text

🌙 Chapter 6 Delay Announcement 🌙 Hey lovely readers,

This isn’t the post I wanted to write, but here we are! Turns out my school decided to throw a little plot twist of its own—our exam dates got moved up by four days. Four. Days. In story terms, that's like giving a side character the spotlight right when the main couple was about to talk… you know, hypothetically 😉

So instead of finalizing Chapter 6 for you all, I’ll be swapping my pen for textbooks and emotional angst for academic anxiety (though one suspiciously resembles the other). Don't worry, this isn't a long hiatus—just a small breather while I get through this arc of "Mel Battles the Academic Crunch."

To those eagerly waiting to see what happens next after that moment at the end of Chapter 5—yes, that moment—I promise Chapter 6 is going to reward your patience. Let's just say… not everyone is as honest as they seem, one person's past resurfaces in an unexpected setting, and someone makes a choice they can't take back 👀

I can't wait to share it with you once my brain isn't entirely occupied with formulas and essay outlines. Thank you for sticking with me—your support is what makes this whole storytelling adventure worth it 💛

Until then, stay hydrated, stay hyped, and maybe reread the last paragraph of Chapter 5. Slowly. You might catch something I definitely didn’t plant there on purpose 😇

Thanks for anticipating- and sorry for leading you on.

—Mel (It's a stupid nickname my friend gave to me- It's kinda stuck now)

Chapter Text

📢 A Little Heart-to-Heart + Fic Reveal Time!

Hello, hello, hello guys! 💫

I wanted to take a moment—like, a real moment—to sit down and gather my thoughts before dropping the next chapter (which will be posted exactly two days from now, so don’t worry, I’m not ghosting you!). Life’s been throwing curveballs lately, and I’ve been trying to dodge them like I’m Megamind or something. Spoiler: I’m not. I wish I had his brainpower and snappy comebacks, but I’m just me—someone who struggles to say things out loud, so I write instead. This space is where I feel heard, and I’m grateful you’re here with me.

I won’t sugarcoat it—motivation’s been slipping through my fingers like sand. Between school, expectations, and the pressure to always deliver, I’ve been feeling stretched thin. Sometimes I need to step away from my current fic and pour energy into other ideas that are quietly waiting in the wings. It’s not abandonment—it’s survival. And creativity, for me, isn’t linear. It’s messy, emotional, and sometimes chaotic.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re failing just because you’re tired, trust me—you’re not. I see you. I am you.

📚 Current Fic:

The World Moved Too Fast (The Love Inside These Walls Never Left)

Genre: Married SKK AU | Chuuya-centric | Fluff + Angst This fic is my current main project, and it’s been a journey. Writing fluff and angst together is like trying to mix oil and water—but I’m learning. It’s deeply personal, and while I’m still finding my footing, I’ve poured a lot of love into it. There are original characters, layered emotions, and a plot that’s been mapped out in my head for months. It almost feels wrong not to tell you about it. So here I am—telling you. No spoilers, though. You’ll have to read it yourself. 😉

🧪 Upcoming Projects: Help Me Choose!

I’ve got a few new fics in development, and I’m genuinely torn about which one to post first. They’re all different flavors of chaos, and each one means something special to me. So, I’m asking you—yes, you—to help me decide. Drop a comment with a keyword from the fic title you want me to start with. Whether you’re a guest or a registered user, your voice matters. I’ll be manually counting votes (because tech hates me), so make it easy for me, okay?

🧟‍♂️ Come with Me, Let’s Escape Now

Genre: Apocalypse BSD AU | K-pop AU • Thriller • Psychological Drama • Survival Horror

Inspired by the haunting energy of “Escape” by Hyunjin and Bang Chan (seriously, go listen—it’s a whole vibe), this fic throws Nakahara Chuuya into a world that’s crumbling fast. But this isn’t just any apocalypse—it’s one soaked in neon lights, broken trust, and the eerie silence of fame turned isolation.

Chuuya is a global icon. A K-pop star with a massive international fanbase, flawless choreography, and a voice that could melt steel. He’s not Korean, but he’s signed under one of the biggest Korean entertainment companies in the world. His life is a whirlwind of performances, interviews, and curated perfection. But when a deadly virus begins to spread—one that turns infected humans into bloodthirsty, mindless monsters—everything collapses.

The virus hits fast. Cities fall. Governments crumble. The entertainment industry vanishes overnight. Chuuya, once surrounded by bodyguards and flashing cameras, finds himself completely alone. His luxury apartment, once a sanctuary, becomes a target. A group of desperate survivors raids his home, steals his supplies, and locks him out. No one cares who he is anymore. Fame doesn’t protect you when the world ends.

Now, Chuuya is forced to survive in a city overrun by infected creatures. He’s untrained, exhausted, and emotionally fraying at the edges. His designer clothes are torn, his voice hoarse from screaming, and his pride shattered. He’s doing a terrible job at surviving—until he’s ambushed in an alleyway and nearly killed.

Enter: the stranger.

A mysterious man appears out of nowhere, saving Chuuya with brutal efficiency. He’s handsome, eerily calm, and claims to be Chuuya’s biggest fan. But his admiration is... unsettling. He knows things he shouldn’t. He’s been watching. And he offers Chuuya a deal: protection, shelter, and survival—in exchange for complete obedience. Chuuya must do anything he asks. No questions. No refusals.

As they travel together through the ruins of civilization, Chuuya begins to question everything. Who is this man? Why does he know so much about him? Is he truly a fan—or something far more dangerous? The stranger’s behavior shifts between charming and controlling, protective and possessive. Their dynamic becomes a twisted dance of power, vulnerability, and psychological tension.

Meanwhile, the infected are evolving. The virus is mutating. And whispers of a hidden facility—one that might hold the key to reversing the outbreak—begin to surface. But reaching it means crossing territories ruled by violent survivor factions, navigating monster-infested zones, and confronting the ghosts of Chuuya’s past.

This isn’t just a survival story. It’s a descent into identity, control, and the terrifying question: what are you willing to sacrifice to stay alive?

“Come with Me, Let’s Escape Now” is a gritty, emotionally charged apocalypse fic that blends the glamour of K-pop with the horror of a collapsing world. It explores fame in isolation, the fragility of trust, and the blurred line between devotion and obsession. Think Train to Busan meets You meets The Last of Us, with Chuuya at the center of it all—fighting not just monsters, but the terrifying intimacy of being truly seen.

🏕️ Hello! Camp Terrors.

Genre: High School BSD AU | Horror • Sci-Fi • Teen Drama • Psychological Suspense

Welcome to BSD High—where the curriculum just got a whole lot darker.

In a bizarre twist of academic innovation, the school board has introduced a new mandatory subject: Survivalism. The goal? To teach students how to adapt, endure, and thrive in unpredictable environments. The method? Ship them off to a remote, uncharted island for a full month. No teachers. No parents. No contact with the outside world. Just the students... and the School Council, tasked with overseeing the entire operation. Naturally, Chuuya Nakahara is on the council—and naturally, he’s already suspicious.

The island itself is unsettling. Chuuya calls it “possibly haunted,” but that’s putting it mildly. The trees are too tall, too twisted. The air feels heavy, like it’s watching. Strange noises echo through the forest at night—whispers, footsteps, the occasional scream that no one wants to admit they heard. The campgrounds are poorly mapped, and the terrain shifts in ways that defy logic. Some students swear they’ve seen figures in the woods. Others claim the shadows move when no one’s looking.

The assignment is simple: survive, contribute, and earn points based on leadership, resourcefulness, and teamwork. But when Nakahara Chuuya and Dazai Osamu cross paths in the dead of night, things take a sinister turn. While arguing (as usual), they accidentally overhear a chilling conversation between two unknown figures deep in the forest. The voices are distorted, inhuman. The content? Terrifying. It becomes clear that the students are not alone on the island—and whatever else is out there isn’t part of the curriculum.

Now, Chuuya and Dazai must work together to uncover the truth in secrecy- making sure no one else but them knows about this. But cooperation isn’t easy when your history is tangled with unresolved tension, bruised egos, and hormones that seem to spike every time you’re forced into close proximity. Their dynamic is volatile—equal parts rivalry, attraction, and emotional chaos. As they investigate the island’s secrets, they begin to unravel not only the mystery of the haunting, but also the layers of their own relationship.

Meanwhile, the rest of the students are blissfully unaware. But time is running out. The island is changing. People are disappearing. And the line between hallucination and reality is starting to blur.

Will Chuuya and Dazai manage to expose the truth before the entire camp descends into madness? Will they finally confront the emotional storm brewing between them? Or will they fall prey to the unnatural forces lurking in the shadows—creatures born from something far older and far more malevolent than anyone could have imagined?

“Hello! Camp Terrors.” is a slow-burn horror fic with psychological twists, emotional depth, and a cast of angsty, hormonal teenagers trying to survive both literal monsters and the ones inside themselves. Think Lord of the Flies meets Stranger Things, with a dash of BSD chaos and a whole lot of unresolved romantic tension.

🗳️ How to Vote

Just comment with a keyword from the fic title you want me to post first:

• “Escape” for the apocalypse AU

• “Camp” for the horror high school AU

• Or just scream “SKK” if you want me to keep going with the current fic (this one)

I’ll count every vote manually, (Because I sadly don't know how else to conduct this) so don’t be shy! Your input genuinely helps me stay motivated and feel connected.

💬 Final Thoughts

Please be kind in the comments. I’ve seen how quickly things can spiral, and it hurts to witness conflict I can’t fix. This space is for creativity, connection, and comfort. Let’s protect that.

And hey—stay hydrated. Or else... 😈 (Seriously. Drink water. Your brain will thank you.)

I think that's it. Thanks for reading! This is seriously appreciated.

Chapter Text

The coordinates were disturbingly precise. No margin of error, no drift, just a dead-center lock on a location the Demon Prodigy had never tread—not physically, not mentally. The eerie part wasn’t just where they led; it was how Dazai got them.

Surveillance footage—shaky, grainy—froze exactly the moment she turned her eyes toward the lens. No sound. No timestamp ticking forward. The timer paused. Paused. As if acknowledging her gaze was enough to disrupt space-time itself.

A hint.

And Dazai knew better than to accept hints from entities like her. Vague breadcrumbs from the enemy usually spelled out a trap with artistic calligraphy. But this... wasn’t ordinary. She was calculated. A cosmic anomaly wrapped in human flesh. And while Dazai had faced countless enemies before—men who smiled too wide, women who whispered in riddles—none had unsettled him this way. None, perhaps, except the chibi. But even then, the chibi’s chaos had a rhythm. This woman? This Lady Scarlet?

Her aura twisted. It didn’t scream danger; it whispered it, curling into that quiet, inaccessible corner of his brain where instinct and fear danced. Something about her made him hesitate—not in movement, but in judgment. Was she even human? Or just a very convincing performance of one?

Still, it wasn’t her that scared him. Dazai feared nothing so singularly. No, it was the circumstances—the entire theater of it all—that unnerved him. Chuuya, his little tempest, was planted in unknown terrain. The Demon Prodigy assumed he’d either wing it or punch his way out, both equally likely, both recklessly brilliant.

But something was wrong.

She—Scarlet—wanted him dead. Not metaphorically. Not as a fleeting desire whispered under breath. Dazai saw it in her eyes. Not the kind of rage that flared and fizzled. It was etched into her soul. Those eyes... those fox eyes... they held the loss of something primal. Like a creature mourning its pack, sharpening its claws to avenge it.

Revenge. That ancient drive. But why Chuuya?

The slug wasn’t exactly charming, sure, but Dazai had seen him stumble through thousands of sins and still come out punchable but pure. He couldn’t imagine Chuuya harming someone like Scarlet—not without cause, not unless she begged for it. So the idea that she wanted him gone—erased, extinguished—felt like bad fiction.

Worse? Dazai didn’t know what to do.

He was certain Chuuya could survive in this BNHA-infused alternate reality. He’d probably thrive, actually. But this wasn’t just a power test. It was psychological warfare. And these entities... whatever they were... didn’t play fair.

Dazai didn’t flinch, but internally, he shook. Not for himself, no. For Chuuya. For the stupid, reckless, occasionally infuriating teenager who still wore his pain like armor and his sarcasm like perfume. For the grin that sometimes-made things bearable. For the one person who didn’t ask to be the vessel of something apocalyptic.

It was selfish. Absolutely selfish. But Chuuya was Dazai’s. Not in ownership, not in contract. In meaning. In presence. That boy was the loud heartbeat beneath the silence of Dazai’s masked existence. A constant. A reminder. A contradiction.

And the idea of him trusting someone else—her—was nearly enough to send Dazai spiraling.

He’d never admit that. Of course not. But the thought of watching Chuuya break, watching that explosive laugh fade into a void of compliance—it was haunting. She wasn’t just a villain. She was a thief. Not of lives, but of color. And Dazai couldn’t afford to lose his brightest shade of red.

Lady Scarlet could go to hell. Preferably slowly.

She could threaten, she could scheme, she could beg the gods themselves for vengeance, but she was not taking what made Dazai alive. Not his hurricane. Not his tether. Not the one entity he couldn’t replace no matter how deeply he calculated it.

She’d have to kill him first.

He'd rather live.

...

The coordinates dragged Dazai to a place even his mind struggled to register—a broken urban edge where glass glinted from ceilings instead of floors, and the air pulsed with unnatural humidity. Still, he approached without hesitation, coat flaring like a noir prophecy.

The center of it all?

A portal.

Not just any portal. This one hovered midair, suspended by threads of glitching data and violet light, framed by jagged platforms floating like stepping stones in a spiraling void. It looked like someone programmed frustration into geometry.

“A portal and a parkour course?” Dazai muttered, staring up at the obby challenge ahead. Metal ledges blinked in and out of existence, fire jets hissed from nowhere, and he was pretty sure the last section required sacrificing sanity or solving quantum physics. Probably both.

He took a deep breath and exhaled dramatically. “Tsk. I swear, I leave my dog alone for one minute and he decides to go get himself lost in another reality. Chuuyaaaa~ You better have a leash on next time.”

With a mocking flourish, he cracked his knuckles, then swung himself onto the first platform.

“Too much work,” he sighed with exaggerated weariness, hopping to the next. “Should’ve just left him with a chew toy and instructions not to trigger interdimensional chaos.”

Another jump. Narrow ledge. Flip over a collapsing tile.

He kept moving—not fast, but precise, his every step calculated, every motion a defiance against the twisted physics around him. He smirked like he was mocking the very concept of difficulty.

“But don’t worry, mutt,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as the portal shimmered closer. “I’ll get you back. Whether you’re bruised or just emotionally scarred... doesn’t matter.”

There was no dread in his voice. No second-guessing. Just confidence so blinding it felt sacrilegious.

Because Chuuya was more than a partner. More than a rival.

He was Dazai's.

And Dazai always retrieves what's his.

He stood at the portal’s edge, violet light flickering against his coat, illuminating the smug smirk stitched onto his face like a warning.

The floating platforms behind him blinked out one by one, disintegrating into particles as if the world itself was eager to erase his trail. But Dazai didn’t look back.

Instead, he tilted his head, voice light, deceptively sweet:

“Let’s see which of us breaks first—her resolve, his bones, or my patience. My bets are on patience.”

Then, with one final step, he vanished into the storm.

The moment Dazai stepped through the portal, it wasn’t just color and sound that shifted—it was everything.

The familiar weight of gravity disappeared. His footing found no ground. It felt like falling through liquid glass—fluid, cold, and cracking around him in reflections he couldn’t blink away.

For half a second, he saw six versions of himself spiraling outward: one with the bandages burned off, another laughing manically, one clutching the mangled remains of a coat, one wearing non-Port Mafia certified clothing, one in a Mersault uniform? And one—just one—watching Chuuya walk away in silence.

He didn’t flinch. But something inside curled tight.

Suddenly, the space warped. Buildings twisted like soft clay, time zigzagged across his vision, and the air—oh, the air—tasted like static.

And then he landed.

Hard. On concrete that bled dark red cracks, as if wounded by his arrival.

No pain, of course. Just impact. A brutal welcome

Dazai rose slowly, straightening his coat like he hadn’t just crashed into a reality that felt copy-pasted by a morally confused god. He scanned the surroundings from the comfort of a back alley drenched in glitching shadows—neon signs flickered overhead like dying stars, leaking color into every crack. The city outside was... surreal. A carousel of walking anomalies.

People moved along the streets with features that strained definition. He saw tails, horns, multiple arms, liquid limbs, hair like flame, skin like crystal. Every second person wore an aesthetic that screamed mutation. Occasionally, a normal human passed through—a breath of boring in the storm—and it somehow made things feel even more disturbing.

Dazai’s lip curled. Quirks. Or whatever they were trying to be.

He leaned against the alley wall, hands tucked in his pockets, one of them grazing something familiar. He gripped it softly. A dog collar. Not just any collar—Chuuya's. (A choker, one would say.) ("It's a collar. don't listen to her. I'm talking, not her. And I'm always right.")

It was proof. Proof that Dazai had every intention of finding him. Claiming him. Dragging him back home if necessary. That’s what a responsible owner does.

Then, almost choreographed by the universe for maximum dramatic effect, a newspaper fluttered across the concrete and landed near his boot. He tilted his head.

“THE BEST HIGH SCHOOL FOR YOUNG HEROES — UA RECEIVES THE NO.1 HERO IN JAPAN AS A TEACHER THIS YEAR.”

He picked it up, eyes scanning the headline, absorbing the implications without a single twitch of emotion.

“Ah... so that’s where they’ve got you leashed.”

So Chuuya was at UA.

A place full of self-righteous brats learning to slap labels like “justice” on their quirks. He could already smell the optimism from here. Sickly sweet. And revolting.

“Nope. I’m not stepping into that glitter-coated institution,” he muttered after reading the article. “Even if Chuuya’s dangling from the rooftop by his stupid boots screaming my name.” (Now that sounds entertaining...)

Heroes? Ugh.

He’d rather be called a villain. At least they were honest about their intentions.

But if UA was where his dog was hiding—or being hidden—then he’d need another route. Someone who could escort him in... or drag him through the gates whether they liked it or not. Dazai didn’t mind manipulation or brute force. Friendly or feral, didn’t matter. He’d make it happen.

He stuffed the paper into his coat, fingers still brushing against the collar. Then he stepped out of the alley, eyes scanning the world with that trademark look—half amusement, half threat.

“I hate it when my dog wanders off and ends up in a hero training camp,” he sighed. “Now I’ve got to hunt him down like a leash-holding, emotionally conflicted lunatic. Tch... too much work.” He grinned. Wide. Dangerous, “But lucky me. I’m the only lunatic qualified for the job.”

Carefully and calculated, he turned around and stepped deeper into the alley, following the smell of nicotine.

(Looks like I've found this 'help' already~)

The halls of UA pulsed with light and ambition—metallic corridors dressed in pristine gloss, posters of smiling pro heroes plastered on almost every surface. Chuuya walked with clenched fists tucked into his newly tailored uniform pants, boots clicking against polished tile too clean to be real. It all felt weirdly sterile, like a surgical lab masquerading as a school.

He hated it.

Not because it was ugly. Not because it was too shiny. But because it wasn’t him. No mold here had ever been shaped to hold someone like him.

He was now in the male locker room, and already the nerves were clawing up his spine. Not fear, no—just tension. The kind of discomfort that grates against your skin in quiet ways. The idea of changing in front of other students—quirked-up, loud, overly chatty kids—sent his instincts spiking.

Too many eyes. Too many questions. Too many people.

But doing it elsewhere? Alone, hidden, deliberate? That would raise the exact kind of suspicion he was trying to squash. UA didn’t trust easily. Especially not the transfer with barely readable paperwork and a quirk signature that screamed danger.

Tch. Damn whoever thought dumping me here was a good idea.

As he looked at the locker provided for him which had his name, he mentally cursed every adult who’d probably sat around in some government office nodding at files, going “Yes, let’s throw the god of calamity into Hero School. He’ll make friends.”

And for what? To learn equations he already knew? To get knocked around in Hero Practical class by kids?

Chuuya could fight. No,

He’d been fighting. Every day.

Every breath.

So, UA could shove their training exercises where the sun refused to shine.

Still, maybe—maybe—he’d feel the tiniest bit less murderous if they’d actually gotten his hero suit right. He’d sent them notes. Paragraphs. Fabric samples. Diagrams. Highlighted in bold, capitalized text, specifying the exact stitching and material blend down to the thread count. Red, not orange. Black, matte finish, not glossy. And if they’d changed the collar?

He might just explode a classroom.

Not fatally. Probably.

Messing that up would be personal.

He tugged slightly at the gloves he’d been given earlier by Hizashi at his request—impressive, fine leather, expensive even—but not his. The fit was off by millimeters, and the unfamiliar texture grated on his nerves. And being hatless? Unforgivable.

The hats in this universe were a joke.

He could feel his mind drifting again—too many thoughts crowding, too many emotions jostling for space. He hated this part of himself, the silent longing he didn’t know what to do with.

Was Dazai looking for him? He bit the inside of his cheek at the thought. Idiot. What would that even change?

Still… why did his chest tighten slightly at the possibility?

Why did the unhuman edges of his heart feel like they were waiting?

No. No.

He was not relevant to Dazai. Not in this universe. Not even in his own, probably. That monster was a whirlwind of detached brilliance and quiet cruelty, and Chuuya wasn’t anything more than a memory with teeth.

His breathing went quicker, trying to shake the thoughts loose, trying to find refuge in rhythm, when—

A tap.

Soft. Fingertip-light on his shoulder.

He turned instinctively, shoulders stiffening.

It was that green-haired kid again. Wide eyes, bright voice—concern etched into every inch of his face like he’d practiced it in front of a mirror, “Are you... okay, Chuuya-san? You've... been standing there for a while now... and I just thought I-I'd prompt y-you...”

Chuuya blinked, lips twitching slightly. Ah, right. Honorifics. Cute.

He forced something neutral onto his face. Not warm, not cold. Just... functional. “Sorry—I just… zoned out. It’s fine.”

So much for not being suspicious. (Don't worry Chuuya, you're doing great! Mel's cheering for you!)

The blazer slipped off his shoulders in a practiced motion, the fabric folding naturally under the press of his hands as he reached for the locker latch. The cool metal clicked open, and his gaze dropped to the neatly arranged pile inside. For a moment—just a flicker—his eyes softened.

There they were.

New gloves, smooth and perfectly folded on top of the suit. A collar—technically a choker, but semantics were for people without taste. He stared at the pieces longer than he meant to, fingers brushing over the edge like they held significance beyond function.

Carbon-infused leather, he noted. He could recognize it blindfolded, probably even by scent. Only material that felt right against his skin. Lightweight, durable, quiet. The only thing that shut the noise up without screaming back.

He pulled off his standard gloves and slid the new pair on with slow, deliberate ease. The fit? Impeccable. The grip? Silent. The whispering? Finally dialed down.

Hah. Chuuya’s back, idiots.

he thought, lips tilting into a lopsided grin.

Not the same as comfort. Not even close. But it was something like recognition. Like control.

His earlier annoyance—being herded into the locker room, being watched like a ticking bomb—faded just slightly. Unbuttoning his shirt, he folded it neatly and placed it atop the pile he'd mentally labeled "temporary reminders of discomfort." Then he leaned in to examine the rest of the hero suit.

And damn it... they got it right.

Black and red in perfect balance, the materials were exactly what he ordered—no unnecessary detailing, no pretentious flair. Just sleek precision, tactical elegance, and a collar that sat like it belonged there. He grinned wider, almost impressed. He had half a mind to send sarcastic praise to the designers, but he'd settle for not setting anything on fire.

Then... silence.

The energy in the room shifted. The buzz of locker doors slamming, teenage feet thudding across tile, casual chatter—it all quieted. Replaced by something faint and sharp. Whispers. Hushed tones. The kind people used when they didn’t want to be overheard but did want you to know they were talking.

Oh. They noticed.

No shit, he scoffed internally. Obviously, they did. Shirtless, scarred-up transfer student with volcanic eyes and the posture of a brawler? That was textbook attention-grabbing. But he didn’t even remember the scars across his back—had no clue where they came from or what moment carved them there. They felt foreign, like a bruise passed down from another version of himself.

He didn’t like being stared at.

And he definitely didn’t care if a bunch of hormonal brats thought he was scary or cool or tragic.

So, he did what he was built to do—what someone with his reputation would do. He turned around.

Casual, sharp, chin tilted like he was daring the air to challenge him. The callout was already forming, some snark-drenched jab that would slice through their curiosity and remind them he wasn't here for pity or praise.

But then—

The room gasped. Like—actually gasped.

And his brain clicked into damage control a second too late.

Oh... shit.

Right. The rest of the scars. He forgot.

Not just the slashes across his back. His torso—his ribs, his sides, his collarbone—littered with faint lines, some deep, some healed silver. Battle tattoos without consent. No clean symmetry. No poetic design.

And now they'd all seen it. Well, not all. The male population of Class 1A.

Yippee. He totally wanted that. (Okay Chuuya. Tone it down. Sarcasm at lethal levels.)

The room hushed in that stifling way only teenage curiosity could conjure. Chuuya didn’t bother hiding the scowl stretching across his lips—not defensive, just annoyed. He could feel the attention like needles on his skin, each gaze trying to stitch together a story they had no right to.

A short, purple kid whispered under his breath, "Look at all those scars..." Chuuya's eyes flicked toward him just as the kid got promptly smacked—by someone with a tail, no less.

Good.

Chuuya exhaled and let his expression soften, voice calm and even as he addressed the entire room.

“What’re you looking at?” he asked lightly, tone almost conversational—but the undertone promised sharp edges if anyone misstepped. His stare swept through them like a searchlight.

Most of them flinched—apologizing awkwardly, shuffling back to their lockers. That green-haired kid from earlier gave a half-bow and scurried off. Kaminari, too, chuckled nervously and turned around like he'd seen a ghost. A blonde with too much attitude rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath—Chuuya didn’t catch it, didn’t need to.

One kid, though—red and white hair, eyes like melting ice—just blinked once, folded his shirt, and kept moving. No reaction. No words.

Tch. Must be nice to have built-in emotional detachment. Bet he gets straight A’s and cries in silence.

Chuuya turned back to his locker, slipping on the gloves with careful deliberation. The carbon-infused leather molded to his palms like it had been designed for him. With the new choker settled around his neck, the familiar weight grounded him.

The suit was... better than expected.

He rotated his shoulders, ran a quick mental check through the fittings. Solid tailoring. Precision to detail. They’d followed his specifications to the letter.

Okay. They’re not completely useless. Guess I won’t have to level a classroom today.

The quiet in the room still lingered like leftover steam.

Let's forget this ever happened- Let's take a look at his drip- I mean hero suit instead.

Chuuya’s incognito look was crafted with the precision of someone who weaponized style. It wasn’t just clothing—it was a statement, a shield, and a strategic advantage sewn into high-end fabrics. His aura screamed fashionable menace, and he wore it proudly.

The ensemble started with a silk white short-sleeved shirt that clung just right—casual enough to pass in crowds, but loaded with a hidden feature: in hostile environments, the fabric darkened and activated an impenetrable barrier against blunt force. Punches, impact, even crashes—useless. Sharp weapons were another story, but that’s what reflexes were for.

Layered over it was a maroon cropped leather jacket, the fit tailored like it had been summoned for him alone. His initials—C.N.—sat boldly on the upper left pocket, stitched in crimson thread. Inside were cleverly disguised compartments built for concealed weapons. Blades, small firearms, even disruptor charges—everything had a place.

His pants were sleek black leather, reinforced at stress points and flexible enough for combat footwork. The boots beneath were combat-grade: soft inner lining to reduce shock, hardened outsoles and mudguards designed for high-impact kicks and rough landings when gravity manipulation wasn’t an option. Stylish, yes. But brutal in function.

The hat was the closest replica he’d found in this cursed universe—angled perfectly, brim sharp, just shy of familiar. And the collar? That wasn’t just nostalgia. It was identity. If anyone questioned it, they weren’t worth answering.

Every shade of black stitched into the suit came with a purpose—nothing was aesthetic-only. That was Chuuya. Clean lines, lethal impact, and just enough arrogance to make people nervous without knowing why.

With one final motion, Chuuya closed his locker, adjusted his gloves, and turned to leave—calm, poised, every step carefully placed. But before he could reach the door, a hand landed on his shoulder.

He turned, already preparing for disappointment.

Kaminari stood there grinning, decked out in a hero suit that practically screamed electricity—bolts, coils, patterns, even the color palette felt like a neon hazard symbol.

Design flaw. Walking spoiler alert. Quirk exposure before combat. Rookie mistake.

“Chuuya! Why don’t we head out together?” Kaminari offered with a cheeky wink.

Chuuya blinked once. Slowly. Then let out a soft, polite chuckle.

“Sure.” His voice was easy. Relaxed. Friendly. He ignored the urge to brush off Kaminari’s hand. “You short circuit and fry my brain mid-lesson, though? I’m suing.”

Chuuya’s boots pressed firm against the pavement as he stepped into the bright light of the training ground, sunlight slicing through the overhang like a spotlight on heroes-in-the-making. He walked with practiced composure, his collar neatly adjusted and his jaw set with that quiet calm he had perfected since entering this place. Kaminari laughed beside him, the sound light and crackling—not unpleasant, just a bit loud for the way Chuuya’s thoughts swam behind his cool exterior.

Behind those unwavering eyes, though, the longing gnawed.

Tch... This place is too clean. Too orderly. Too hopeful. It doesn’t smell like danger, it smells like fresh paint and optimism—gross. Dazai would mock it to death... Probably already is.

He glanced at the windows lining the corridors they'd passed, sunlight bouncing off their edges. His chest tightened again, just for a moment.

Damn it. I really miss home.

Not just the city or the chaos. He missed familiarity—the edge in people’s voices, the shadows that made sense, the rhythm of existing among monsters who didn’t pretend to be anything else. At least there, people stopped staring once they were scared enough.

“So, Chuuya,” Kaminari began as they walked. “What’s your favorite game?”

Chuuya blinked, pretending to consider it. He knew the answer immediately, of course. But playing it cool was part of the persona. A pause. A slow, thoughtful hum. Then—

“…I enjoy arcade games. Any type I can play, really.” He kept his voice casual, clipped just enough to suggest he's not interested in ranking genres or fangirling over anything.

“Whoa, really? That’s cool! I enjoy online ones—those are kinda my specialty~”

“Uh-huh…” The polite tone returned like clockwork, paired with a nod so subtle it could have been manufactured.

They keep talking like this is a field trip. Do they know how easy it is to break a rib with a bad landing? Of course not. They think combat’s just choreography with flair.

They crossed into the open expanse of the training field—lined with collision buffers and metallic zones built for impact. Students followed at different paces. Some jogged eagerly, some clumped up with friends, others paced like they’d done it too many times to be impressed.

Aizawa stood ahead, hair draping lazily across his shoulders, gaze already bored.

Finally. Someone who looks dead inside. We could be friends if you weren't my temporal guardian.

Chuuya took a quiet spot near a girl in a skin-tight frog-like suit with long green hair and bulging eyes—her tongue poking out absentmindedly like a dangling thought. She glanced at him, and for once, the stare didn’t feel weighted or invasive. He offered a smile, practiced but warm enough to pass for real.

She blinked, then smiled in return.

“I hope Denki isn't bugging you,” she said, nodding toward Kaminari, whose elbow had somehow migrated onto Chuuya’s shoulder like it belonged there. “He's like that.”

“Hey!” Kaminari huffed. “No more comments on me annoying people—I'm genuinely a social butterfly…!” He flailed his free hand with exaggerated drama.

Chuuya snickered, the sound escaping before he could control it. Not fake. Not forced.

Just… real.

Okay, Denki’s a puppy. A loud, slightly static one—but manageable.

For the first time since stepping into UA, Chuuya felt something shift—a moment that didn’t involve calculated stares or twisted curiosity. Just... awkward students trying to make room for him in their weird little world. And he let it happen.

Because even gods of calamity get tired of pretending.

After a while, all of 1A were in the training grounds, all excited and buzzing in their new hero suits. Some, neutral. Some watching others buzz in amusement. And one waiting for them to stop their chatter.

Chuuya noticed Aizawa's eyes, literally boring into the unaware students.

"Shh...!" Chuuya cautioned, gesturing to their teacher for those who looked at him in confusion.

Some mentally facepalmed themselves and looked forward, paying attention to what was to come.

Aizawa shook his head in disdain, but decided not to comment on it.

The sunlight shifted slightly over the training grounds, casting long shadows beneath the students gathered in loose formation. Chuuya stood near the edge of the pack, arms folded, posture relaxed in all the ways it was meant to be—but behind his cool exterior, his senses were sharp. Watching. Calculating.

Aizawa stood ahead, dressed in his usual fatigued glory. Black capture weapon draped over his shoulders, goggles resting on his neck like they couldn’t be bothered to stay where they belonged. His eyes scanned the group with a kind of disdain only achievable by someone legally required to deal with teenagers before caffeine.

After what felt like several eternities of awkward shuffling, he finally spoke—tone as dry as desert air.

“Alright. Practical lesson time. You all know what this is by now.” He pulled a small device from his belt and pressed a button. A faint beep sounded, and out rolled a cart lined with softballs—each branded with some sort of sensor tech embedded deep inside.

“Standard quirk evaluation,” he continued, casually throwing a ball from the cart to himself, catching it one-handed. “We’ll be testing raw capability, control, and the ability to function under structured pressure. Same as always. No theatrics. Just numbers.” His gaze flicked across the faces in the group, but it landed—hard—on Chuuya. “We’ve got a new student. Chuuya Nakahara. You’re first.”

Every student turned. The silence that followed was thicker than cement.

Chuuya stepped forward, pace casual, gloves flexing slightly as he adjusted them. His smile was polite—not overdone, just enough to say I’m not here to start something, unless you make me. He caught the ball Aizawa tossed him without flinching.

Okay. Showtime. Let’s play hero-school dress-up.

“Without your quirk first,” Aizawa instructed, already watching through narrowed eyes. “Just a clean throw. As far as you can.”

Chuuya gave the ball a brief glance, if he didn't want to pose as a threat, he'd have to hold back seriously-but act as if he isn't. Then he shifted his weight slightly, sighed, wound up, and threw.

It arced clean through the air, fast—but not inhumanly so. His natural strength was enough to get a respectable distance. The device landed with a sharp thump! several meters out. Students murmured. The screen beside Aizawa blinked.

“86.2 meters,” he announced. Neutral tone. No reaction.

Chuuya shrieked internally. So NOT the distance he wanted.

Some gasped, some cheered-

“Now with your quirk,” Aizawa continued. “Let’s see the difference.”

Whew, no one thought that was unnatural. That was more like it.

Aizawa tossed him another ball he caught in the same manner. Now this was the hard part- having to deny his body the adrenaline of tossing further than 10000meters. He was so gonna hate this. Arahabaki was so gonna laugh at him.

Gravity bent.

The air around him warped with a flicker, invisible currents tightening like invisible cables, and Chuuya’s gloved fingers curled into the throw with force that vibrated through the training ground.

He released.

The ball didn’t arc. It launched. A streak of compressed motion, sonic-edge flight—slamming past the end of the field and into the force barriers with a THUD loud enough to echo.

The display shorted briefly. Then stabilized.

“1034.34 meters,” Aizawa said, blinking once.

Chuuya stepped back, gloves flexing again. The crowd of students gasped loudly- some doing a double take. He could literally see the fumes pouring out of that blonde kid's ears.

"OI, what is this nonsense!? You-!!!"

"Step back, problem child." Aizawa muttered, "I don't want to break up a fight today."

“Hmm, Controlled. Efficient. No excess motion. Good restraint.” He glanced at the group, "I believe you still have control over the gravity of that ball?".

"Uh... Yeah." He replied, confused "You want it back?"

There was a sound of something slicing through the air when Chuuya absentmindedly extended his arm to the direction he threw the ball in, that same red hue enveloping him when the strong impact of the ball smashed right into his hand- surprisingly, he wasn't affected in any way.

The air around him whiplashed backwards, and the ball stopped in his now smoking hand as he made it levitate towards Aizawa in a calculated pace that deemed his quirk strong- but upgradeable.

"Careful- it's hot. Wouldn't want you getting burnt now." He muttered, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes.

Persona intact.

"Impressive- discard of it," Aizawa replied, a genuinely impressed expression on his face, "You can head back."

He nodded with a grin and the ball quickly went back where it came from in the same manner. Making his way back to Kaminari in the crowd. Awed faces and stares met his as he replied to each of them with a smile every time. Tiring.

Kaminari nudged him playfully. “Dude...! That was insane!! You holding out on us?”

Chuuya smiled faintly. Calm. Collected.

“Not holding out. Just demonstrating...” he shrugged.

And behind the words, somewhere tucked between pride and habit— they thought that was his best. That confirmed it for him, if he wanted to get out of here- his escape is completely guaranteed, these people would stand no chance against him.  

It was a risk, sure—but risks were a necessary part of any good game. And if the objective was rescuing the red-headed slug from the clutches of the glorified superhero daycare known as UA, then logic dictated infiltration, cooperation, manipulation.

In other words—joining them.

Absolutely not.

That was the first trap. The idea that Dazai, the Demon Prodigy, could simply waltz into a haven of justice, smile politely, shake hands with Pro Heroes, and pretend not to gag on their moralistic speeches. It wasn’t just repulsive. It was laughable.

No, no. Too obvious. Too clean.

He’d read between the lines. That newspaper article mentioned a newly surfacing group—obnoxiously named and woefully dramatic: The League of Villains. A theatrical ensemble in its early stages, like a troupe auditioning for chaos. But they had potential. Dazai could smell it beneath the branding. He didn’t need approval from the good guys.

He needed a doorway.

The alley he chose dripped grime and stank of cigarette smoke. Towering building to the left, broken vending machine to the right, and standing dead center: a purple-skinned man with glossy black hair and eyes that looked like they hadn’t blinked in years. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers. Beside him—a blonde girl in a too-tight middle school uniform and fangs she clearly showed off like jewelry. Her chatter was high-pitched, erratic. Dazai tuned it out. The universe had better soundtracks.

Without missing a beat, he walked up—coat flaring, hands casually tucked into pockets—and flashed a peace sign like a tourist arriving at the wrong monument.

“Hello, fellow villains~ Take me to your boss!”

Two pairs of eyes zeroed in on him immediately. Suspicion. Disbelief. A tinge of violence, how charming.

The purple man’s gravel-ridden voice rasped: “And who might you be?”

Dazai tilted his head, smile unshifting. “Oh, me? I’ll tell you my name once introductions are actually warranted. For now, I’ve got a request. I need to speak with a certain Shigaraki…” He paused theatrically, watching their expressions twist—ah, yes, there it was. Eyelids narrowing. Shoulders stiffening.

“I need him to do something for me.”

Dead silence. The blonde girl blinked a bit too slowly, tilting her head like she was picturing how his blood might look smeared across the pavement.

Oh? Did I guess his name right? Bingo.

He felt the atmosphere tighten. Nothing quite like being surrounded by unstable villains with uncertain impulse control. Which meant... time to up the drama.

Dazai wiggled a finger with faux scolding charm, stepping back just slightly. “Ah ah ah~ I suggest you don’t murder me just yet.”

His hand dipped into his coat pocket and emerged with a compact remote—sleek, matte black, innocuous-looking... but clearly not a prop to outsiders. But to him- it was just a remote from a previous mission- he was just threatening them with faux info.

He held it up like a game show prize. “Unless of course, you want me to press this?” His voice dipped to a whispering tease. “I may or may not have wired a neat little explosive under your base… very small~… very loud.” He grinned, tilting the remote. “Imagine that. Pro Heroes swarming this area like roaches on sugar. So messy~”

The purple man tensed. The girl blinked once. The threat settled like fog.

Gotcha. Now let's negotiate.

"We'll take you there." He replied in resigned exhaustion.

"Lead the way~~" He sang in response.