Chapter Text
Izuku stood at the entrance gate of U.A., heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat he couldn’t quite control.
He’d triple-checked everything, mind racing with a checklist that replayed in his mind like a mantra: schedule, uniform, lunchbox, notebook, backup pen, second notebook, emergency sewing kit (because he’d learned his lesson during the sports festival debacle two years ago), and two juice boxes, hydration was important, after all.
His palms felt clammy, and the cold metal of the gate pressed against his fingertips as he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Today was the day. The first day at the U.A., the legendary, revered, towering school of heroes. The number-one hero school in Japan.
Despite the nerves, a small flicker of pride sparked inside him. He’d earned his place here, somehow, some way. Maybe not in the usual way. Maybe not with a quirk that made everyone look twice. But he’d fought, he’d clawed, and he’d kept going.
He looked beyond the gates, where students clustered in small groups, chatting nervously or boasting loudly. A kid with a cactus-styled buzzcut was already yelling about “alpha energy,” gesturing wildly, like he was auditioning for a hero movie. Another had the unmistakable stance of someone who had bribed their way in, eyes flickering with confidence that might be masking insecurity.
Izuku’s hands jammed deep into his sleeves as he hovered at the edge, eyes darting over the crowd, feeling invisible and yet painfully aware of every gaze, every whisper. Nobody approached him. Nobody cared.
He didn’t mind. He was used to being invisible, used to the weight of silence. Or worse: being mocked for being visible, for standing out.
Just focus. Just breathe.
7:45 a.m., The entrance to Class 1-A.
The door was enormous, more than it had any right to be, like a portal to a new world. Izuku took a shaky step inside, heart fluttering like a trapped bird.
The classroom was a cavern of polished floors and high ceilings, filled with the scent of fresh paint and old wood, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It was already alive with students settling into their seats or whispering in hushed excitement.
Izuku found a seat near the middle, fidgeted with his backpack strap, feeling the rough fabric against his fingers. He unpacked exactly one pencil, the sharp tip gleaming under the fluorescent glare, and sat stiffly, waiting.
The door swung open, late, as usual. A figure slipped through the gap, emerging from the shadows like a ghost.
Aizawa. Eraserhead. The legend. The underground myth. The man whose record of capture was longer than his name, forty-five confirmed arrests, banned from three conferences for "creative restraint applications," or so the stories went.
He did not apologize for the delay. Instead, he muttered, “Too loud,” emerging from a cocoon of nylon like a disgruntled specter. “Already hate this.”
Izuku froze, heart pounding, frozen between awe and terror.
That’s Aizawa.
The man’s eyes, sharp, dark, unreadable, scanned the room. He stood in front of the class without a word, silent, like a predator sizing up its prey.
One student cleared their throat.
Aizawa blinked.
And then, with the same emotionless tone as a falling leaf, he said:
“All of you. Out.”
The class blinked, stunned, confused, some in shock, others in horror.
He pointed with a finger like a judge passing sentence. “Expelled. Except for you, green hoodie. You stay.”
Izuku stared, mouth dry, heart hammering.
“…Me?” he managed to whisper, voice cracking slightly.
Aizawa’s gaze pierced him. “You. Midoriya Izuku. Stay.”
Nineteen kids scrambled for their bags, some in shock, others trying to hide their horror or relief, one inappropriately confident shrug, like this was all just a game.
8:37 a.m., Alone in Class 1-A.
Izuku sat stiffly at his desk, shoulders tense like a wound about to burst.
Aizawa’s eyes lingered on him, unreadable, as if trying to read his thoughts.
“Sir?” Izuku’s voice broke the silence, fragile and tentative.
“You’re the only one with potential,” Aizawa said bluntly, voice like gravel. “The rest failed to meet even baseline expectations during the entrance evaluation.”
Izuku blinked. Twice. Then again.
“Does this mean…?”
“You’re the only member of Class 1-A,” Aizawa finished, voice flat but somehow heavy.
A long, breathless pause.
Izuku hesitated, then raised his hand.
“Do I get, like, a personalized curriculum, or…?”
Aizawa sighed, eyes narrowing, then cracked a faint grin, like a secret just slipping free.
“You get me.”
Later that morning, Cafeteria, Faculty Wing.
Aizawa stormed through the doors, dragging Izuku behind him like a prize catch.
The room fell silent, every eye locking onto them.
Thirteen students sipped from star-patterned thermoses, tilting their heads with curiosity or suspicion.
Lunch Rush looked up from a pan of tempura, eyes wide.
Mic choked on air, coughing violently as he pointed at Izuku.
“Sho,” Mic managed to gasp, voice trembling, “Did you, ? That’s, he’s-”
Aizawa cut him off with a simple, deadly tone. “Problem child,” he said. “He stays.”
Izuku, meek, offered a quiet, “I have a name,” voice trembling with nerves.
Aizawa’s expression was unreadable. “We’ll see if you survive the week,” he said, grabbing a tray. “Then I’ll consider using it.”
The room’s silence deepened, thick with unspoken questions and cautious curiosity, like a storm waiting to break.
And yet, somehow, Izuku felt it, something shifting beneath the chaos.
A flicker of hope, a fragile belief that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something extraordinary.
He looked around at the faces, faintly familiar, yet strangely new, and clenched his fists, feeling the steady pulse of his heart.
This is only the start.
And he was ready.
U.A. Faculty Chat: “Herd Control”
Brooding Cloak Dad [Aizawa]: kept one. rest failed.
Volume Crimes [Mic]: Sho you can’t just return 19 kids like they’re defective USBs
Wine Aunt (HR Nightmare) [Nemuri]: wait which one is the one
Tax Evasion, Probably [Nezu]: Midoriya Izuku. Early entry candidate. Monitored for quirkless status.
Iron Chef: Muted Threat [Lunch Rush]: he ate three servings and cried when I gave him tofu
Galaxy Girl [Thirteen]: I like him. He apologized to the floor for stepping too loud.
Rootin Tootin Physics [Snipe]: that one’s gonna end up either the Symbol of Peace or in my therapy group
Math Sadist [Ectoplasm]: give him extra calculus
The sky above Training Yard 4 was a swirling canvas of darkening clouds, gray, heavy, threatening rain that cast a collapsing, ominous shadow over the ground.
Izuku stood amidst the chaos, his borrowed gym uniform clinging to him, sweaty, damp, and torn in places where the ground had scraped against his knees and elbows. His muscles trembled with fatigue, every breath shallow, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a relentless drum.
His arms felt like lead weights, trembling with effort, the muscles protesting with every movement. His legs, trembling as if the earth itself was trying to drag him down, refused to give in. The wind whipped past, carrying the scent of rain, dirt, and sweat, an acrid, grounding aroma that burned in his nostrils.
He glanced at the figure ten feet away, Aizawa. The man’s expression was unreadable, eyes sharp and unwavering, like a predator waiting patiently for the next move.
“You didn’t quit,” Aizawa said, voice calm but carrying an unyielding edge, like a blade unsheathed.
Izuku panted heavily, the air rushing into his lungs, each breath a ragged gasp. His vision blurred at the edges, sweat dripping down his forehead and mixing with the dirt streaked across his face. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, exhausted, battered, but somehow still standing.
“N-no, sir,” he managed to rasp, voice trembling but determined.
Aizawa’s gaze flicked over him, calculating, steady.
“I made them run this drill too,” Aizawa continued, voice even, like he was reciting facts from a report. “Every single one of them gave up.”
Izuku’s knees felt like they might buckle, but he forced them to lock, his jaw clenched tight, clenched so hard he thought he might shatter. His muscles burned, but he refused to fall.
“I can keep going,” he said, voice hoarse but resolute, the words weighted with grit and stubborn hope.
Aizawa’s footsteps crunched softly on the dirt as he approached, calm and deliberate. He reached into his coat and pulled out a juice box, the plastic crackling faintly in the wind. Without a word, he handed it to Izuku.
The boy blinked, surprised, his mind racing.
“...Thank you?” Izuku whispered, voice uncertain, clutching the juice box like a fragile lifeline.
Aizawa’s eyes remained fixed, unblinking, as he spoke softly, almost like an apology or a promise.
“You live through this week,” Aizawa said quietly, “you’ll get a second one.”
Izuku’s lips curled into a faint smile, tired but genuine. He reached for the straw, biting down on it like it was a promise, a silent vow to himself and the man watching from a distance. His shoulders relaxed just a little, the grip on the juice box tightening as if it were a lifeline, something to hold onto amid the storm.
In that moment, beneath the collapsing sky and amid the chaos of exhaustion and hope, Izuku understood. No matter how battered, no matter how close to breaking he felt, he had already chosen to keep fighting. And that was enough.