Class 1-A

Training log updated.

Take a breath. The next test is already starting.

✦

I arrived at U.A. too early.

That sounded responsible until you looked closely. Then it was anxiety wearing a watch.

The morning air still had a bite to it. Every few steps, the support tape under my shirt tugged at my shoulder, and my calf reminded me that Recovery Girl's version of okay did not mean fixed. Students crossed the campus in clusters, some laughing too loudly, some quiet enough to make the buildings seem even taller.

U.A. let the scale press down before any teacher could.

My acceptance letter sat in my bag. I had checked it three times on the train, which was stupid, because paper did not usually change its mind.

Stories did.

The thought tightened behind my ribs. The old inheritance under my skin was quiet this morning, which somehow made it less comforting.

"Brilliant," I murmured. "First day and I am already losing arguments with silence."

A third-year walking past gave me a look.

Right. Less public muttering. New rule. Probably temporary.

I found the classroom by signs, memory, and the low hum of dread in my chest. The door to 1-A was enormous, tall enough that even the biggest student would not have to duck.

In a recording, that door had looked funny. In person, it felt like a warning.

I slid it open.

The room was almost empty. Almost.

Tenya Iida stood beside his desk, arranging notebooks with the focus of a man preparing documents for international peace talks. He looked up the second I entered.

"Midoriya Izuku," he said.

"Iida."

He straightened.

"You are early."

"So are you."

"I arrived early to ensure I would not disrupt the first day through poor time management."

"Same."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Fair. My version of same was carrying more illegal luggage.

"I wished to speak with you," he said.

"About the exam?"

"Among other things."

I chose a desk near the middle. Not the back. Not the front. Average, which immediately made it suspicious because I had chosen it too carefully.

Iida watched me sit.

"During the practical," he said, "I misjudged your conduct before the gate opened."

That was not what I expected.

"You thought I was not taking it seriously."

"Yes. That assessment was incorrect." He bowed at the waist, sharp and formal. "I apologize."

Canon tried to line up with the man in front of me and missed. He was still Iida, formal enough to make breathing seem scheduled, but there was adult weight under the apology.

"Accepted," I said.

He looked relieved. Then he ruined it.

"However, your conduct remains difficult to interpret."

"That sounded less like an apology."

"It is an observation."

"Those can be worse."

Before he could answer, the door slid open again. Ochaco Uraraka stepped inside, saw us, and smiled.

"Okay," she said. "Either I'm early, or you two started a meeting without me."

"We didn't," I said.

"That is exactly what people in a meeting say."

Iida adjusted his glasses.

"We were resolving a misunderstanding from the entrance exam."

"A serious meeting, then."

"It was not a meeting."

She looked at me. I shrugged with my good shoulder.

"Felt like one."

Her laugh loosened the room. Then her eyes dropped to the way I was holding my arm.

"Still hurts?"

"A little."

"Your little is suspicious."

"I have not improved my branding."

She came closer and lowered her voice.

"Recovery Girl said you were okay?"

"Yes."

"And when she said rest, did you actually listen, or did you do that thing where you nod until adults stop talking?"

I opened my mouth.

She pointed at me.

"That pause was evidence."

Iida nodded gravely.

"Medical compliance is a serious matter."

"Please do not form a committee this early," I said.

The door opened again, louder this time.

Katsuki Bakugo walked in like the hallway had insulted his family. Conversations that had not started yet somehow stopped.

He wore the uniform correctly and made it look like a threat. His bag hung from one shoulder. His eyes found Iida, dismissed him, measured Uraraka, then landed on me.

The air changed.

It was small, only a tightening in the chest, because old fear knew his footsteps before I could decide what to do with them.

I let the reaction arrive. Then I let it pass through.

Bakugo's mouth curled.

"Deku."

"Bakugo."

His gaze flicked to my shoulder.

"Still standing?"

"Most days."

"Don't get smug."

"I'm sitting."

Uraraka made a tiny sound beside me. Not quite a laugh. Bakugo heard it anyway.

"Something funny?"

She did not flinch.

"A little," she said.

Iida stiffened. I considered standing, then remembered my leg hated heroics today.

Bakugo stared at her for one beat too long, then looked back at me.

"Making friends now?"

"Trying school," I said. "I hear it involves people."

His palm popped once. Small explosion. Warning shot. Several students entering behind him froze.

I kept my hands flat on the desk.

Pride did not get power. Old habits did not get a first-day argument.

Bakugo noticed the lack of reaction. That bothered him more than fear would have.

"You think passing makes you something?"

"It doesn't."

"Liar."

Maybe. But passing had not made me something. It had made me visible, which was worse.

More students filtered in, giving the tension a wider audience. Eijiro Kirishima leaned forward like his whole body wanted to step between people and had not found permission yet. Mina Ashido clocked the mood in one glance and raised both brows, social instincts sharper than her smile. Tsuyu Asui took a seat with calm so complete it made the rest of us look wasteful.

"First morning and it already smells like a fight," Mina said.

"That's not usually a school smell," Kirishima said.

"It is now," Tsuyu said. "Ribbit."

Jiro watched from two desks away, one earphone jack tapping lightly against her shoulder.

"Great acoustics for bad decisions," she muttered.

Kaminari laughed because he thought it was a joke. Sero laughed because he knew it was only half a joke. Yaoyorozu entered with quiet posture and a bag arranged better than most emergency response kits.

Names arrived in my head before faces settled into people. Dangerous habit.

I stopped sorting them by future.

They were not arcs. They were classmates, each carrying a private reason for putting on a uniform and walking into pressure.

Todoroki Shoto came in near the end.

The room noticed him without meaning to.

Half-white hair. Burn scar. A coldness that was not attitude so much as weather built around a wound. He took a seat without looking for permission from anyone.

For half a second, my mind supplied everything I knew. Endeavor. Training. Mother. Sports Festival. Left side.

I shut the list down so hard my jaw ached.

Todoroki's eyes shifted toward me. I looked away a fraction too late.

Wonderful. Collecting intense people, Uraraka had said.

Apparently I had upgraded to collecting future disasters with names.

The classroom filled. Voices rose. Bags thumped. Kirishima introduced himself to anyone who looked reachable. Mina asked three questions before most people had finished one answer. Jiro watched more than she talked.

It should have felt exciting.

It did, under the nerves and guilt.

Under the knowledge that memory had killed some of them once, and I had no right to decide who they were before they had spoken for themselves.

This was Class 1-A. Real, loud, adult in uneven places, and already moving away from the script.

Then the yellow thing on the floor by the podium spoke.

"If you're here to make friends, you are already wasting time."

Half the class jolted.

I did not.

Mistake.

The sleeping bag unzipped.

Shota Aizawa rose from the floor like a man who had declared war on sleep and lost. His eyes were dry, flat, and more awake than his posture suggested.

Those eyes moved across the room. Bakugo's hand. Iida's spine. Uraraka's concern. Todoroki's stillness. Then me.

Long enough to file something away.

"Homeroom teacher," he said. "Aizawa Shota."

Everyone went quiet.

"Put these on. Outside. Five minutes."

He tossed a stack of gym uniforms onto the front desk.

Mina raised a hand slowly.

"Uh, orientation ceremony?"

"If you want a ceremony, watch a recording." Aizawa rubbed one eye. "Heroes who need applause before work tend to die inconveniently."

That landed harder here. No one laughed. Bakugo looked interested. Todoroki looked bored in a way that did not feel like boredom.

I looked at the uniforms and felt the old pressure sharpen behind my eyes.

Quirk Apprehension Test.

Confirmed, probably. Changed, definitely. Both truths at once.

We changed in locker rooms too clean to trust. The guys filled the space with noise because silence would have made the first day real. Kirishima introduced himself properly. Kaminari asked about Quirks with the casual danger of someone touching wires to see what sparked. Sero said Aizawa looked like a man who graded dreams for structural weakness.

Bakugo said nothing to me.

Worse than insults.

Iida folded his uniform with military precision before changing.

"Do you know what this test is?" he asked suddenly.

Several heads turned. Mine included.

"Why would I?"

"You looked unsurprised."

Too many eyes. Too early.

I pulled my shirt over my head carefully, slow enough not to anger the shoulder.

"A teacher who skips orientation probably wants practical data."

Kirishima grinned.

"That's a solid guess."

Jiro tilted her head.

"Or a threat display."

"Both can be true," Sero said.

Bakugo snorted.

"Deku always guessed. Didn't make him right."

I tied my shoes.

"Then we are about to find out."

The practice field was open, bright, and cruelly honest. No desks. No speeches. Just measuring lines, equipment, and Aizawa holding a tablet like a sentencing document.

Class 1-A lined up. The wind tugged at my uniform. My shoulder pulsed. My taped finger complained.

"You've all taken standardized fitness tests before," Aizawa said. "Softball throw, standing long jump, grip strength, side steps. In regular schools, you do them without Quirks."

His eyes cut across us.

"U.A. isn't regular."

Excitement moved through the class. Mina whispered, "Finally." Kirishima almost cheered. Iida inhaled as if preparing to object to reality.

Mine did not join them.

I knew the next line. I waited for it anyway.

"You will use your Quirks. I will record the results. Last place faces expulsion."

The field went silent.

Uraraka's eyes widened. Iida's mouth opened and shut. Kirishima muttered, "On the first day?" Kaminari made a strangled little sound that suggested he had just remembered consequences existed.

Bakugo smiled.

Aizawa looked over the class, not at me first, which was almost more unnerving.

"Potential means nothing if it kills you before you can do the work."

My mouth went dry.

The words were for everyone. They also fit too neatly around my bruises.

Convenient answers stayed away. Ghostly advice stayed quieter. I had my shoulder, my finger, my bad habit of turning risk into math, and a teacher who seemed allergic to excuses.

Aizawa picked up a softball.

"Bakugo. You scored highest in raw destructive output during the practical. Throw."

Bakugo stepped forward, rolling his shoulder. His grin showed teeth. He was in his element now. No sludge. No debt. No public rescue by Deku.

Just a field, a target, and permission to be loud.

His palm sparked. Aizawa's gaze flicked over the class, catching reactions rather than secrets. I kept my face blank.

Bakugo threw.

The explosion cracked across the field. The ball vanished into the sky.

Aizawa checked the tablet.

"Eight hundred and seventy-two meters."

The class erupted.

"Manly," Kirishima said, delighted despite himself.

"That is not a normal unit of school," Kaminari said.

Jiro's earphone jack stilled. Tsuyu blinked once, slow and assessing.

Bakugo turned through the noise and found me. There was no question in his face. Only challenge.

Aizawa took another ball from the basket.

He did not smile. He did not explain. He did not give me the mercy of pretending this was random.

"Midoriya."

The cheering thinned.

My fingers closed around the softball. It felt very small. My shoulder hurt. My leg was not ready. My taped finger remembered the last time I had called damage proof.

Uraraka's concern pressed at the edge of my vision. Iida stood too straight. Bakugo waited for breakage or disappointment.

Class 1-A did not settle into categories as neatly as my borrowed memories wanted. Some people were louder in person, some quieter, and a few carried enough private weather that even looking too long felt rude. They were not future matchups. They were adults trying to make first impressions while pretending hero work did not scare them.

Aizawa held my gaze.

"Show me," he said, "what kind of problem you are."

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