The fading afternoon sunlight filtered through the horizontal striped curtains of the U.A.
infirmary, casting alternating streaks of light and shadow on the pristine white mattress.
It was beautiful, but to me, no matter how beautiful the scene, it was useless without the mind to focus on it.
On my phone screen were dozens of photos I’d taken from the Aldera Middle School’s secret archives the night before.
Yellowed pages, the headmaster’s sloppy handwriting, suppressed disciplinary reports… All of it created a perfect picture of the rottenness of this superhero-dominated education system.
My finger glided across the screen, opening the photo editing tool.
Tap.
Drag.
Blacken.
A sharp, dark line crossed over a familiar name on the school violence report.
Midoriya Izuku.
I zoomed in on the next photo.
His name was there again, tucked away in the “Victim” section, alongside the homeroom teacher’s emotionless notes aimed at justifying Bakugo Katsuki’s violent behavior.
Tap.
Drag.
Highlight.
Repeat.
Continue.
Any word, any detail, however small, that could directly implicate Izuku, I didn’t hesitate to erase from the report.
These documents were about to become a real media bombshell.
When this scandal erupted in the midst of the U.A.
Sports Festival, public opinion would rain down on Aldera High School, on Bakugo, and, of course, the curious on social media would begin a hunt for the identities of those involved.
I couldn’t let Izuku become their prey.
He’d already suffered enough trauma throughout his middle school years.
If the name “Midoriya Izuku” appeared in this pile of incriminating documents, the media would swarm him like flies.
They would dig up his incompetent past, ask cruel questions, and worst of all, they would suspect him of being behind the leak for revenge.
He’s ultimately just a defenseless victim, so this definitely won’t be exposed.
I smirked faintly, continuing my work.
The names of the other students Bakugo bullied?
Leave them as they are.
The principal’s cover-up approval because “Bakugo’s Quirk is too promising”?
I’ll highlight that in red.
My protagonist, whom I consider a true friend and vice versa, must benefit the most.
The only thing he lacks is courage to face what happens to him.
I never called myself a hero.
But at least I have to give everyone a fitting ending.
And this is just one of the small things I’ll do.
Finishing the last photo, I saved everything to a double-layer encrypted file.
Then, I dropped my phone onto the mattress, tilted my head back towards the ceiling, and let out a soft sigh.
A sudden sharp pain shot through my right arm, causing me to wince.
I raised my right hand, gently touching the pristine white bandage wrapped tightly beneath my uniform.
Underneath the bandage wasn’t a wound caused by Nomu.
Nor was it a side effect of my Quirk.
They were cuts.
Straight, shallow, but enough to bleed, lined up parallel to each other along my forearm.
Of course, Himiko was the one who inflicted these cuts when she went into a bloodthirsty frenzy with her Quirk last night, and I had no choice but to accept this if I didn’t want to be stabbed to death.
The chilling sensation of her soft lips and wet tongue gliding over the wound, savoring each drop of blood in the suffocating darkness.
That horrifying experience was terrifying in its horror; she blindfolded me, completely blinding me, while all my other senses were stimulated to a frenzy.
She forced me to experience the utter helplessness of being tied up, just like the first time I brought her home, but at the same time, she instilled in me a sick pleasure of submission and complicity.
I let her do it, because deep down, I didn’t know what was better: her going out with a knife to kill innocent people, or enjoying this twisted, perverse love.
“I can fix her”?
Nah, more like “she will ruin me”…
And although I really, really don’t want to admit it, my “first time” with her was truly…bizarre…
I pulled down my sleeve, covering the bandage.
I’ll have to clean up all the data on the cloud, extract the original content to the memory card, and reset the phone immediately after sending the data to Gentle via email.
No mistakes are allowed.
If there are any, things will become much, much crazier…
…
Meanwhile, in the U.A.
Teachers’ Council meeting room.
The tense atmosphere of the meeting on security arrangements for the U.A.
Sports Festival had just ended.
The teachers were gathering their documents and hurrying out of the room.
Most looked tired but determined.
Despite having just gone through the U.S.J.
incident, U.A.
could not back down from any storm.
Aizawa Shouta tucked a stack of student evaluation files under his arm, wearily adjusting the bandage around his neck.
The wound inflicted by Nomu was still throbbing with pain, but his job as a homeroom teacher didn’t allow him to rest.
“Shota-kun.
Wait.”
A deep, hoarse voice, carrying a rare seriousness, rang out.
Aizawa stopped and turned around.
Recovery Girl – Chiyo Shuzenji – was standing there.
She wasn’t carrying her usual syringe, her hands clasped in front of her, her aged face etched with the deep wrinkles of extreme anxiety.
Unlike her usual benevolent demeanor, her eyes were now cold and heavy with thought.
“Is something wrong, Shuzenji-sensei?” Aizawa lowered his voice, noticing the unusual tone.
Only the two of them remained in the room.
“It’s about your student.
Onodera Ryuga.” Recovery Girl sighed, walked to the empty bench, and gestured for Aizawa to sit down.
Hearing the name, Aizawa’s eyes flashed with a sharp glint.
“He withdrew from the Sports Festival this morning.
The reason given was his health.
I checked the medical records you sent; his condition is indeed at a critical level due to exhaustion and injury.
The decision to withdraw is perfectly reasonable.”
“That’s reasonable.
Very reasonable, in fact,” Recovery Girl nodded, but her tone remained unyielding.
“But Shota, a hero’s thinking doesn’t always operate according to conventional logic.
Don’t you see the anomaly?
A fifteen-year-old, faced with the greatest opportunity of his life to shine in front of thousands of professional heroes, yet he rejects it without a second thought.”
Aizawa remained silent.
He understood her meaning perfectly.
Children at this age, even the most rational ones, always yearn to prove themselves.
Onodera’s indifference was more like that of an outsider than a student learning to become a hero.
“But that’s not the worst part,” Recovery Girl leaned forward, lowering her voice to almost a whisper.
“This morning, when I was changing his bandages…
I saw other wounds on him.”
Aizawa frowned.
“Guild wounds?
In the ability report, the use of chemicals at high temperatures…”
“No.” She interrupted him decisively.
“Not burns.
Not from fighting either.
Those are cuts, Shouta.”
Aizawa’s pupils narrowed slightly.
“Along his right forearm,” Recovery Girl continued, her voice trembling slightly with a mixture of sorrow and chill.
“Shallow, but very precise.
Parallel to each other.
Completely fresh cuts, deliberately made with a sharp object.
He hid them under the bandages from an old injury.”
The atmosphere in the meeting room suddenly became suffocating.
Aizawa closed his eyes tightly.
Self-harm.
This was a sign of an extremely severe psychological breakdown.
“Did you ask him about them?”
“I didn’t dare.” Recovery Girl shook her head.
“If I had exposed him then, given his current extremely defensive state, he would have shut down all communication.
You know, school psychology isn’t about forcing confessions.”
She looked up at Aizawa, her eyes weary but sharp as a knife.
“Look at the whole picture, Aizawa-kun.
He confronted a dehumanized monster.
And the way he handled it…it’s not something any hero or villain could have imagined.
I’m not judging his actions in protecting his friends, but that cold ruthlessness isn’t something a fifteen-year-old would possess.”
She took a deep breath, her fingers clenching.
“And then what?
He was isolated.
Malicious rumors spread throughout the school.
And instead of seeking comfort or explanation, he chose self-destruction, and this morning he calmly withdrew from the Sports Festival, completely separating himself from the group.”
Aizawa clasped his hands together, resting his chin on the back of his hands.
The disparate details were now piecing together into a terrifying scenario.
Onodera’s eerie silence in class, Bakugo’s heightened vigilance towards him, and the rumor that Onodera had used his ability to turn a paper crane into ashes in front of the students from the next class to threaten them…
“Shuzenji-sensei,” Aizawa spoke, his voice low and heavy.
“What are you most afraid of?”
Recovery Girl looked directly into the homeroom teacher’s eyes, without beating around the bush:
“I’m afraid of two scenarios, Shota, and both are nightmares.
He’s carrying too much weight, and self-harm is just a stepping stone.
If we don’t intervene, the pressure of isolation and guilt will suffocate him.
He might choose to end his own life to find release.”
She paused for a moment, the air freezing.
“And the second scenario…
The scenario that, as someone who has lived almost their entire life in this superhero society, finds most horrifying.”
“It won’t crumble, it will harden.” Recovery Girl snarled each word.
“The cruelty nurtured at U.S.J., the resentment at the gossip of friends, and the habit of self-harm to numb emotions…
All of that could turn him into a truly cold-blooded killer.
If Onodera crosses that line, with his intellect misused, we will create a potential villain more terrifying than anyone we’ve ever faced.”
The nurse’s warning was like a thousand-pound rock thrown into a calm lake.
Aizawa felt a chill run down his spine.
A brilliant student, with keen analytical abilities, yet possessing a rotten mind from within.
If Onodera truly decides to turn his back on the light, the consequences will be immeasurable, no matter what choice he makes.
“I understand.” Aizawa slowly rose, his face, hidden behind a stark white bandage, hardened.
“A teacher’s responsibility isn’t just to teach students how to use their powers, but also to prevent them from falling into the abyss.”
“What will you do?” Recovery Girl asked anxiously.
“Observe.
Closely monitor him every move.” Aizawa replied, his gaze sharp as a blade cutting through the air.
“Any unusual behavior, any transgression, I will personally intervene.”
Recovery Girl nodded slightly, a soft sigh escaping from her thin chest.
“I’m counting on you, Shouta.
That child…
can still be saved.
Don’t let her sink too deep.”
“I won’t let my student go down the wrong path.” Aizawa spoke firmly, before turning his back and walking out of the meeting room.
The door slammed shut with a dry, sharp sound, leaving behind a silent void.
But neither Aizawa nor Recovery Girl knew that, a few hallways away, inside the infirmary, the child they were desperately trying to “save” had single-handedly pressed the button to trigger a chain reaction that would shatter the moral foundations of this society.
…
That night, in the small, cramped, but tidy apartment, Tobita Danjuro was sipping tea.
It wasn’t the high-end black tea he favored or anything fancy, just a cheap tea bag, but he still enjoyed it with a solemn demeanor, as if he were sitting in a luxurious living room.
Across from him, Aiba Manami was biting her lip, her eyes glued to the laptop screen.
The view analytics chart of the “Gentle Criminal” channel was showing dismal numbers.
Their “crime” videos had a loyal following, but that number hadn’t increased even a bit.
The advertising revenue was now only enough to pay this month’s rent and buy the cheapest necessities.
That harsh truth hung in the air, heavy as a thundercloud.
“Will the legacy of Gentle Criminal end in oblivion, Manami?” Danjuro spoke, his voice low and sad, setting down his teacup dramatically.
“Our efforts, our art…
will it fade like the steam on a window?”
“No way, Gentle!” Manami replied immediately, the determination in her voice a stark contrast to his despair.
“Our latest video already has three more positive comments!
We just need a breakthrough video, a big enough deal to get the world’s attention!”
“But a big deal requires preparation, requires resources,” he sighed.
“And our resources…
are running out.”
“Six years, Tobita.
We’ve been through this for almost literally six years, can’t you just hang on a little longer?”
Their little argument wasn’t a scream, but a waltz of despair and hope.
He was drowning in the romantic sadness of a failed artist, while she fought with the unyielding optimism of a loyal fan.
Amidst the gloomy atmosphere, a gentle “ping” sounded from the computer.
A new email had arrived.
Manami glanced at the screen.
“A strange email…”
Subject: “A proposal for content collaboration.”
Both of them fell silent.
Doubt was written all over Danjuro’s face.
“A trap?” he muttered, his fingers habitually stroking his neatly trimmed mustache.
“Maybe from some hero agency, luring us into revealing ourselves.”
“Or just a fan prank,” Manami replied, but her eyes didn’t leave the screen.
She clicked open the email.
“But…”
Both of them held their breaths as they read.
The content was extremely concise, without a single extra word, without a single emoticon or fan slang.
Dear Mr.
Gentle Criminal and Miss La Brava,
We have been following your work with great interest.
We see great potential in the brand you are building.
We, as your viewers, have some confidential information to disclose.
We hope that the content here will be helpful to you.
Please employ after the Grandfinal of U.A.
Sports Festival if you are interested.
Sincerely,
Oni-san.
The professionalism in every word made the joke theory seem unlikely.
Manami quickly checked the email, and it appears to had been sent from U.A.
This only reinforced their belief that it was a harmless prank, even like spam.
But what they saw was anything but a joke.
Dozens of 2K quality photos, some parts blacked out for security reasons, were sent directly without compression or conversion to document files.
Following them was a picture of a kid in a U.A.
uniform with short, spiky, sandy-blonde hair, a messy fringe covering his eyebrows, and sharp, fiery red eyes.
At this point, they knew this was absolutely no joke.
It was clearly true.
And it could shake all of Japan…no…THE WHOLE WORLD if it were released.
But…Why?
That was the question both of them asked the moment they confirmed the authenticity of this “source.”
Obviously, this is incredibly valuable to any news agency, or even HPSC if they could get their hands on this “top secret.” But they are the “chosen ones,” the “pioneers,” and the “pawns” of some conspiracy as clear as day.
“Manami-san, do you think…
this is fate?” Gentle asked, looking at the downloaded images with a puzzled expression.
“It’s too shady.
But it’s so amateurish and obvious it could be considered a trap to lure us in,” La Brava said, typing in a stream of code.
“Basically, it’s a double-edged sword.
We could be completely ruined after this is released, or we could become greater than anyone else in just a few days.
Or both.”
She glanced at another tab on her browser slightly.
Their bank balance was running at an alarmingly low level.
The rent was overdue for two months.
The price of artistic pride was meager meals and worries about tomorrow.
Danjuro saw her eyes.
He understood this was a giant gamble.
The risk was a trap that could end their careers.
But the reward can be a way out of this impasse.
“All right,” he said after a moment of silence, determination returning to his eyes.
“I will prepare the script.
Please check that email again for me.”
The room once again regained its excitement, but they knew the moment this thing would be used, their fates were uncertain whether they had been placed in the right place or not…