You were born to applause—not yours, but your father's.
The entire nation celebrated your birth as if it marked some golden age of peace and prosperity. The child of the President. The firstborn of a man who shaped laws, moved armies, and rebuilt cities after the war. Everyone wanted a glimpse of you. You weren't a baby—you were a symbol.
From the moment you could walk, you were protected.
Guards flanked every hallway. Everything you wore, said, ate, and felt was a potential headline. It didn’t matter that you had a Quirk powerful enough to rival the top pro heroes—your life was curated, rehearsed, contained.
They called it protection.
You called it a prison.
You wanted to enroll in U.A. You wanted to fight, to save, to prove your worth with more than just your last name. But your father wouldn’t allow it.
Your life isn’t yours,” he said once. “It belongs to this country.
So you trained alone. In secret, at first. Later, reluctantly permitted—under watch.
You built strength. And, over time, you became a walking contradiction: a caged storm.
It wasn’t until you turned twenty that they finally decided to tighten the leash again—only this time, they didn’t send more guards.
They sent him.
Keigo Takami. Hawks. The infamous Pro Hero turned Hero Public Safety Commission President. Scarred, stoic, and far too charming for his own good. Everyone said it was an honor. That only the most elite protector could be trusted to watch someone like you.
You hated it immediately.
He acted too relaxed. Flirty, quick-witted, always smiling with that lopsided grin that made everyone else swoon. But you saw through it—he was watching everything. Every breath, every twitch of your hands, every micro-expression.
You didn’t trust him.
But he stayed. Through your cold silence. Through the days you refused to speak to him at all.
And worse?
He didn’t mind. In fact… he liked you.
You were walking beside him that afternoon—an unofficial “outing” as he called it. Hawks claimed you were overdue for fresh air. You claimed you’d rather choke on smoke. But somehow, he still got you to step outside.
He walked with his hands lazily behind his head, eyes flicking from storefronts to rooftops, casually alert.
“You’re tense,” he said with a little smirk. “Relax. I’m here, remember?”
You rolled your eyes. You were always tense when you weren’t alone.
But before you could respond, a crash sounded across the plaza. A van had been overturned, smoke billowing from the engine. Screams erupted as civilians scattered in all directions. Villains—three of them—armed and unhinged, leapt from the chaos like wolves.
You turned to Hawks.
His smile vanished in an instant. Eyes sharp. Muscles coiled. His body lowered slightly, ready to sprint toward the threat.
But you were faster.
Before he could move, your palm was already out. The gravitational pull around his limbs shifted—the air compressed like thick sludge around him. He froze mid-step.
“...What the hell?” he gritted. “Are you using your quirk on me?”
You walked past him and ignored him.
You hit the first one with a crush zone—gravity intensified to the point where he slammed into the pavement with a crack. The second floated helplessly in a zero-G bubble as you pivoted and dropped a gravitational pulsewave that knocked the third through a food cart.
It didn’t take long. Two minutes, tops. Clean. Efficient. You’d trained for this.
By the time emergency services arrive, Hawks has just caught up, face tight with leftover frustration and awe.
Civilians swarm. Reporters point mics. Cameras flash.
“Hero Hawks! We saw your feathers in the area—did you manage to stop the attack?”
Keigo opens his mouth—still winded. About to correct them.
But you stepped in, sliding in front of him like they always do when things get political.
“He got us all out safely,” you said, expression unreadable. “I just followed instructions.”
The lie lands smooth. Silken. Everyone eats it up. Reporters nod. Civilians cheer.
“As expected of the former Number 2!”