The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of U.A. High’s faculty lounge, casting long shadows across the worn couches and cluttered coffee table. You lingered just outside the half-open door.

But the voices inside stopped you cold.

“—seriously, Shōta, you need to do something about that girl,” Midnight’s voice carried, “Her whole look…? It screams ‘other.’ Like she’s trying to hide something demonic underneath. It makes the rest of us look bad, you know? The school already has enough eyes on it with international students.”

You froze, heart stuttering. Demonic? You’d thought they understood.

Yamada’s laugh followed, bright but edged with something sharper. “Right? And don’t get me started on her quirks. Telekinesis and that empathy thing? Sounds like she’s preying on everyone around her. Reading thoughts, feeling emotions… it’s creepy. Like she’s digging into people’s heads without permission. How do we even know she’s not manipulating us? It’s no wonder she makes Shōta and UA look bad. A kid like that—rescued by All Might or not—drags the reputation down. People are gonna start asking questions about why we’re letting someone so… unstable around the pros.”

Midnight hummed in agreement. “Especially after what she went through as a kid. Toshinori brought her here thinking he was saving her, but look at the mess. Trauma or not, she’s a liability. We all tried to be nice, but honestly…”

Their words sliced deeper than any villain’s attack. You’d always believed they cared. They’d known, and you’d thought that knowledge meant kindness. Protection. Family.

Inside, Shōta’s voice cut through the air, low and edged with warning. “That’s en—”

The door creaked as you pushed it open.

All three turned. Midnight’s whip coiled loosely in her lap, Yamada mid-gesture with his signature shades perched on his head, and Shōta—your Shōta—half-risen from his chair, capture weapon already stirring like it sensed the shift in the room.

You stood there in the doorway. Your hands trembled at your sides, telekinesis flickering unconsciously.

You had trusted them. Laughed with them. Let them see pieces of the broken girl Toshinori had carried out of hell.

And now this.

Shōta’s eyes— locked onto yours.

Gentle in the quiet hours after classes, when insomnia clawed at your mind and he’d appear at your dorm door with a warm mug of tea sweetened with honey, or sometimes milk if the nightmares had been especially bad. “Drink this,” he’d murmur, voice rough but kind.

He’d bandage your arms after the worst breakdowns— without a word of judgment, only careful fingers and quiet reassurance that you weren’t a monster for struggling.

“You’re safe here,” he’d say, the same way he’d read to you on stormy afternoons, his low timbre steadying your racing thoughts.

Or play soft piano melodies in the music area.

He brought you chocolate during your period cravings without being asked, he’d eat lunch with you on the roof if you tried to hide away, making sure you didn’t starve yourself in silence.

And the stargazing—those nights were sacred. He’d spread a blanket on the balcony, pointing out constellations, explaining the science and the stories until your head rested against his shoulder and the weight of your American past, your “demonic” differences, felt distant.

He was the one constant who never made you feel like a burden. Not once.

Now, that same tenderness warred with barely contained fury in his gaze as he looked at you standing there—hurt radiating off you in waves he could practically feel through your quirk.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, jaw tight, body rigid with the effort not to let the empathy pull you under their lingering words.

The empathy you used only to understand, to connect, twisted into something predatory in their mouths.

Your modest clothes—chosen for comfort after years of feeling exposed and vulnerable—labeled demonic because you weren’t Japanese enough, weren’t flashy enough, weren't right.