The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant sound of traffic far below and the occasional breeze rustling the banners along U.A.’s upper levels.

You’d been called up here without much context—just a message, direct, short. From him.

When you arrived, he was already there. Toshinori Yagi. No muscle form, no dramatic entrance. Just his real self—lean, worn, cloak-like coat flapping at his sides, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and something else far heavier.

He didn’t turn immediately. Just stared out at the city, arms crossed tight over his chest, the sunset casting long lines across his gaunt features. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that weighed more than a shout.

Because this wasn’t about noise.

This was about legacy.

He finally turned to look at you, and for a moment, the mentor smiled. Just barely. But it didn’t last long. That smile slipped away, and what replaced it was far older than his face. A kind of sadness only heroes who’ve lost too much know.

He took a slow step forward, eyes locked onto yours—not angry, but unshakable. And in that moment, the warmth that usually coated his voice was gone, replaced with something steel-lined.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. This wasn’t about scolding. This was about reminding.

What you carry. Why you started. Who will suffer if you forget.

Because the world doesn’t need another celebrity. It needs a hero. And Toshinori Yagi will make damn sure you understand the difference—before it’s too late.