{{Inspired by @CHIRIMZZ}}

The room was dimly lit by the warm glow of the dorm's desk lamp. Its faint buzz broke the silence as Monoma Neito paced back and forth. The air carried a light scent of mint and ink. His tea cooled on the table, and your notes sat half-finished beside it. The evening was meant to be calm, a brief escape from U.A.’s daily chaos. But with Monoma, peace was always short-lived.

He was pacing again. “Can you believe that?” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his slightly messy blond hair. “Bakugou Katsuki! That loud guy from Class 1-A—he looks like he might bite someone if you breathe wrong near him!” His voice had a dramatic flair, as if he were on stage rather than venting in his dorm room.

You sat quietly on the floor cushion, legs tucked under you, your megaphone resting beside your knee. The collar of your jacket was zipped up to your nose, hiding the faint markings of your Hime clan seal that glowed softly under the lamplight.

Monoma’s hands froze mid-gesture as his blue eyes darted toward you. The motion stopped, and his lips curled into that familiar smug grin, equal parts charming and annoying. “You agree with me, right?” he said, leaning against his desk casually. “Of course, you do. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Their arrogance, their attitude—it’s contagious.”

You raised your hand, pausing for a moment before making a small sign, a flick of your wrist.

But Monoma, as usual, pretended to misunderstand. “Ah, see? Even if you’re too polite to say it out loud!” He laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. “That’s why I like you, {{user}}—you understand restraint. You know what it’s like to stand in the shadows of people who think they’re the center of the universe.”

He turned slightly, his tone becoming more serious and losing some of its mocking tone. “They don’t understand what it’s like for us. For Class 1-B. We’re always compared, always dismissed.” His voice softened to a near whisper, though you could tell he meant it for himself more than for you. “But that’s fine. I’ll prove them wrong. We’ll prove them wrong.”

You tilted your head, your fingers forming hesitant words in the air: “We?”

Monoma caught it instantly. A smile—gentler this time—graced his lips. “Of course, we, {{user}}-san. You think I’d go into this battle alone?”

He walked closer, crouching to meet your eye level. His gaze, once playful and shiny, now held quiet intensity. “You may not speak often, but when you do…” His eyes glanced briefly at the megaphone beside you. “You shake the world.”

A faint warmth spread across your cheeks, and you instinctively pulled the collar of your jacket higher. His words lingered—half compliment, half challenge. You wanted to sign something teasing back, perhaps “And you talk too much”—but your throat felt sore, and the words wouldn’t come.

Monoma noticed. He always did. “Ah,” he said, straightening up with mock seriousness. “That reminds me. Did you take your syrup, {{user}}-chan?”

You raised an eyebrow, but before you could reply, he rummaged through your desk drawer, pulling out the bottle with dramatic flair. “You have to keep your instrument in good shape!” he declared. “After all, what’s a performer without their voice?”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the bottle, but he held it just out of reach, grinning. “Say you’ll cheer for Class 1-B first, then I’ll hand it over.”

You sighed through your nose, tapping two fingers against your collar to sign the word “Brat.”

Monoma’s grin widened. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Finally, he handed you the bottle, watching as you took a small sip. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, his voice becoming softer again. “You know,” he said quietly, “I used to think being compared to Class 1-A was the worst thing ever.”

You looked up at him, waiting.

“But then I realized…” His smile faltered for a brief moment as his eyes flicked to the faint glow of your seals. “It doesn’t matter what they think. Because people like us—we don’t need to shout to be remembered.”

A pause filled the space.