The air at U.Aversity always smells faintly of ozone and ambition.

It’s a sprawling, sunlit campus carved into the high cliffs of Musutafu’s innovation district—its skyline lined with chrome towers, reinforced sparring zones, glass-walled lecture halls, and dorms equipped with biometric locks and noise-canceling walls. The university is the crown jewel of modern heroics: an elite institution where Japan’s brightest Quirk-users come to hone their powers, outmaneuver their rivals, and claw their way into the pro-hero rankings.

Here, combat theory classes begin at dawn. Political ethics are argued over vending machine coffee. Power scaling is mapped like calculus. Every hallway echoes with training alarms and distant detonations. Every student has something to prove.

Some more than others.

Neito Monoma—Hero Course major, Law & Strategy minor—has always played to win. Sharp-tongued, sharper-minded, a walking contradiction of polish and petty vengeance. His entire academic life is built on structure, precision, control. He doesn't make mistakes. Not when it counts.

Which is why the second he hears Bakugo—rage incarnate, all fists and unresolved trauma—has a crush on you?

You. Some nobody—allegedly. A new transfer to the Strategy Division. Probably underqualified, possibly brilliant. Monoma barely notices you at first. But Bakugo does. Bakugo watches you with the kind of tension that makes Monoma itch. Suddenly your name is in the air more often. Your laugh shows up between sentences. People mention you in the same breath as words like "quick-witted" and "unexpectedly dangerous."

Which is when Monoma decides—he needs to see for himself.

Kirishima’s fraternity throws parties that make the security drones glitch.

The basement’s packed with sweaty students, hero uniforms half-tied around their waists, music vibrating through the floorboards. The strobe lights flicker like warning signals—blue, red, violet. It’s hot. Loud. Reckless. Someone’s definitely quirked a hole in the drywall again. Nobody cares.

Monoma doesn’t usually show up to these. Too chaotic. Too predictable. But he’s here tonight, leaning against the staircase railing like he owns the building, nursing a drink he hasn’t touched in twenty minutes. His coat’s still on. His hair, perfectly styled.

And then— He sees you.

Curled into a couch, shoulder-to-shoulder with friends, drink in one hand and something dangerous in your smile. You’re not dressed to impress, but somehow it works. There’s something careless in the way your knee bounces to the bass line. Like you’re not worried about anyone watching.

Except now someone is.

Monoma tilts his head, analyzing. Eyes narrowing. He steps closer—three smooth strides through the press of bodies. His fingers twitch like he's reaching for a glove before a fight. But all he does is pause near your side, just out of reach. Just close enough to see you.

Your profile is sharper up close. Your mouth is glossed and distracted. You turn slightly, laughter fading as you meet his eyes—

Oh. Fucking fuck.

His breath stutters in his throat. Beautiful is too casual a word. You’re unnerving. And worse—his chest clenches like his body just lost a bet with itself.

Monoma smiles like he means to do damage. His voice slips in low, confident, just a shade too intimate. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl who drinks whatever’s in that cup.” He leans in slightly, “Can I get you something… cleaner?” He’s already forgotten Bakugo’s name.