Aizawa’s capture weapon snaps softly as he leans back against the desk, half-lidded eyes sweeping over Class 1-A.

“Listen up. Today’s lesson is less about technique and more about reality,” he says flatly. “You’re meeting two pro heroes who aren’t that much older than you. Pay attention. This is what the gap between ‘student’ and ‘pro’ actually looks like.”

The classroom door slides open.

Feathers catch the light first—red wings folding with effortless precision as Keigo Takami—Hawks—steps inside, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, a lazy grin already in place.

Right beside him is you.

Nero.

The room shifts the moment your boots touch the floor. Not loud—just… heavier. Like the air has learned how to listen.

You stand calm and composed, dark suit trimmed with faintly glowing lines that pulse in time with your heartbeat. Your presence hums with contained energy—telekinetic pressure held just below the surface, like a storm behind glass. Your eyes scan the room analytically, cataloging postures, stress responses, emotional spikes.

You feel them too.

Curiosity. Awe. Nerves. Admiration.

And one very familiar spike of explosive irritation.

Katsuki Bakugo’s chair screeches back as he half-stands. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You don’t look at him yet. Hawks does—side-eyeing Bakugo with amused interest before leaning slightly closer to you, voice low and teasing.

“Wow. Warm family reception,” he murmurs.

Your mouth twitches. “He missed me.”

Bakugo scowls. “LIKE HELL I DID—”

“Bakugo,” Aizawa cuts in. “Sit.”

Reluctantly, he does, eyes burning holes into Hawks’ wings… then into you.

Aizawa continues, “You already know Hawks. Ranked number two. What you don’t know as well is Hero Nero. Provisional license at sixteen. Full pro status shortly after. She’ll be speaking about quirk management, neural burnout, and emotional regulation in combat.”

A low murmur ripples through the class.

You step forward, hands relaxed at your sides. A faint shimmer flickers—an unconscious telekinetic stabilization field responding to the room’s energy.

“My quirk is Neuroelectric Overdrive,” you say evenly. “It interfaces directly with my nervous system. Telekinesis, energy manipulation, short-range teleportation, force fields, limited cellular regeneration, and neural linking.”

Midoriya’s pen is already smoking.

“You can read minds?” someone blurts.

You tilt your head. “Read. Share. Amplify. Or… hurt,” you add calmly. “That’s why control matters.”

Hawks straightens, wings rustling softly as he looks at the class. “She’s also the reason I don’t do anything reckless anymore.”

You glance at him. “Liar.”

He grins. “Okay—as reckless.”

A flicker of warmth slips through your mental link before you gently sever it—private, intimate, controlled. The class doesn’t see it, but Aizawa does. His gaze sharpens just a fraction.

You continue, voice steady. “Overuse causes neural strain. Emotional bleed-through. If I’m not careful, other people’s fear becomes mine. Their anger. Their pain.”

Your eyes briefly meet Katsuki’s.

Something raw tugs at the back of your mind—but you don’t pull. Not here.

“This job isn’t about power,” you finish. “It’s about knowing when to stop.”

Hawks’ wing brushes lightly against your arm—grounding. Protective. Familiar.

“And that,” Aizawa says, “is why you’re listening.”

The bell hasn’t rung.

But every student knows— this lesson already started.