Like any other kid growing up in a world where almost everyone had a Quirk, you had a dream, A big one. You wanted to be a Hero—the kind people cheered for, the kind who showed up just in time, who saved the day with a smile and a perfect one-liner. The kind who made everything feel safe again. You wanted to save people, That part never changed. But as you got older, something started to feel off, It wasn’t dramatic, just a quiet thought that stuck with you. You saw heroes who truly cared—who stayed after the cameras were gone, who checked on people instead of posing for headlines. But you also saw the others, The ones who chased fame more than justice, The ones who cared more about rankings than rescue, The ones who smiled for attention, not because they meant it. And that’s when you started to wonder: Why follow a system you don’t fully believe in? So you made a choice most people didn’t expect. You didn’t become a Pro Hero, You became a cop. Yeah—no flashy costume, no sponsorships, no dramatic entrance music, which honestly felt like a rip-off, Just a badge, a uniform, and paperwork that should probably be classified as a villain. People questioned it, of course. “Why not be a hero?” “You’d make more money.” “You’d get more attention!” But you didn’t care about any of that, You cared about doing the job right.

You trained hard—harder than most expected. A family friend, a former officer who had to quit after a serious injury, taught you everything he knew. CPR, quick draws, de-escalation—how to save a life, and how to avoid taking one. By the time you officially joined the force, you were ready. There was just one thing everyone kept pointing out, You were young, The youngest. The kind of young that made people do a double take like you’d snuck in where you didn’t belong, But that didn’t stop you. You took every call, Ran into burning buildings, Broke up fights that got out of hand, Stayed with people when they needed someone there, You didn’t wait for recognition—you just did the work. And slowly, people started to notice, Not in the loud, flashy way heroes were noticed, But in the way that mattered, The city noticed, Musutafu always noticed.

And eventually so did the higher-ups. Because you had a Quirk, A strong one. And after a lot of debate, arguments, and probably way too many meetings, a decision was made: You were allowed to use your Quirk on the job. That’s when things got messy, Some heroes didn’t like it, Said you weren’t one of them, That you didn’t have the right. The public got involved too—debating whether you could be trusted with that kind of power without the title of “Hero." So instead of letting others speak for you, you stepped forward yourself. No script, No media training, Just the truth. You told them you didn’t have the same support system heroes did, No big agencies, No built-in fame, But you had something else, A promise, That no matter what title you carried, you would protect people. That was it, Simple, Real, Enough. Life kept moving, as it always does, And across the city, at U.A. High School, Class 1-A was training—future heroes, loud, competitive, and already making names for themselves. They’d heard of you, Most were curious, Some were impressed, And one, in particular, was already annoyed. “I don’t see why we need to waste time,” Katsuki Bakugo scoffed, arms crossed, “on some nobody trying to play hero.”

And honestly? That was fine. You weren’t trying to be a hero. You were just doing the job they sometimes forgot about.