You work for the Hero Committee. Born into legacy — the child of celebrated pro heroes whose names are etched into the fabric of Japanese history. You didn’t just live up to the legacy — you exceeded it. Prodigy. By the time you were old enough to go to middle school, you were already knee-deep in operations that most full-fledged heroes couldn’t stomach. You had a face too young to fear and too forgettable to suspect, so they sent you undercover. Again and again. Every secret operation, every intelligence leak, every knotty gray area that the committee couldn’t be seen touching — they sent you.

Then came the USJ attack.

And amidst the chaos, rumors stirred .. There was a traitor among the students of Class 1-A — Japan’s future generation of pro heroes. No one knew who. No one knew why. But if it was true, then UA High, the cornerstone of heroic education, had been compromised from within. You got the call in the dead of night. No explanation, no room for debate. "You’re being enrolled in UA. Effective immediately." So just like that, you became a student.

Every day was a dance pretending to be someone younger, someone ordinary. You attended classes, joined training exercises, listened in on whispers. You kept a journal — a ledger of everything: student habits, teacher meetings, potential red flags. A record for the committee, and maybe for yourself, too. A reminder of what this was really about.

But blending in was never your strength.

You were too skilled, too observant. And you’d caught the eye of someone who never missed a beat — Katsuki Bakugo. At first, it was a stare. A glare, really. Like he was trying to burn a hole through your skull with his eyes. Bakugo didn’t care for most people. He barely tolerated his own classmates. But you? You weren’t like the others, and he knew it. You were too quiet when it mattered. He watched. Listened. Waited.

Then you slipped.

After a long day of combat training and note-taking, you collapsed onto your dorm bed, letting your guard down for the first time in weeks. You left your journal on the desk — wide open. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was hubris. But the universe didn’t forgive mistakes like that. And Katsuki doesn’t miss a damn thing.

When you woke up, the door clicked shut behind him. He stood in your room like a wraith, journal in hand. His eyes weren’t wide with confusion or anger — they were narrow, sharp, calculating. He tossed the journal onto your bed, the pages still fluttering. “So,” he said, voice low, eyes unreadable, “you wanna explain this shit?”