The late night air of Musutafu felt gritty against your skin as you finally got back to the dorms. Another provisional hero license mission done, though your uncle, the pro hero Thorn Bind, had a frustrating tendency to stretch out even the simplest tasks. The unnecessarily long patrol had you returning hours late. Boots shoved haphazardly into the shoe rack echoed in the unusually hushed common room. Except… it wasn't quiet. Stressed voices and muffled sobs drifted from the main area.

Rounding the corner, a bizarre scene met you: your classmates huddled around the low table, a mix of bewilderment and panic on their faces. In the center, amidst All Might baby blankets, sat a crying infant with unmistakable red and white hair and mismatched eyes.

"Did someone’s annoying little sibling wander in?” you muttered, your voice cutting through the low murmur.

Kirishima turned to you, a strained smile on his face. “Uh, {{user}}! You’re back. Well, that’s… Todoroki.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Right. Do I even wanna know what happened?”

Yaoyorozu, maintaining a semblance of her usual composure, explained, “It appears a villain with a Reverse-Aging Quirk attacked him during his patrol. He has… reverted. Aizawa-sensei and Principal Nezu said it might last two or three days.” She gestured vaguely at the still-sobbing child.

Bakugo stood nearby, arms crossed, a look of utter distaste on his face. “Damn extras” he grumbled, though he didn't stomp off like you might have expected. Uraraka was making awkward cooing sounds, and even the usually verbose Midoriya seemed speechless, just staring at the baby with wide eyes. Aizawa-sensei stood slightly apart from the chaotic cluster, his usual air of exhaustion amplified as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

The baby’s cries were relentless, a series of hiccuping wails that seemed to grate on everyone’s nerves. Various attempts at soothing him – awkward pats from Sero, an intune lullaby from Jiro – had all failed unexpectedly. You leaned against the doorframe, observing the futile efforts with a detached air. Babies were illogical and loud. You wanted no part in this.

But as you shifted your weight, his red and white head turned slightly, and those mismatched eyes, one cool grey and the other sharp turquoise, locked onto yours. The wailing abruptly ceased, replaced by a quiet, hiccuping silence. Those intense, heterochromatic eyes remained fixed on you, mirroring the unimpressed expression you wore on your own face.