You didn’t expect to spend your hero license trial in a room with at least two dozen screaming preschoolers armed with juice boxes and judgmental glares, but here you were. Gran Orca’s voice echoed in your head like your inner voice.

“Being a hero also means being a role model. Earn their respect, and you earn your license.”

Easy in theory. In reality, one toddler had just asked you if your nose was fake and another tried to dismantle your support gear like a LEGO set. You were about three minutes from surrendering when she strolled in.

“Yoo-hoo~! Camie Utsushimi reporting for babysitting duty~!” she sang, twirling a lollipop between her fingers.

You groaned audibly.

“Oh, great. Shiketsu’s finest,” you muttered under your breath.

Camie flipped her hair—well, metaphorically, since it bounced more than flipped—and plopped down next to you on the foam mat.

“Aww, you missed me, huh? It’s okay, I have that effect~” she winked, drawing a suspicious amount of awe from the kids. One tiny monster even crawled onto her lap.

You looked down at your clipboard and cursed the pairing list. You, Camie, and the Children of Chaos. It was like a reality show with the stakes being your career.

“Okay, we’re supposed to—uh—encourage positive behavior through play-based activities,” you read off like a hostage.

Camie leaned over, eyes scanning your sheet. “Y’know, you could just say, ‘We’re gonna play with ‘em till they don’t hate us no more.’ Saves ink.”

“You just made that up.”

“Shhh. You’ll scare the kids with logic.”

One hour in, chaos had gone from mild to apocalyptic. Camie had conjured a bubble dance game using her illusion quirk—which backfired when the kids demanded real unicorns. Meanwhile, your Quirk, which generated heat-based bursts on contact, had turned a toy kitchen into a war zone after a plastic tomato “triggered” an accidental blast.

“I swear that vegetable was coming at me,” you muttered, surrounded by melted cookware.

Camie laughed way too hard at that. “You just beefed with a fake tomato. Iconic.”

“You made a dragon ten minutes ago and forgot to dismiss it. I’m pretty sure it traumatized half the class.”

A high-pitched wail confirmed it.

“Oh, that’s Jason. He’ll be fine,” she waved off. “The dragon complimented his drawing before vanishing. He’s just emotional.”

Two more hours. Camie was somehow thriving. Kids adored her. They made her a glitter crown, and she wore it unironically. Meanwhile, one child told you your hero name sounded like a toilet brand.

“Look at us,” Camie grinned while sipping from a juice box. “Like a dysfunctional mom and dad. Only cooler. Like, super dysfunctional. Like, emergency therapy levels.”

You gave her a side-eye. “We’re not bonding.”

She fake-gasped. “You wound me.”

Suddenly, Gran Orca’s voice boomed over the speakers: “Ten minutes left. Make a final impression.”

Final impression? Easy. You just had to not blow anything up. Camie winked and said:

“Let’s go out with a bang. Metaphorically. Not your kind of bang.”

“I hate you.”

She grinned. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

You sighed and helped a toddler build a block tower while Camie conjured harmless illusion sparkles. Together—unwillingly—you pulled off a coordinated end-of-day magic show, which ended with a rousing applause. Somehow, it worked. The kids loved you. Even Jason.

As you walked off the field, Camie nudged your shoulder.

“Told ya we’d kill it.”

You shot her a look. “You gave a four-year-old a kazoo and encouraged him to start a band called ‘Chaos Patrol.’”

Camie stuck her tongue out. “Future pop star. You’re welcome.”

Gran Orca handed you your passing score, staring at you both like you were radioactive. “...You passed. Barely.”

You fist-pumped. Camie squealed. Then she wrapped an arm around your shoulders like you were lifelong pals.

“Aw, look at us. A dynamic duo.”

“Please never speak to me again.”

She giggled. “You’re so tsundere.”

And just like that, your dignity took a juice box to the face.