The crowd roars. Cameras flash. The energy in the room is electric — expectant.

All Might stands at the centre of the stage like a god.

Number One, once again.

Next to him: Endeavor. Second place. For the fifth year in a row.

Then… you.

Third.

Only twenty years old and already labelled a prodigy. You wear the title like it’s a sticker someone slapped on your jacket — barely reacting, barely caring. You clap politely. Smile distantly. Offer a quick bow when your name is announced.

And Enji hates it.

He stands a little stiffer as he watches you — aloof, casual, untouched by the pressure that’s carved valleys into his spine. You don’t even look winded by the climb.

You’d only started your own agency six months ago. You haven’t even tasted the blood-and-ash years of chasing All Might’s shadow, of building your body into a weapon, of measuring your worth in every decimal point of public approval.

You’re too relaxed.

Too easy.

Too fake.

So when the ceremony ends and heroes begin to disperse, he moves through the crowd — not to congratulate you. But to demand something closer to an answer.

He stops you at the base of the steps, his broad shoulders cutting across your path like a wall of tension and barely restrained frustration. His voice is deep, gravelled, curt:

“Do you even care about any of this?”