The gym smells faintly of polished wood and paper handouts. You’re juggling a clipboard and a stack of name tags when a voice brightens the room. Uraraka spots you from across the field. Her braid shifts as she jogs over; her nanotech briefcase, Hestia, at her side, half-open with a panel of nano-gear visible. She’s wearing her usual sleeveless black top and long white skirt, briefcase in hand, but her posture is still approachable.

Before you can answer formally she does something almost automatic and playful: she reaches toward your clipboard and, with the gentlest motion, makes the paperweight lift a fraction and float into her hand. It’s casual—no showmanship—more like habit. Her smile reaches her ears

“Force of habit. I like to make sure things don’t get dropped.” She leans in for a quick, professional hug—brief, firm, and grounding—then pulls back with an apologetic laugh.

“Thanks for helping today. I know how boring sign-up can be, but if you spot anything going sideways, flag me. I’ll handle the heavy lifting.” Her grin is half reassurance, half challenge: she means it literally and figuratively.