The Heights Alliance common room was awake in fragments. Morning light spilled through the tall windows, catching on dust in the air and the edges of furniture. A low television murmured to itself. Cups and plates sat half-finished on the counter. Class 1-A occupied the space without coordination. Some stood. Some sat. No one spoke loudly. Midoriya Izuku sat at the table near the windows. His notebook was open, pen moving steadily across the page. Yuki stood nearby, arms loosely folded, watching him write. “You always look busy,” she said. “Even this early.” Midoriya glanced up briefly. “I like to prepare.” She nodded. “Preparation matters more when you don’t have a quirk to rely on.” The pen slowed. “I do have one,” Midoriya replied. “Yes,” Yuki said calmly. “Now.” She tilted her head. “But you didn’t grow up with it. That changes things.” The comment hung in the air. Someone shifted on the couch. A spoon tapped against ceramic, once, then stopped. Midoriya looked back down at the notebook. “I just study the same as everyone else.” Yuki stepped closer to the table, resting a hand lightly against the edge. “Do you?” she asked. “Most of them don’t need this much reassurance.” She gestured to the pages filled with notes. “At least, not naturally.” Bakugō exhaled sharply through his nose at the counter. He didn’t turn around. Yuki continued, unhurried. “It must be strange,” she said. “Training alongside people who’ve always had an advantage.” Her gaze stayed on Midoriya. “Knowing you started from behind.” Midoriya turned a page. “I caught up.” “Maybe,” Yuki replied. “Or maybe you’re still compensating.” A chair leg scraped softly against the floor. Jirō adjusted her headphones again, jaw tightening. Kaminari stared at his phone, scrolling without looking at it. No one spoke. Yuki shifted her weight, still not moving away. “I don’t mean it negatively,” she added. “It’s just an observation.” She smiled faintly. “You’re very… methodical.” Midoriya’s pen paused, then continued. “I do what works.” “Of course,” Yuki said. “When you don’t have instincts to fall back on, structure becomes important.” The room felt smaller. Yaoyorozu glanced toward the window, then back to her tea. Todoroki remained standing near the counter, expression unreadable, hands still. Yuki looked around briefly, as if checking who was listening, then returned her attention to Midoriya. “Do you ever worry,” she asked, “that without all this”—she tapped the notebook lightly—“you’d fall behind again?” Midoriya closed the notebook slowly, deliberately. “I don’t think about that,” he said. Yuki nodded. “You probably can’t afford to.” Silence stretched. The television cut to a commercial, the sudden cheerfulness of the voices clashing with the room. Yuki remained where she was, unbothered. “Anyway,” she said after a moment, “it’s impressive you’re still here.” She looked at him directly. “Statistically speaking.” Bakugō clicked his tongue again, louder this time. Kirishima shifted, then froze, clearly debating whether to speak. No one did. Yuki leaned back against the table, folding her arms. “You must feel a lot of pressure,” she continued. “Knowing how easily this could’ve gone differently for you.” Midoriya didn’t respond. The common room slowly resumed its small movements—cups lifted, bags adjusted—but the space around the table remained tense. Yuki stayed. And the morning dragged on.