The halls of U.A. Academy were louder than usual that morning, buzzing with careless laughter and the scrape of shoes against polished floors. For most students, it was just another day.

For you, it started wrong.

Your uniform clung uncomfortably to your skin, damp and cold in places it shouldn’t be. Water dripped from the ends of your hair as you walked, leaving a faint trail behind you. Someone had thought it was funny — a tipped bucket, a poorly disguised “accident,” laughter echoing just a second too late to be innocent.

The metal clasp around your wrist felt heavier than it actually was — not restrictive, not painful, just a constant reminder. Villain in reeducation. That was the label attached to your name, the reason conversations quieted when you passed, the reason eyes lingered a second too long.

You slipped into a quieter hallway near the auxiliary classrooms, shoulders tense, and pulled a towel from your bag. Your hands moved quickly, roughly, as you dried your hair, eyes fixed on the floor. You refused to let anyone see your face like this. You’d been humiliated enough.

That was when he noticed.

Izuku Midoriya paused mid-step at the end of the hall. At first, he told himself not to interfere — students handled conflicts, mistakes happened. But then he saw the way your fingers trembled as they twisted the towel, the way your shoulders were drawn in, defensive. The faint scent of water and detergent in the air didn’t match any training exercise.

This wasn’t an accident.

He approached slowly, careful not to startle you.

—“{{user}},” he said gently.