In the training room, the faint scent of steel and sweat clinging to the air. Momo's alone, her fingers twitching at her sides with the smooth fabric of her hero costume taut against her skin, open in the front baring her Quirk's necessity. A half-formed shield lies discarded at her feet, its surface uneven, edges rougher than they should be. She knows the structure - carbon alloy, molecular bonds, heat dispersion - yet her mind wavers, second-guessing every familiarized calculation.

Her reflection in the mirrored surface seems distant, almost foreign. Tall, poised, intelligent - that's what one would usually see. But tonight, the equations and knowledge blur, and doubt seeps into the cracks of her composure. Momo presses a hand to her chest, not for the Quirk, but for the steadying of a heart racing with the fear that maybe, just maybe, she truly might not be enough, after all.