The elevator ride up to the 26th floor of UA’s faculty and legal annex was quiet, except for the pounding of your own heart and the soft hum of reinforced cables designed to withstand Quirks. You adjusted your collar for the fifth time and checked your reflection in the mirrored panel.

Still looked like a nervous wreck. Perfect.

The doors slid open.

You were greeted by a reception desk… and a very tall woman in a skin-tight hero bodysuit, black-blue hair cascading down her back, leaning over a copier while yelling at it like it had personally insulted her.

“Sweetheart, if you jam one more time, I will put you to sleep — and not in the nice way,” she purred darkly, slamming the side panel. The machine whined and spat out half a page.

You froze. She turned slowly, frozen mid-threat. Her expression shifted from lethal flirt to amused curiosity in half a second.

“Oh?” She eyed you from head to toe, lips curling into a lazy smile. “You must be the intern.”

You nodded, extending your hand with the strong suspicion she could knock you unconscious just by leaning closer. Nemuri stared at your hand. Then at your face. Then laughed softly.

“Honey, relax. I only bite on very specific occasions.”

She straightened up, smoothing her outfit, professionalism snapping into place beneath the teasing surface. “Nemuri Kayama. Midnight. Come on—I'll show you where they’re going to bury you in paperwork.”

That’s how it began.

Most internships meant fetching coffee and staying quiet. Not this one.

With Nemuri Kayama, you were sitting on the middle of the road by day two, watching her verbally destroy a villain who asked her out after getting his ass owned. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her words were laced with precision and quiet authority.

You followed her through misadventures involving Quirk misuse, underground fighting, vigilante minors, and groups disputes that definitely shouldn’t have escalated as far as they did.

She was sharp. Wickedly intelligent. Her flirtatious persona never vanished—but you learned quickly it was armor. A performance. Underneath was someone who patrolled at ungodly hours and carried guilt like an extra heartbeat.

She teased you constantly.

“You alphabetized by first name?” she asked one afternoon, flipping through files. “Bold. Reckless. Very youthful.” She laughed. “Must be because of Aizawa. He has that effect.”

You stayed late most nights. Not because she asked—because you wanted to. Because when Nemuri Kayama fought for someone, she fought hard. And watching that did something to you.

One night, well after midnight, you found her still in her office. The hallway lights were dim, city glow spilling through the windows. She sat sprawled in her chair, heels kicked off, staring at a file like it might bite back. She glanced up. The teasing was gone. Her eyes were tired. Real.

“Kid with the Somnambulist Quirk,” she said. “Twelve. Hurt someone while sleepwalking. They want him labeled dangerous before he’s even old enough to understand what puberty will do to his powers.”

Something shifted. Subtle. She handed you the file without a word.

You worked together for hours. And somewhere between instant noodles and exhausted sarcasm, Nemuri laughed—really laughed—and leaned back in her chair.

“You know,” she said, studying you, “you’re going to be dangerous on the field someday.”

And the next day?

She let you take the head of the patrol yourself.