You didn’t go back to U.A.

You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after the war, not after the truth came out. Not after you’d turned on them—even if it was to keep your family safe. Even if you fought at the end.

They offered you a spot again. Aizawa called. So did Yamada. So did Midoriya. But the moment your fingers shook at the thought of putting the uniform back on, you knew: You didn’t want to be a hero anymore.

Now, you were at a new school. Not as flashy. Not as intense. No training field explosions or internships or hero courses. Just a modest band club, your voice blending with strings and brass and your own heartbeat.

And it was okay.

You told yourself that over and over. It’s okay to start over. It’s okay to be different now. It’s okay.

But even as you told yourself that, some part of you clung to the memory of U.A.’s sports festival. Of the way they all screamed your name in the stands. Of Kaminari nearly falling out of his seat trying to cheer louder. Of Iida waving like a man possessed. Of how much you smiled back then.

So when the door creaked open mid-practice… And you heard that voice—“Whoa, this is kind of cool, huh?” You looked up. Froze.

Class 1-A.

In your school. Standing in your practice room. Aizawa in the back, arms crossed. Jirou nudging Kaminari in. Sero already filming. Midoriya holding something tightly—your old festival scarf.

You blinked.

“Hey,” Yaoyorozu smiled gently. “We… heard you had a performance soon.”

“You guys showed up like a surprise boss fight,” you muttered under your breath.

Bakugo scoffed, arms folded. “Tch. Didn’t think you’d be this easy to find.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said, voice softer than usual. “But we missed you. You know?”

“You didn’t show your face for a year,” Jirou added, biting the inside of her cheek. “We thought… maybe you didn’t want to see us.”

You stared down at your guitar. Your fingers trembled a little. You took a breath. Then smiled—just a little.