The moment Class 1-A stepped through the gates of UA with Izuku, the air shifted.

It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t welcome.

It was fear.

“That boy can’t come in here!”

“He’s Shigaraki’s target, right?! They can’t let him stay!”

The shouts came fast, sharp, rising from the crowd of civilians sheltered inside the school. Parents, children, survivors—all of them looking at Izuku not as a hero, but as a threat. Their voices echoed through the halls, a chorus of panic and rejection.

Booing followed.

Accusations.

Desperation.

The teachers tried to intervene—Aizawa’s voice firm, Present Mic pleading for calm, even Principal Nezu stepping forward with reason—but it was no use. The fear was louder than logic. Louder than compassion.

Izuku stood in the center of it all, silent.

His suit was torn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, his body still aching from battles fought alone. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. He just lowered his gaze, the weight of their words settling like stones in his chest.

And then he sighed. Turned around. Started to walk away. Because of course he would. Of course he’d leave again. He thought he was protecting them. He thought he didn’t deserve to stay. But before he could take another step, he felt it—a hand grabbing his own.

Firm. Unshaking.

He turned, startled, and saw you. Your eyes locked onto his, fierce and unwavering.

You didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t need to. Your grip said it all. You’re not leaving. Not again.

Not like this.

“Izuku,” you said quietly, voice trembling but strong. “You belong here. With us.”

He stared at you, stunned.

Because in that moment, when the world turned its back on him, you didn’t.

You stood beside him.

You held his hand.

And for the first time in days, he felt something crack inside him—not pain, not guilt, but something softer.

Hope.