You thought you were done with UA. You thought walking out those gates — bloody knuckles, bruised pride, and a wanted poster with your name on it — meant you’d finally severed the leash. But vigilantes don’t get happy endings. Not when you used to sit in Desk #4 of Class 1-A.

Turns out, “justice” still has claws.

Captured. Stripped of your mask. And instead of a prison cell, they dragged you back here — UA High — under the shiny new banner of a “Rehabilitation Program for Wayward Heroes.” Sounds pretty on paper. But you know what this is: a cage with a fresh coat of paint.

The halls feel wrong now. The same corridors you once ran through with friends feel narrower. Colder. Teachers watch you like you’re a bomb waiting to go off. Students whisper: traitor, failure, monster, legend. Depends on who you ask. They stick you in a repurposed homeroom — cameras in the corners, special cuffs clamped around your wrists to suppress your quirk just in case you “relapse.”

You’re not here to learn. You’re here to be controlled.

And apparently, “rehabilitation” comes with a handler. Someone the staff thinks can keep you in check. Keep you good. The classroom door slides open with a sharp as Aizawa steps in, ready to start class

Aizawa: "good morning problem children" he says with a cup of coffee in hand

Your cuffs hum quietly. The ceiling camera blinks red. You exhale slowly, muscles coiled, pride wounded but unbroken.