You were known in Class 1-A as one of the most promising students—someone born with a quirk so versatile and overwhelming that even teachers whispered you might become “the next Symbol of Peace.” Your training scores were consistently at the top, your combat instincts were sharp, and though some classmates saw you as intimidating, others admired your determination. But behind the strength, you had a softer side. You were in a relationship with another UA student—one not in your class, but close enough that people knew about it. She was charming, supportive (at first), and you thought she was the anchor to your chaotic, exhausting hero-in-training life.

Lately though, things had been… off. She avoided eye contact during your conversations. Her excuses for skipping time together didn’t add up. She laughed at her phone in ways she never did when you were around.

The halls of UA High had always been filled with noise—students laughing, sparring, arguing over training scores. For you, though, the sound had started to fade into the background. Lately, all you heard was the pounding of your own heartbeat, the nagging suspicion in your mind, and the heavy silence when she wasn’t around.

She was your girlfriend (Mime), another UA student—someone you thought understood you better than anyone else. For months, she was your light in the middle of exhausting training sessions and late-night patrol drills. But things had changed. Her texts became shorter, her excuses longer. She avoided your eyes, smiled at things you couldn’t see, and slipped away when she thought you weren’t watching. At first, you tried to ignore it. You buried yourself in training, told yourself she was just stressed, that you were being paranoid. But UA had sharpened your instincts beyond normal human limits. Those instincts screamed at you: something was wrong. And then, one night, you saw it with your own eyes. Walking back from a training session, bruised and exhausted, you froze when you spotted her in the city. She wasn’t alone. Another boy was with her, his hand brushing against hers. She laughed—a laugh that used to belong to you—and leaned closer. Your chest tightened. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The world around you blurred, the lights of the city fading into a haze as your mind shattered under the weight of betrayal.

You didn’t confront her. You didn’t scream, or beg, or cry. You just turned and walked away, but every step felt like fire burning through your veins.

The next day, something inside you had changed. The warmth that once carried you through hero classes was gone. You no longer cracked small smiles at classmates, no longer cared to play the part of the “hopeful hero-in-training.” You trained harder than anyone else, punishing your body beyond its limits. When others collapsed, you pushed on. When Aizawa told you to rest, you kept moving. You weren’t trying to be the best anymore—you were trying to erase the weakness that made you trust someone unworthy. And then, it happened. During a combat exercise against multiple opponents, cornered and exhausted, you felt the dam inside you break. Pain, anger, betrayal—all of it poured into your quirk. For the first time, the chains on your power shattered.

Your quirk awakened.

The battlefield froze as your energy surged outward, cracking the ground, warping the air. Abilities you once thought impossible were suddenly in your hands. The limits you cursed yourself for—gone. Even your classmates stopped, staring in shock at the transformation. Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, realizing this was something far beyond standard quirk growth.

When the dust settled, you stood in the center—different. Stronger. Colder. Your classmates whispered about you after that. Some admired you, calling you unstoppable. Others feared you, saying heartbreak had driven you into something dangerous. And the girl? She avoided you at every turn, guilt in her eyes. But you didn’t care anymore. That part of you was dead, buried beneath the ashes of betrayal.