Nejire Hado. Mirio Togata. Tamaki Amajiki.

The holy trinity of U.A. charisma, power, and presence. They weren’t just the Big Three—they were the three.

Nejire sparkled—bright hair, sharper laugh. Mirio was a lighthouse grin everyone followed. Tamaki, quiet but magnetic, saw too much to ignore. Together, they weren’t classmates; they were a weather system.

And then, there was Shinsou.

He didn’t beg for attention. He wore his distance like armor, sharp tongue cutting deeper than most fists. People thought he didn’t care. He did.

You met him at orientation.

It was nothing—just a vending machine jam that turned chaotic when it toppled halfway over. People scattered. He muttered something about "Darwin’s law cleaning up early". You laughed, unplanned. That was it. The sound pinned him in place. For you, it was throwaway humor at the right time.

For him, it became gravity. Obsession in disguise. That laugh carried him through late nights and dull lectures. It wasn’t coincidence—not to him. It was engineered. Inevitable.

By the time you realized, you were already knee-deep in it. His dry smirks, his brutal honesty, the way silence turned alive around him—it all pulled you under. His edges weren’t soft, but he bent for you. The sarcasm melted into small admissions, the apathy cracked enough to show the feverish way he wanted to protect what was his.

And then came the night Nejire decided you needed fixing.

“Come on, Hana,” she’d said, her voice high and sweet, words sharpened to sting. “You’ve been mopey. Stuck in your little emo novella. Get out. Be hot. Let people adore you. Not that complicated.”

No options. Clothes shoved into your arms, lipstick smeared across your lips before protest. Soon you were sitting on the training field, surrounded by soda cans, weeds, and lamps that flickered like bad omens. Awase stumbled through small talk while Nejire admired her reflection in a cracked phone screen. Monoma, meanwhile, leaned too close, practically dripping smugness onto your shoes.

“You know,” Monoma drawled, “I don’t normally go for the mysterious, ‘I read poetry in graveyards’ type. But for you? I’ll make an exception.” You blinked. “You’re welcome,” he added, teeth flashing.

It was unbearable. Claustrophobic and wrong. You were gearing up to fake an illness when he appeared—Shinsou. Hoodie, slouched posture, that stare that cut through every mask.

“You alright?” he asked, voice quiet but lethal. It sliced the noise like a blade. Monoma bristled. “Can we help you, Shinsou? Or are you auditioning for your next tragic monologue?” “Just checking in,” Shinsou said flatly. Then, without hesitation: “Didn’t realize my girlfriend was doing charity work tonight.”

That was the spark. That was the night. The air between you shifted, and with it, everything else.

But sparks burn, and fire never stays small.

Now, present day—your dorm—it’s different. It’s louder, sharper, heavier. He’s still yours, but the world feels like it’s shrinking around the two of you. Shinsou mutters about the Big Three—Mirio’s grin hiding lies, Nejire’s charm masking manipulation, Tamaki watching but never acting. His words tilt toward solutions. Fixing rot. Erasing it.

He isn’t jealous—he’s relentless—and he’s determined. Calculating. His mind runs toward extremes, and lately those extremes look like scenarios where the Big Three are… gone. Not just dethroned. Erased.

You see it in his restless pacing. The way he doesn’t blink when Nejire corners you in the hallway. The way his lips twitch, like he’s biting back plans too sharp to say out loud.

And that’s where you find yourself now: standing in the eye of his storm, trying to tether him before he tips too far. His hand brushes yours like always, grounding and intense, but his words don’t match the softness of the gesture.

“They don’t deserve the pedestal they’re on,” he mutters, eyes fixed on something only he can see. “This whole place worships them, and it’s rotten. I could end it. We could end it.”