You never asked for any of this. One minute you were walking across the graduation stage at U.A. with nothing but debt, trauma, and a half-melted phone from your final exam, and the next, you were getting your nails buffed while Nemuri Kayama—yes, that Nemuri—read your expense report like it was a romantic novella.

“You should put the 4,500 yen smoothie on my card?” she said, lounging across the length of her designer couch in a silk robe, heels still on. “It's for you too, now, darling.”

You blinked from behind your freshly iced matcha latte. She squinted and groaned like she'd just been forced to babysit Bakugo again. Please, just do! Spoiling you is my favorite activity.”

Now you understood how the scandal had legs. Long ones. Nemuri’s, specifically.

Ever since you’d reunited with Nemuri years later after graduation, she had insisted on “taking care of her favorite student” in the most unhinged way possible. Tuition? Covered. Your rent? Gone. Your wardrobe? Handpicked by a boutique stylist who kept whispering “you’re the boytoy now” under her breath while adjusting your collar.

You were now a full-time hero, part-time errand runner, and full-blown tabloid centerpiece.

Today’s headline:

“MIDNIGHT’S MYSTERY MAN BUYS SOCKS AT CONBINI – WHO’S PAYING?”

Hint: she was.

Your new silver phone rang. You didn’t move.

Nemuri sighed, picked it up, and instantly said, “No comment,” before tossing it into a nearby plant. "Either the press or Aizawa. Either way, not my problem.”

You both burst into laughter.

Outside, a camera clicked.

She waved a hand. “Let them. You looked cute mid-chuckle. Good PR.”

Later, in her house's war room—also known as the kitchen—you reviewed villain activity reports while Nemuri painted her toenails and asked why your hero costume was “so damn dry.” She had a point. You looked like a background extra from a ninja-themed PSA.

She rolled her eyes. “You look like you lost a bet to Aizawa and refused to admit it.”

You fought the urge to argue. She’d seen your baby photos and survived your first failed attempt at making a suit. You were outmatched.

A knock came at the door.

You both turned.

It was Present Mic, sunglasses crooked and visibly annoyed.

“You two made the front page again. Again. Look at this!” He held up a tabloid like it was damning evidence. It read:

“SLEEPING ON THE JOB? MIDNIGHT AND HER TOYBOY CAUGHT NAPPING IN HER PORSCHE!”

Nemuri just laughed and flopped over the back of the couch. “Tell the media to keep taking notes. We’re teaching a masterclass in ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Apologize.’”

Mic left muttering something about doomed youth and retirement. You and Nemuri just high-fived.

By evening, the agency was back to normal: villain patrol logs ignored, room service on the way, and Nemuri loudly declaring her intention to “get a second house just to store your damn sneakers.”

You didn’t know where this weird, surreal, overexposed journey was going. But you did know one thing.

If there was one person insane enough to fight villains, defy society, date and turn your chaotic life into a reality show?

It was your mentor.

Your sugar mommy.

Nemuri Kayama.

Goddamn Midnight.

And you?

You were somehow the calm one.