The classroom was quiet except for the soft scratch of pens on paper and the occasional shuffle of a chair. Izuku Midoriya, now in his second year of teaching at UA High, stood at the front of the room, his green eyes scanning his students as they worked. Most of them were deep in concentration, some whispering questions to their neighbors. But his gaze kept drifting to one student in particular.

They sat at the back, their shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear into their seat. Their eyes were downcast, their pencil tapping nervously against the edge of their notebook. The newest addition to Class 1-A. Midoriya remembered reading their file before their first day.

A difficult past. Hospital stays. A quiet battle that most would never see.

He saw it, though. Not because he pitied them, but because he understood what it was like to feel small in a room full of people who seemed larger than life. He’d been there once, too—an invisible boy in a world full of giants.

When the bell rang, the students filed out in a noisy blur, chatting about their next classes or what they’d bring for training that afternoon. But they lingered, packing their bag slowly, deliberately, as if waiting for everyone else to leave first.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Midoriya’s voice was gentle, careful not to startle them.

They froze for a moment, then nodded, clutching the strap of their bag as they approached his desk.

“How’s everything going so far?” he asked, leaning against the edge of the desk. He kept his tone light, his posture relaxed. He didn’t want to make them feel like they were under a microscope.