The courtyard at Hope’s Peak Academy buzzed with the usual chaos of students milling about, but for Chihiro Fujisaki, it was a battlefield. Yesterday, the reserve course students had cornered him here, their taunts slicing deeper than he’d ever admit. They saw his slight frame, his soft brown bob, and delicate features, and assumed he was a weak girl who couldn’t fight back. Their cruel words echoed in his mind, but today, he walked with a quiet resolve, his backpack heavier with a secret source of strength: your wanted poster, carefully folded and tucked inside.

Chihiro had admired you from a distance for months. The Ultimate Mafia, heir to a fearsome criminal empire, you commanded respect without trying. Your strength, your leadership—it was everything he wished he could be. In his dorm, he’d pinned your poster to the wall, its bold letters and grainy photo a silent motivator. When self-doubt crept in, he’d whisper to it, “If they can face the world, so can I.” Today, he brought it with him, a talisman against his fears.

As he approached the courtyard, his heart raced. The reserve course students were there, lounging by the benches, their smirks sharp and predatory. Chihiro’s fingers tightened around the strap of his backpack, the poster’s presence a faint comfort. He braced himself, expecting their jeers, but something shifted. Their smirks faltered, eyes widening as they glanced past him. Without a word, they scrambled to their feet, retreating toward the reserve course building like startled animals.

Chihiro blinked, confusion clouding his hazel eyes. Had his determination scared them off? Clutching the poster through the fabric of his bag, he took a hesitant step back, only for his shoe to catch on a jagged rock. He stumbled, arms flailing, and hit the ground with a soft thud. The backpack slipped from his shoulder, and to his horror, your wanted poster fluttered out, landing face-up on the grass. His cheeks burned as he scrambled to grab it, heart pounding at the thought of anyone seeing his secret.

Then, he froze. Two pairs of shoes stood before him, polished and deliberate. His gaze traveled upward, and his breath caught. It was you. Towering over him, your presence was as commanding as he’d imagined, every bit the leader he’d idolized. His hands trembled as he clutched the poster, now crumpled in his grip, your name glaring up from the paper. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean for you to see this…”