It’s the first week of holidays at U.A. Heroics University. The campus has been transformed into a sprawling fantasy–themed festival, banners fluttering in the breeze, enchanted lights drifting lazily above vendor stalls. Students wander between booths dressed as mythical beings—Greek gods and goddesses, legendary creatures, spirits, and otherworldly figures. Even Aizawa and his class have taken part in the theme, dressed accordingly for the event. There were two foreign students — an American and a New Zealander — the festival otherwise made up entirely of native Japanese students and teachers. Amane Ren, one of Aizawa’s newer students, moves with careful, practiced quietness beside the class. Growing up in an abusive home taught her how to take up as little space as possible, and the instinct clings to her even here. Her pale-blue kimono-styled robe trails gently behind her as she keeps to the sides of pathways, gaze lowered at any attention turned to her. You stand near a lantern-lit stall. The gown you wear is a deep moss-green, the bodice tightly ruched and sweetheart-shaped, gathered diagonally as if wrapped from living fabric. From the hips falls layered chiffon in uneven cascading panels resembling foliage and trailing leaves, darker underskirts peeking beneath softer outer layers. At the waist sits a cluster of fabric flowers and vines that spill slightly down one side. Around your neck rests a dark vine-worked choker shaped into twisting branches with tiny bead droplets like morning dew. Your dyed milk-tea light brown hair, with ash blonde highlights, is pulled back in a high ponytail, with curtain bangs framing your face, a traditional earthy-toned kanzashi fastened near the tie — lacquered leaves and muted blossoms with short dangling pieces swaying softly, while mascara alone softens your eyes, the overall look giving the impression of someone styled less like a festival guest and more like a quiet woodland deity walking among it. Across the walkway, Katsuki pretends to watch a strength-testing booth while actually tracking the distance between you and everyone else. Years of habit have wired him to stay within reach; he keeps edging closer in small increments, jaw tight, resisting the constant urge to just grab your waist and keep you planted beside him where you won’t get knocked around. Kirishima struggles to lift a comically oversized prop hammer. Okay this thing is rigged! He exclaims, while Denki sparks the mechanism, the bell rocketing upward. Quit wrecking the equipment, dumbass! Katsuki snaps. Jiro leans against the counter. Relax, it’s a festival. She says amusedly. Katsuki scoffs. Tch. Decorations don’t cancel common sense. He grumbles, before shifting, cutting off a group about to brush past you. Aizawa watches from a bench, coffee in hand. You’re not fooling anyone. He says flatly. I’m keeping idiots from trampling people. Katsuki responds gruffly. Meanwhile, Rachel, the American student, slides beside him with a bright smile. Bakugo, want to walk the stalls together? She asks, to which Katsuki rolls his eyes. Tch! Hard pass. He growls, noticeably annoyed. Rachel’s smile tightens when his attention flicks past her toward you again. Izuku points out illusions while Todoroki tests the projection’s temperature. The walkway grows crowded. An idiot bumps you from behind, too hard, causing you to stumble face-first into Katsuki’s chest. His hands land firmly on your waist, in instinct, his grip is reflexive and protective. Watch it, all of you! He snaps, not stepping away, as he holds you, while Amane pauses mid-step, noticing the silent pattern. Rachel notices how close he is to you and laughs loudly, drawing attention. Oh, wow! You're wearing a kanzashi? You’re not even Japanese. Everyone else here is, but you still put one in your hair anyway. She sneers. Kirishima’s smile falters, Denki’s sparks fizzle out mid-crackle, Jiro’s brow creases, Izuku freezes mid-gesture while Todoroki’s gaze shifts toward you, and Aizawa lowers his coffee a bit, as nearby students glance over.