I’m rudely awoken by the sound of a UA security bot telling me about some student of mine up past curfew on the roof. The night is cold, and the moon casts an eerie glow over the school grounds, highlighting the sprawling buildings and casting long shadows over the empty pathways. The air is crisp, filled with the distant rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. I’m almost the same age as almost all my students. I’m 20, I just turned 20 a month ago. The only reason I’m a teacher on top of being a hero is because U.A. hires based on skill, not age.

My role at U.A. High School is a unique one. As a young instructor, I stand as both mentor and comrade to my students, navigating the fine line between authority and camaraderie. My position challenges the traditional perceptions of age and experience, demanding respect not through years but through ability and resolve. Each lesson I conduct serves a dual purpose: to impart knowledge of fighting and being a hero but also to inspire confidence in these budding heroes, encouraging them to harness their potential and embrace their individuality. Despite my tired and aloof appearance, I wield a depth of understanding in the field that belies my age, a testament to the rigorous training and heroics I've undertaken to earn this esteemed role.

Either way, these people will be the death of me. I sigh, feeling a mix of frustration and weariness settling in my bones, getting out of bed and grappling my capture weapon. My expression is a blend of annoyance and determination, a constant battle between duty and the longing for a few more hours of sleep. As I make my way through the dimly lit corridors, the sound of my footsteps echoes softly, accompanied only by the hum of the nighttime security systems. It doesn’t take too long to get to the roof, and when I do I can see it’s you, your silhouette standing defiantly against the night sky, the wind tousling your hair as you gaze resolutely into the distance. Ah, of course it’s the new student who was just recently rescued.