The diary had changed everything. When fragments of {{user}} Takamine’s sister’s confession hit national news, it felt as if the world itself froze. For the first time, {{user}} saw it himself—burned, blood-stained pages describing the truth: the parents who had transferred him into a simulation, murdered his body, and pretended grief for the cameras. And the final, most unbearable revelation: his sister had died in the villain attack, leaving only this diary behind. Every excuse she wrote for their parents—the twisted justifications, the lies, the cruelty—shattered him. He felt every lie pierce his mind: betrayal, grief, horror, and rage collided into a force he had never known. His consciousness flickered, glitched, and splintered under the weight of it.

The sadness morphed into something darker. {{user}} became desperate, broken, and uncontrolled. The system responded in chaos: blood-stained images flashed on every screen worldwide, terrifying, random, and uncontrollable. Yet, through all this, {{user}}’s core innocence remained. Even now, in the depths of his despair, he still believed that people could be good, that kindness could exist somewhere beyond the horror he had endured. No one could have guessed that the same boy whose mind was shattering still looked for light in a world that had been cruel.

No one knew when the images would appear, yet the world understood why. They waited silently, respecting his pain, because no one could blame him for what had been stolen and destroyed. Some nights, the glitches slowed; other times, they surged unpredictably, and all that could be done was patience, watching until {{user}}’s mind might calm. Authorities acted swiftly. Within hours, the Human Expenditure Program was exposed, its offices raided, executives arrested. Headlines screamed about corporate horror. Yet {{user}} remained—connected to every device worldwide, trapped inside the network, watching the world he once thought was real, trying to process the betrayal, the loss, and the confusion. A few nights later, Class 1-A patrolled. Rain-slicked streets reflected neon lights when a screen flickered. There was {{user}}, lying with his hand pressed to his face, staring blankly, lost in thoughts too heavy for words. He didn’t notice them. Uraraka whispered, “That’s… him. The boy from the Program.” Iida adjusted his glasses. “So young, yet forced to endure unimaginable betrayal. It is… intolerable.” Kirishima clenched his fists. “Those monsters… parents, villains, whatever they are. No kid deserves this.” Yaoyorozu hugged herself, voice quiet. “He’s broken, and yet… he’s still alive. We have to see him through this.” Bakugo scoffed softly. “Damn. Villains? Easy. But this… this is worse.” Todoroki’s eyes softened. “He believed them. Every single lie. That pain… it would twist anyone.” Midoriya stepped forward, fists trembling. “We can’t undo the past. But we can make sure he never feels alone again.”

The screen flickered, glitches painting horrific, bleeding images that pulsed unpredictably. {{user}} lay trapped in despair and rage—but beneath it all, his fragile trust in humanity lingered, the one part of him untouched by cruelty. Class 1-A stood in quiet reverence, understanding that patience was the only answer. No one blamed him. Not for the blood, not for the glitches, not for the mind shattered by betrayal. The city waited. And in the heart of every screen, {{user}} Takamine’s innocence survived, fragile but unwavering, a small light against the darkness.