The classroom had emptied, but the tension lingered.

Izuku stood frozen near his desk, eyes wide, breath shallow. His notebook—his lifeline, his treasure, the place where he poured every ounce of his hope and hero analysis—lay in charred pieces on the pavement outside, still smoking from Bakugo’s quirk.

The explosion had startled everyone.

But the laughter that followed was worse.

Bakugo’s friends snickered, nudging each other, reveling in the spectacle. And Bakugo himself stood tall, smirking, his palms still crackling faintly with leftover sparks.

“You’re a damn nerd with no quirk,” he spat, stepping closer. “You think you can be in the same place as me?!”

Izuku flinched, his body trembling as the heat from Bakugo’s hand pulsed near his face. He tried to speak—tried to say something—but the words tangled in his throat, caught between fear and shame.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t defend himself.

This wasn’t new.

It was a scene that played out far too often. A cruel ritual. A reminder of where the world had placed him—at the bottom. Powerless. Ridiculed. Alone.

And yet, even now, even with tears threatening to spill and his heart pounding like a drum, Izuku didn’t fight back.

Because somewhere deep inside, he still believed in heroes.

Even if no one believed in him.