Chapter 33: Controlling the Narrative, Losing the Plot
The atmosphere in Principal Nezu's office was thick with the silence of controlled panic. The news report about the supermarket incident played on a loop on the large monitor, a constant, mocking reminder of how completely the situation had spiraled out of their control.
"A sale on cabbage," Aizawa said, his voice dangerously quiet. "A dispute over pork belly." He looked at Nezu, his one visible eye filled with a level of weariness that seemed to age him by a decade. "This has his signature brand of catastrophic, mundane stupidity written all over it. There is a zero percent chance it wasn't him."
"But to confirm that would be disastrous!" Toshinori countered, his voice a worried wheeze. "If the public learns that a U.A. staff member, our alleged 'secret weapon,' is also acting as an unregistered vigilante who nearly leveled a city block over groceries… the commission would shut us down!"
Nezu was silent for a long moment, his paws steepled before him, his hyper-intelligent mind processing a thousand variables a second. "You are both correct," he finally stated. "It was almost certainly him. And we can therefore never, ever admit that it was him." He turned to face them, his expression grim but resolute. "The press conference is in one hour. The strategy has changed. Our goal is no longer just to control one narrative; it is to build an unbreachable wall between two of them."
The U.A. press conference hall was a warzone. It was a sea of flashing camera bulbs, thrust-out microphones, and the cacophonous shouting of a hundred reporters smelling blood in the water. The moment Nezu, Aizawa, and a stoic All Might walked onto the stage, the room exploded.
"Principal Nezu! Is it true U.A. is developing human weapons?!"
"All Might! What is your relationship with the so-called 'Bald Ghost'?!"
"Aizawa-sensei! Is it true this operative was present at the USJ?"
Nezu tapped the microphone, a small sound that somehow silenced the entire room. He began his performance. He was calm, articulate, and masterful. He addressed the "Secret Weapon" theory head-on, delivering the prepared statement they had crafted.
"U.A. High School is an educational institution, not a military facility," he said smoothly. "The individual in question is a civilian specialist with a unique, close-range reinforcement-type Quirk whom we have brought on for a provisional assessment period. His role is in risk analysis and campus security. For his privacy and safety, his identity will remain confidential." He spun the Sports Festival tunnel as a "successful, controlled test of the stadium's substrata integrity." He was building a plausible, if slightly thin, narrative.
For a moment, it seemed to be working. Then, a sharp, cynical reporter from the Hero Daily stood up.
"Principal Nezu, that's a very convenient explanation," she said, her voice cutting through the room. "But how do you explain the incident in the Kiyashi Ward last night? A villain, the S-rank murderer Muscular, was apprehended. Witnesses describe his attacker as a hooded individual with, and I quote, 'impossible, overwhelming strength.' Are you truly asking us to believe that it is a complete coincidence that two individuals of unfathomable power have suddenly appeared in your city, with one of them on your payroll?"
The room erupted again. The question had connected the dots. All Might stiffened. Aizawa's glare intensified.
But Nezu was prepared. He adopted an expression of grave concern. "We at U.A. are, of course, deeply troubled by the rise of such powerful, unregistered individuals," he said, his tone shifting perfectly from corporate spokesperson to concerned public servant. "Vigilantism, no matter how effective, is a threat to a stable, lawful society. We have offered our full and complete cooperation to the police in their investigation of the tragic supermarket incident." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "However, I can assure you that the individual involved in that event was not a member of the U.A. staff. Our consultant was on campus for the entirety of last night."
It was a masterful deflection. He had officially, on the record, separated the two events, creating a firewall. He was lying, of course, but it was a lie they couldn't prove. The press conference ended a few minutes later, leaving the reporters with more questions than answers, but no smoking gun. The narrative was, for now, contained.
While the principal of U.A. was engaged in high-stakes public relations warfare, Saitama was having a very normal day. His official task was to repaint the white lines of the school's main running track. He had a bucket of paint, a long roller, and the singular, focused goal of making the lines perfectly straight.
He worked for hours under the afternoon sun, a picture of domestic tranquility. He was completely unaware that on every news channel, his boss was lying to the entire world about his actions. He didn't know that his grocery run had become a topic of national debate. His world was the smell of fresh paint, the warmth of the sun, and the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.
That evening, the world was buzzing. Nezu's performance had been convincing enough to create a schism in the public consciousness. There were now two, distinct legends. The "U.A. Secret Weapon," a mysterious consultant hidden behind the school's walls. And the "Hooded Finger-Flicker," a terrifying new vigilante haunting the city's supermarkets. No one, outside of a handful of terrified teachers, knew they were the same, oblivious man.
The chapter closes late that night. Aizawa is alone in the darkened teacher's lounge, watching a panel of hero critics debate the two mysteries on a late-night talk show. He takes a long, bitter sip of coffee. He looks out the window at the quiet campus. In the distance, he sees a lone figure walking back from the athletic fields, faint specks of white paint on his jumpsuit, looking tired but content.
The chasm between Saitama's simple reality and the world's frantic perception of him had never been wider. Aizawa let out a sigh that felt like it carried the weight of the entire, absurd world. This was just the beginning, and he already felt the need to sleep for a solid decade.