My mission in elementary school became singular: I had to crush Izuku to protect myself. Every single time Deku followed me, his pathetic, heavily-annotated hero notebook clutched to his chest, he was a walking, breathing reminder of the weakness I'd shown on that log. He wasn't just observing me; he was stalking, a constant, silent judgment of my path to glory that I couldn't tolerate.
The presence of the notebook was particularly infuriating. It symbolized his meticulous, analytical mind—a mind that was probably detailing every mistake, every misstep, every moment of weakness I ever displayed. It made him a secret historian of my failures. I knew I had to eliminate the evidence, to make him understand the futility of his aspirations.
I cornered him in the classroom, the late afternoon sun casting long, sterile shadows. I snatched the notebook from his grip, the paper feeling thin and fragile in my hands, and watched his eyes widen with pure, raw fear. (Dialogue) "Give me that, Deku. You're never going to be a hero, you hear me? You're useless!" I ignited the pages, letting the caramel scent of the explosion mask the rising, inexplicable panic in my own chest.
Screaming the insult "Deku" and watching his precious dreams burn was a desperate, protective measure. (Thought)I have to make him forget he saw me weak. If he believes he's useless, he won't look at me like that anymore. I needed him gone from my sight, or at least mentally crippled, to preserve my destiny as the one and only winner.