The air in Class 3-A had shifted, thickened with the promise of the Pro Heroes they were about to become. They were no longer children. The evidence was in their bearing, in the set of their shoulders, and most strikingly, in their faces.
Izuku Midoriya was the prime example. The soft, round cheeks of his first year were gone, carved away by relentless training and time, leaving behind a sharper, more defined jawline. His face was a collection of clean lines and angles—a stronger nose, a more pronounced brow, and cheekbones that now cast subtle shadows. It was a face that had shed its boyhood, housing the same earnest green eyes, but now in a frame that spoke of resolve rather than wonder.
It was on a random Tuesday that a woman in a stark white blazer, Ms. Chiyo from the 'Aether' agency, sliced through their classroom's post-training lethargy. Her gaze, clinical and swift, dismissed half the class before landing on Izuku, who was hunched over a notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Him," she stated, her voice cutting through Aizawa's bored introduction. "The sharp jawline and the green eyes. The contrast with his build is phenomenal." Midoriya couldn't believe he was chosen in room full of individuals like todoroki or Bakugo but this
Just gave him a slight boost in confidence.
A week later, Izuku stood on a cool, black-lacquered platform, the air smelling of ozone and expensive cologne. The concept was "Vestige," a fragrance meant to evoke a ghost of raw power.
The director, a man who spoke in soft, deliberate tones, explained. "We're channeling a classic, Midoriya. It's not about performance. It's about presence. We start with your face. You're not a hero here. You're just a man. A complex one."
The low, sensual thrum of a bassline filled the set. A single, warm spotlight hit him.
"Action."
The camera slid in, an intimate intruder. It framed his face, and the transformation was immediate. The sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones were accentuated by the raking light, creating planes of light and shadow. His freckles stood out like dust across marble. He closed his eyes, and the camera watched the thoughts move behind his eyelids—the weight of his power, the ghost of past battles etched not just in his scars, but in the new, mature architecture of his face.
Then, the camera began its slow, reverent pullback. As it revealed the corded muscles of his neck and the broad span of his shoulders, the platform began to rotate.
The lens embarked on its 360-degree journey. It drank in the stunning topography of his body: the dense, rounded deltoids, the fan-like lats that created a breathtaking V-taper, the hard, planed surface of his chest and the deep cut of his obliques. The light glided over his skin, highlighting every defined ridge and valley of his back, a testament to three years of wielding a power that could break him. It was a body of pure, sculpted function, presented as high art. The rotation completed, the camera lingering for a heart-stopping moment on that perfect V-taper, the very emblem of his physical prowess.
Then, the descent began. The camera panned down with agonizing slowness, tracing the rigid, symmetrical lines of his abdomen. It was a deliberate, sensual crawl down to the very lowest part of his stomach, where the muscles tightened and converged, a silent, powerful suggestion. The air was electric, silent save for the thrumming music.
The camera began its journey back up, retracing its path over his torso, his chest, the column of his throat, until it finally returned to his face.
And in that moment, the vulnerability he had first projected crystallized into something else. The journey over his own form, the silent admiration of his physical self, ignited a spark of awareness. This wasn't the nervous Deku; this was a young man who understood the vessel he had forged. He opened his eyes, and they were clear, focused, and utterly captivating.
A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, sharpening the already-defined lines of his face. It was a look of quiet confidence, an acknowledgment of the power and the beauty in the form he had built. It was a smirk that held secrets and promises.
The camera held on that sharp, smirking face for a perfect, breathless moment.
"And… cut! God, that was it! The shift from introspection to that smirk… perfect!" the director exhaled, a wide grin on his face.
Izuku let out a shaky breath, the smirk dissolving into a more familiar, slightly overwhelmed smile as a robe was draped over his shoulders. He had faced down villains who could level cities, but nothing had been as intensely revealing as this. He had no idea that the final image—the journey from his sharp, thoughtful features, over the monument of his body, back to that confident, smirking conclusion—would redefine him in the public eye long before his Hero license ever could.