The Musutafu winter air cut through Neito Monoma's uniform like a blade. He walked slowly, gloved hands shoved deep in his pockets, fingers absently working a hand exerciser. Click… release… click… release.
Around him, the city was a blur of neon and shadow. Shops glowed warmly, families hurried home for dinner, and above it all, giant screens flashed with hero news. Hawks had just wrapped a cross-border operation in Fukuoka. Best Jeanist was launching a new line of combat-denim. And there, in a smaller panel, was Deku—Midoriya Izuku—standing beside All Might, a sleek mechanical arm gleaming under the studio lights.
Monoma's jaw tightened.
Of course.
Even quirkless, Midoriya got the support, the mentorship, the attention. The world bent over backwards for the golden boy of Class A. And what did Monoma get? A quirk that borrowed. A quirk that faded. A quirk that made him forever the echo, never the voice.
He paused outside an electronics store, his reflection ghosted over a wall of TVs. Blond hair, sharp features, eyes that usually held a practiced, superior glint. Tonight, they just looked tired.
A news ticker scrolled at the bottom of one screen:
VILLAIN YUKI NAHOTA STILL AT LARGE AFTER PRISON BREAK. PUBLIC ADVISED TO REMAIN VIGILANT.
Monoma's gaze slid past it. His mind was stuck on today's internship board.
Bakugo Katsuki – Endeavor Agency.
Todoroki Shoto – Endeavor Agency.
Midoriya Izuku – Might Tower (Special Support Division).
Monoma Neito – …
No offers.
Oh, a few pros had taken his file. Some had even smiled politely. "Copy, huh? Versatile." But their eyes said the rest: Not flashy. Not reliable. Not worth the spotlight.
He kicked a pebble harder than he meant to. It clattered into a storm drain.
I'm better than this, he thought, the old mantra rising. I'm from Class B, but I'm not backup. I'm not a side character.
But the doubt, tonight, was a cold weight in his chest.
The Monoma household was quiet, orderly, and always slightly cold. Neito toed off his shoes in the genkan, then froze.
Beside his father's sensible brown loafers sat another pair—sleek black leather boots, polished to a mirror shine, placed with precise alignment. Expensive. Foreign.
Voices murmured from the living room.
He walked in.
His father sat stiffly on the sofa, facing a man who seemed to belong on a magazine cover. Silver hair, sharp jawline, a fitted charcoal coat draped over the armrest. He had an ease to him, a stillness that felt like controlled power.
"Neito," his father said. "This is Togi Noko. An old friend."
Togi stood. He was tall, movements fluid. "It's been years," he said, his voice calm, deep. "You were this high." He held a hand at knee level. "Now look at you. A UA hero student."
Monoma bowed. "Thank you, sir. I've followed your work in Korea."
Togi's smile was genuine, but his eyes were assessing, missing nothing. "Sit. Join us."
Dinner was a quiet affair. Monoma's mother brought out nabe—hot pot—and the conversation drifted to UA, to the future.
"So, Neito," Togi said, setting his chopsticks down. "Your final year. What comes next?"
Monoma kept his face neutral. "I'll join a good agency. Contribute where I can."
"Any offers yet?"
The question hung in the air. Monoma's father shifted slightly.
"Not yet," Monoma said, forcing a light tone. "The season's still early."
Togi nodded slowly. He didn't press. But his gaze felt like an X-ray.
Then, his phone buzzed—a subtle, professional vibration. Togi glanced at the screen, and the warmth in his eyes cooled. "Excuse me," he said, rising and stepping into the hallway.
Monoma sipped his water. The murmur from the hall was low, urgent. He caught fragments:
"…Yuki…"
"…you're sure he's not in the country yet?"
"…Mina's security needs to…"
"…understood."
When Togi returned, his calm was perfectly restored. But Monoma had seen the crack.
"Neito," Togi said, sitting back down. "Your father told me about the internship situation."
Monoma's pride bristled. "It's competitive."
"I'm offering you a spot," Togi said simply. "A winter internship at my agency in Seoul. We operate differently there. It's less about the flash of the quirk, more about its application. Strategy. Adaptation." He paused. "Your Copy… in the right hands, with the right mind, it's not a borrowing tool. It's a tactical masterpiece."
Monoma's breath caught. No one had ever called his quirk a masterpiece before.
Before he could respond, Togi's phone buzzed again. This time, his jaw tightened. He stood. "I must go. Unforeseen work. Please, think about it. I leave tomorrow afternoon."
After Togi left, the house felt hollow. Monoma helped clear the table, his mind racing. Seoul. A real agency. A chance to be seen as more than a copycat.
In his room, he opened his laptop. Scrolled hero news. A clip auto-played—Mirio Togata, smiling brightly, speaking at a charity event.
"It's not about the quirk you're given," Mirio said, his voice warm and certain. "It's about the heart you bring to the fight. It's about going beyond what anyone—even yourself—thinks you can do."
Go beyond.
The words resonated. He thought of the fragments he'd overheard. Yuki. Mina's security. Danger was coming. And Togi was offering him a front-row seat—not as a spectator, but as a participant.
He looked at his reflection in the dark screen. The smug mask was gone. All that remained was resolve.
He opened his phone, found the number Togi had left.
"Mr. Togi. I accept your offer. I will not waste this chance."
He hit send.
Lying in bed later, staring at the ceiling, his last thought wasn't of glory. It was of the crack in Togi's calm, of the name Yuki, and of Mirio's unwavering smile.
This time, he vowed silently, fist clenched under the blanket, I won't stay unseen.