I woke up to someone shaking my shoulder. Firm grip. Steady hands.
I blinked into the light, squinting against the glare. The wind was sharp, loud in my ears. A cold realization settled in.
I was high above the city—suspended hundreds of feet in the air—with my bed still attached to me like a poorly thought-out parachute. The sheets fluttered like flags. One of the pillows had already bailed.
Floating in front of me, arms crossed and expression set to "thoroughly done," was a woman in a sleek blue-and-black flight suit. Her short, wind-swept hair was tucked behind a visor. The badge on her chest read WINGBEAT.
"You done napping?" she asked flatly. "Or should I get a book and wait?"
I blinked again, still waking up. "Hi."
"Don't 'hi' me, kid. You're sleep-floating. With your furniture. I've had five complaints already, and it's not even lunch."
Right. The straps. I glanced down at the torn remains—one had snapped clean through.
"I—I'm sorry," I stammered. "I just got in from the U.S. last night. Jet lag. Long flight. This usually doesn't happen."
"American," she muttered, rubbing her temple. "Figures." She leveled a look at me, sharp enough to shave steel. "License?"
"Right. Yes. One sec." I fumbled into the side pocket of my hoodie and pulled out the laminated card. "It's American. I haven't had time to update it yet."
She snatched it mid-air, reading fast. "Clark Kent. Sixteen. Solar-powered. Strength, heat vision, flight, hyper-senses... Whew." Her brows went up. "This explains a lot."
"Again, really sorry," I said. "I was strapped down, I swear."
"Mm-hm." She handed the card back. "You've got sixty days to file a conversion. That's Japan's grace period for foreign quirk licenses. After that, it's a fine, and possibly deportation."
"Understood. I'll take care of it as soon as I can."
"See that you do." Her tone softened slightly as we started descending. "Come on. Let's get you back to your room. Or what's left of it."
She followed me down to the building, but I was a few lengths ahead—still faster, even groggy. We both touched down in the apartment, landing in the middle of a mess of towels and splintered foam panels, the bed touched the ground and groaned.
She let out a sigh, not angry—just tired. "You punched clean through the ceiling, you know."
"I'll fix it," I said, already reaching for the toolbox I'd half-unpacked last night. "Towels and duct tape for now. Hardware store later."
She nodded, then pulled a folded notepad from her belt. "Hoshino Hardware, Sector Seven. Tell them Wingbeat sent you. They do hero-grade furnishings. Beds that don't float, chairs that don't crumple, you name it."
"Thanks," I said, genuinely grateful. "I wasn't expecting the straps to fail."
"Better to expect failure and prep for it anyway," she said. Then her eyes lit up slightly, curiosity peeking through the scolding. "You said you just got in? Why'd you come all this way?"
"I'm here for U.A.," I said, brushing some ceiling dust off my sleeve. "First day was supposed to be today."
Her whole face changed. She let out a bright, excited hum. "No way. I'm an alum. Class B, top to bottom. Graduated with the old campus, right before they rebuilt."
"That's awesome."
"Darn right it is. B-class pride, even if we didn't get the press." She looked me up and down again, not critically—just thoughtful. "So, when's your orientation?"
I glanced toward the tiny clock on the microwave.
Then did a double take.
"…What time is it?"
She checked her visor. "Just after two."
My brain stalled for a second.
Then restarted in full panic mode.
"I'm late."
I flew into motion, throwing the covers over the hole in the ceiling and stuffing towels into the gaps. Grabbed my backpack, double-checked for my documents, tossed on my headset, and zipped up my hoodie halfway.
She watched, amused, arms folded as I hovered at the window. "Late to U.A. on your first day. You're really leaning into the foreigner experience."
"I'll tell them I overslept," I muttered.
As I rocketed out the window in a blur, I heard her yell after me: "Update your license!"
I didn't look back—but I did shout: "Yes, ma'am!"
The wind rushed past my ears as I flew, the pressure curling around my shoulders like a second skin. I kept my speed in check, measuring it carefully—fast enough to make up time, but not so fast I shattered any windows or kicked off a sonic boom. Tokyo didn't need an airborne wake-up call, and I didn't need to explain myself to another pro hero today.
Still, even cruising under the sound barrier, I made good time.
The U.A. campus came into view just past the tree line—a stretch of forest giving way to sleek buildings, training zones, and wide plazas. From above, it looked like a futuristic fortress in the form of a cube, trimmed with just enough greenery to seem inviting.
I hovered for a second to get my bearings, spotting the front gate ahead.
There was already a group gathered—just a few students, spaced out and quiet in that awkward way that always comes before something official. None of them were in uniform yet, which made sense. This wasn't the real first day. Just the ones here on recommendation.
My heart gave a small thump at that word.
Out of thousands of applicants across the country, only a tiny handful got recommended directly by heroes or government programs. And even fewer were accepted through the specialized trial exam. Today was that exam.
And I was late.
I dipped lower, easing into a glide just above the plaza. The air shimmered with heat from the pavement, but my boots touched down clean—no cracks. Just a soft thud and the faint rustle of wind as I landed near the front sidewalk, outside the main gate.
Ahead, a few students turned to glance in my direction, probably clocking the landing more than the person. I kept it casual—hoodie, backpack, nothing flashy—and gave them a polite nod before scanning the crowd.
Then I saw it.
Standing at the center of the small group by the gate was a… creature.
Small, furry, bipedal. Looked like a cross between a ferret and a polar bear with dwarfism in a pressed white shirt and a red tie, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He waved a paw as he spoke, gesturing with the practiced cadence of someone used to being listened to. His voice was sharp, clear, almost clipped—but definitely articulate.
So, not a mascot.
Probably a teacher.
I stepped through the gates, boots clicking softly against the pavement, and let my eyes drift across the group. Quietly. Casually. Not scanning, not staring—just observing. The way I always had. The way you learn to, growing up somewhere small and learning when to speak and when to watch.
There weren't many of us. Maybe eight. Ten at most. All of us hand-picked—recommended. That word still felt strange, like it belonged to someone else.
The first person who caught my eye stood a little apart from the rest. Not isolated. Just… separate. His posture was precise—hands in pockets, back straight, not a hint of nervous energy. His hair was split down the middle in two distinct colors, as if he couldn't decide which look to commit to and went with both. But what really drew my attention was the scar—jagged, red against his skin, cutting over one eye. It didn't look like a childhood accident. And the way he stood, like he'd been through enough that nothing here could shake him, said the same thing.
Near him was a girl dressed like she belonged in a different zip code. Her coat was tailored. Designer, probably. Polished boots, matching gloves, not a thread out of place. She had the kind of presence that made people step aside without knowing why. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, but her eyes moved constantly—tracking, measuring.
Off to the right, someone lounged against the fence like they were killing time between skateparks. Lean frame, worn sneakers, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Sharp teeth flashed when they grinned, but it didn't feel mean—more like they were in on a joke no one else had caught yet. They had that kind of energy that buzzed under the surface, the kind that looked laid-back but could shift into motion without warning. They scanned the crowd the way a predator watched a flock—curious, but not hostile.
Then there was the tall one—broad-shouldered, sturdy, solid in a way that made the concrete under his boots seem like it should be grateful. He wore a tank top stretched tight across his chest and cargo pants with pockets full of probably-useful things. Didn't say a word. Didn't fidget. He looked like someone who didn't rush to speak because he never needed to prove anything. Just being there was enough.
The others mostly hung around the edges. A few whispered to each other, casting glances at the rest of us when they thought no one was looking.
I adjusted my hoodie and kept my spot near the edge of the group, letting the soft buzz of city life fade into the background. The sun warmed my shoulders. My heartbeat had finally settled from the flight.
The small creature at the front of the group stepped forward, paws still clasped behind his back. The breeze barely moved his fur. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Good afternoon," he said. "My name is Nezu. I'm the principal of U.A. Academy."
That got everyone's attention. Not that we weren't already watching him.
"I want to begin by saying congratulations," he said, pacing lightly across the stone path in front of us. "You've each been recommended to this institution. That is no small thing."
He gave a small, practiced smile.
"Some of you are here because of your family's legacy. Some because of academic excellence. Others because your potential… simply could not be ignored."
His gaze drifted across the group, and for the briefest moment, I felt his eyes settle on me. Calm. Measuring.
"But," he said, smile never fading, "recommendation is not admission."
A few students shifted. One girl's hands tensed around her coat sleeves. Someone behind me exhaled through their nose.
"Today's test is a simple one," Nezu continued. "You will each be asked to demonstrate your quirk."
Just like that. No dramatic speech. No combat gauntlet. No obstacle course with fake civilians and collapsing buildings.
Just... show us what you can do.
The way he said it was light, almost friendly. But the silence that followed wasn't.
I got the message. So did everyone else.
This wasn't a test of heart, or intellect, or values. It was about what you had. What you could do. Power, control, potential—stacked side by side in a neat little row.
They weren't looking to be surprised. They were looking to be impressed.
And deep down, we all knew that.
Nezu kept going, as if he hadn't just pulled back the curtain on the unspoken truth.
"Should you choose not to participate, or if your performance does not meet our standards, you are still eligible to enter the general entrance examination next week. No doors close today."
His voice stayed soft. Measured.
Around me, a few students straightened their backs. One rolled their shoulders. No one spoke.
I didn't need to speak either.
I'd flown across an ocean for this.
Let them see what I could do.
---------
They had us seated in a glass-walled observation room, perched just above the testing field. The space below looked like a hybrid between a gymnasium and a military proving ground—smooth reinforced floors at one end, synthetic turf at the other, with modular barriers and moveable targets lining the edges. A retractable roof had been opened wide to let the sun pour in.
The setup was simple. Streamlined. A few support staff stood by crates full of testing equipment—grip machines, pressure dummies, reinforced weights, and the occasional chunk of solid metal labeled "impact rated." Students were called one by one. The rest of us just… watched.
I sat with my arms folded loosely across my chest, trying to look casual. Calm. But my hands wouldn't stop twitching, fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve while my stomach worked its way into a quiet knot.
Down below, a girl with a polished stance and gloves adjusted the strap on her bow. She didn't draw it—not the normal way. Instead, the moment she was handed an arrow, it lifted on its own.
Just raw telekinesis—so subtle and exact it looked like a puppet dancing without wires.
The arrow danced across the field, bouncing between angled panels, curving midair like it had AI targeting. It split a bottle in half, ricocheted off three padded walls, then buried itself in the dead center of a moving target.
It was graceful. Clean. Like watching math solve itself.
Before her, another student had taken her spot in a pristine blazer, gloves off. Her quirk? Matter creation. She'd built a literal howitzer on the spot. Like she had the blueprints memorized from birth. The thing actually fired, complete with recoil and smoke. One of the teachers had to drag a blast shield out of storage before she pulled the trigger.
It cracked the back wall.
Before her another student that launched tape from his arm was doing the spiderman routine, swinging around and using that momentum to punch some drones flying around the gym.
My eyes drifted down to the field, then back to the tablet resting beside me—my submitted test outline, already reviewed and approved by the exam board.
It was straightforward. Technical. Precise.
First: the grip machine. I was supposed to crush it—or rather, flatten it—to demonstrate raw strength. Then the striking machine to show durability: let them hit me with something heavy and watch it bounce. Heat vision, ice breath, both on calibrated targets. X-ray test, too: a teacher would inscribe a code inside a metal box, and I'd read it—no delay, no guesswork. And super-hearing. They'd set a phone to vibrate halfway across the campus, volume set barely above a whisper, and I'd have to pick out the ringtone.
And last… a speed trial. Not a sprint through cones or a lap around the gym. Just a measured dash. From one side of campus to the other—touch a sensor pad, loop the rooftop, return.
Show them control. Show them what I could do if I wanted to let loose.
It was practical. Impressive, I hoped.
But then another student stepped up—tall, expression unreadable, breath fogging as the temperature dropped. Frost bloomed across the tiles. A glacier unfolded behind him like a living creature, crashing into the open space and coating half the field in solid ice.
Someone beside me muttered something under their breath. I didn't catch the words.
I just sat there, the knot in my chest twisting tighter.
All around me, these students were performing like they were born to be on stage. Like they weren't just here to pass the test—they were here to be remembered. To be watched.
My test?
It was silent. Subtle. Clean.
A whisper compared to a war drum.
I glanced back down at the field, then at the empty seat beside me where the next name would be called.
The door hissed open behind us.
"Clark Kent," one of the support staff called, clipboard tucked under his arm.
The sound of my name made something in my chest jolt—not fear exactly. Just… pressure. My stomach dropping slightly.
I followed the staffer down the hall, past the other students, and out onto the floor. The courtyard looked bigger from down here. The shadows cast by the retractable roof cut sharp lines across the ground, and the heat shimmered just above the tile. Somewhere behind me, I could feel eyes watching through the glass—other students, examiners, teachers.
Didn't matter.
This was mine now.
Nezu stood off to the side with two other instructors, both scribbling notes onto tablets. One of them gave a quick nod as I approached the center platform.
"All right, Mr. Kent," she said. "You submitted a multi-stage demonstration. We've calibrated the field as requested. Begin when ready."
No pressure.
I stepped up to the first machine—a grip tester, reinforced to withstand super-strength quirk users. It looked like a steel block with finger grooves and a pressure meter bolted to the top.
I exhaled.
Pressed my fingers against the grooves.
And squeezed softly.
There was a deep, metallic groan. The casing warped under my grip. The pressure gauge tried to climb—spiked—then shattered with a crack, sending the little sensor needle flying across the floor. The metal in my hand folded like paper.
I set it down gently, the twisted remains still steaming a little from the compression.
One of the teachers cleared her throat, typing quickly.
Next came the durability trial. They wheeled out a mechanical striker—heavy, slow, industrial. It looked like a battering ram hooked to a hydraulic piston.
I stood still. Let them lock it into place.
"Ready?" one asked.
I nodded.
The machine slammed into me with a sound like a car crash. I didn't budge. The striker jolted, It did again, harder but yet again I didn't bulge, it did three more time harder then the strike before. It paused, and whirred like it was rethinking its life choices. I blinked.
They marked the result.
Next up: heat vision.
I turned toward the lined target sheet—heat-resistant ceramic, suspended over a blackened grid. I focused, narrowing my gaze. The charge built slow at first, buzzing low in my chest, then flowed into my eyes like a rush of warmth.
Twin beams flared out—narrow, precise, clean. They carved through the target like a scalpel, the ceramic sizzling, glowing red-hot around the edges before falling apart into molten fragments.
I shut it off.
Cold breath was next. A steel pillar, temperature-sensitive. I inhaled, slow and even, letting the sun-fueled heat dissipate from my lungs. Then I exhaled, focused and sharp. A jet of white frost swept across the surface, crystallizing the metal from top to bottom. It groaned as the temperature plunged, until a single flick of my finger sent it shattering into shards.
Then came the X-ray trial.
A teacher stepped forward with a sealed alloy plate, solid enough that light didn't pass through. He flipped it over, pulled a thin chisel, and etched a word on the interior side of the plate. Then sealed it shut.
He turned to me. "Read it."
I adjusted my focus, the muscles in my face tightening as my vision sank past the outer layer of metal. It took half a second.
"'Endeavor,'" I said, eyes still narrowed. "All caps."
They checked. Confirmed. Moved on.
Next was super hearing, I picked it up fast, but humming it to the teacher was kinda embarrassing.
The last test was already set. A staffer walked up and handed me a visor to sync with the campus sensors.
"Speed trial. You'll go on a loop from this platform, hit the west rooftop, and circle back here. Try not to damage anything."
I nodded, slipping the visor over my eyes. The display lit up—a glowing path stretched ahead, marked in gold.
I crouched low.
Waited.
Three beeps.
Go.
The air exploded behind me as I launched forward, the world blurring past in a controlled burn of motion. I stayed under the speed limit—barely—calculating wind resistance, direction, and altitude with every step. I skimmed the edge of the training tower, tapped the sensor pad on the rooftop, and pivoted mid-air. The city skyline flashed in the distance.
Back down the path. Final turn. Touchdown.
I landed without a sound, dust kicking up around my feet, sensor chirping as it registered completion.
The whole loop had taken just under three seconds.
No boom. No shattered pavement. No damage.
Just speed. Precision. Control.
I took off the sensor and handed it back. My breath was steady. My pulse barely above resting.
The teachers were silent.
Nezu smiled.
"Thank you, Mr. Kent," he said. "You may return to the observation room."
I nodded once and walked back without looking up at the crowd behind the glass.
I returned to my seat in silence.
The door hissed shut behind me with a soft click, and just like that, I was back inside the quiet little observation room—same bench, same sun filtering in through the angled glass, same students trying not to stare too openly at one another.
But something had shifted.
Everyone was sitting a little straighter now. A little tenser. Eyes flicking from the testing field below to whoever was still waiting. The air was thick with unspoken math—everyone counting quirks, feats, explosions, scale. Not officially a competition, but we all felt the clock ticking.
No one looked at me directly when I sat down again, but I saw the glances. Measured. Appraising. One student shifted a few inches further down the bench. Another gave me a quick, polite nod.
I returned it.
Below, the tests continued.
A girl stepped onto the field and ignited into a swarm of dragonfly wings—hundreds of them buzzing around her in a perfect spiral. She moved like a storm, tearing through floating targets midair, then reformed at the center of the chaos, hair tousled, eyes calm.
After her, someone with gravity manipulation created a sudden dome of pressure that sent metal weights slamming into the ground. A small crater formed in the turf. Staff had to patch it before the next student came forward.
Another boy split his body in two—then four—then six, all perfectly coordinated copies but each smaller then the one before, each performing different exercises simultaneously. One climbed a rope. One balanced on a beam. One juggled billiard balls.
We watched it all. Quiet. Tense.
Every person in that room hoped they were enough.
Some tapped their knees. Others sat frozen. I saw a girl whispering something to herself under her breath—mantra or prayer, I couldn't tell. Even the ones who looked composed were locked in place like their spine were solidify into iron.
There were no bad quirks. None of us would've been here if our powers were weak or awkward or needed apologizing for. These were the ones with high ceilings, sharp potential. We all knew that.
And still—every time someone stepped up, the question hovered in the air:
Was that better than me?
No one said it out loud. But you could feel it every time another student walked through those doors.
No one wanted to be forgettable.
No one wanted to be average.
I leaned back against the cool bench wall and let the sun hit my face through the glass. My heartbeat had finally slowed. My hands were steady again. But I still watched the others.
Wondering.
What would the staff remember when this was over?
The final name was called.
A quiet student stood up from the bench and walked toward the door without hesitation. They hadn't said a word all morning, hadn't made a show of nerves or confidence, just watched like the rest of us. Their pace was steady as they stepped into the testing field, where the afternoon light caught the silver trim of their jacket and gave it a faint shimmer.
From the viewing room, we watched in silence.
They stopped at the center of the field and raised a hand toward the sky. At first, nothing happened. Then the air around them began to ripple, like heat off asphalt. A soft hum vibrated through the walls, low at first, then rising into a high-frequency whine that made the glass buzz faintly beneath our fingertips. Light flickered along their silhouette, sparking at the edges of their skin until the entire area lit up in a blinding column of plasma.
It wasn't fire. It wasn't lightning. It was something in between—pure heat and pressure, Plasma crackling against the shielded walls, warping the light in the air. The tiles beneath their feet blackened in a perfect circle, the burn pattern clean and controlled. When the light faded, they were still standing at the center, calm, unharmed, and completely silent.
They gave a brief bow to the staff, then turned and walked out through the opposite door.
That was the last performance.
The demonstrations were over.
And now all that was left… was waiting.
Inside the observation room, the tension settled like a fog. Nobody spoke. Most of us sat with our hands in our laps or clasped together, eyes fixed on the scorched floor of the testing field. A few shifted in their seats or tapped their fingers against the bench in slow, unconscious rhythms. The girl with the bow leaned forward, elbows on her knees, brow creased as she stared through the glass like she was still calculating angles. Even the students who'd tried to act indifferent earlier now carried a sharp, watchful stillness.
We were all thinking the same thing, even if none of us said it out loud.
We'd done what we could.
Now came the part we couldn't control.
The door at the back of the room hissed open, and one of the staff stepped in—a tall man in a U.A. security jacket, holding a clipboard tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable.
He called the first name.
The student stood, adjusted their jacket, and walked out without speaking. The door sealed behind them with a faint hydraulic click.
They didn't come back.
A minute later, the man returned. He called a second name. Another student left, quieter than the first.
Still no one returned.
Then a third. Then a fourth. Each time the clipboard was consulted, a name spoken, a student gone. No farewells. No announcements. No explanation of what was happening beyond that door. And with every departure, the weight in the room seemed to deepen.
No one asked where the others had gone. No one dared to.
A boy who'd been bouncing his leg earlier had stopped moving altogether. One student rubbed their hands together constantly, trying to keep them from shaking. The girl who'd made the howitzer leaned back against the wall now, jaw locked, eyes distant.
Even the ones who looked calm were holding it in like a breath they couldn't afford to exhale.
My fingers tightened slightly against my knees.
---------
The room was nearly empty now.
Just three of us remained, seated in the silence like statues, each waiting for our name to be the last.
Then the clipboard man returned once more.
"Shoto Todoroki," he called.
The boy with the sharp jaw and the scar over one eye stood up without hesitation. He didn't look at anyone. He just adjusted the sleeve of his uniform jacket and walked to the door.
The door hissed shut behind him.
Minutes passed.
"Yaoyorozu Momo."
The girl who'd conjured a literal howitzer rose with composed grace but shaking a little. She smoothed her coat, gave a polite nod to no one in particular, and followed the man out.
Then there was only me.
The door hissed open one last time.
"Clark Kent," the staffer said, no clipboard this time—just a quiet nod like he already knew how long I'd been waiting for those two words.
I stood without hesitation and followed him into the hallway, leaving the quiet tension of the observation room behind. The walk was silent, and not a short one. We passed beyond the testing center, down a corridor marked STAFF ONLY.
At the end of the hall, he opened a frosted glass door.
The faculty lounge was larger than I expected—low-lit, clean, and humming with conversation. A long conference table dominated the room, stacked high with folders, tablets, and cooling cups of coffee. Half a dozen whiteboards lined the walls with color-coded student evaluations scribbled across them.
Around the table sat over a dozen pro heroes, some in full costume, others in faculty jackets or casual wear. Their voices quieted the moment I stepped inside.
At the center, seated atop a raised chair with his paws folded neatly in front of him, was Nezu.
He offered a warm smile.
"Mr. Kent. Thank you for your patience. We held you back so we could finalize everything at once."
I stepped forward, posture straight, hands at my sides. Even without knowing everyone in the room, the presence was obvious. These were pros. These were the people who would be shaping my life for the next three years.
Nezu nodded to the others.
"Since you're joining us from overseas, it's only right we introduce you to the faculty."
A man in a sleeveless red jacket with a broad chest and arms folded stepped forward.
"Vlad King," he said. "Class 1-B homeroom. Field instruction and real-world pressure."
Next to him stood a man in a wide-brimmed hat, his voice calm and precise.
"Snipe. Tactical training and ranged combat. You've got a strong profile."
Across the table, a square-built man with dust on his vest raised a hand.
"Cementoss. Infrastructure, terrain control, and support strategy. Also, unofficial maintenance guy."
A thin figure in a black suit phased slightly at the edges, his voice clipped and even.
"Ectoplasm. Math, crowd control, and exam analysis."
Behind them, a cheerful chef poked his head out from a kitchen pass window, ladle in hand.
"Lunch Rush! I'll be keeping you fed and calorie-correct. No skipping meals."
A woman in sleek black leather and tall boots that made me my cheeks heat up walked forward.
"Midnight. Modern Hero arts and ethics." She winked. "We'll see if you can survive both."
Near the door, a tall man in a yellow coat struck a dramatic pose.
"Present Mic! Heroics support, public communication, and emergency loudspeaker."
Finally, from a sleeping bag near the corner, a tired voice spoke.
"Shota Aizawa," he said. "Homeroom teacher for Class 1-A. We'll talk more soon."
Nezu folded his paws atop the table.
"You did very well today, Mr. Kent. Your demonstration was clean and technically impressive. We've reviewed your metrics and come to a unanimous conclusion: you've passed the recommendation exam."
I exhaled slowly.
Nezu reached beneath a small stack of forms and produced a slim card, sliding it across the table.
"We also took the opportunity to process your paperwork with the embassy," he added. "It took a bit longer, but the conversion is complete."
I picked up the card.
JAPAN CIVIL AVIATION LICENSE – HERO CLASS B
CLARK KENT – FLIGHT / SOLO / HIGH-SPEED – REGISTERED
VALID THROUGH YEAR 3 – U.A. CERTIFIED
It was printed in English and Japanese, laminated, and still warm from Nezu's paws.
"You're officially registered to fly within Japanese airspace," he said. "Just try not to crack any more ceilings."
"Speaking of," Cementoss added with a small chuckle, "the embassy called about the ceiling damage. Apparently, your apartment's drywall came from Idaho. They said it'll patch clean—nothing to worry about."
Lunch Rush chimed in from the back.
"They also said they're celebrating. Something about you 'sticking the landing.'"
Midnight raised an eyebrow.
Nezu's expression softened but continued, "They also asked me to send this to you," he passed me a gold and black credit card," Approved by the ambassador himself, it has a balance of ten thousand dollars a month, to help you with your time here in japan."
Aizawa said. "You'll be staying in the dormitory for the time being. As the only foreign student not renting in the city—it made the most sense, as the ones that will be joining you later need to end their leases first. The room has already been prepared."
That surprised me. I nodded slowly, taking that in. I hadn't realized I'd be the only one. But it made sense. The apartments in Tokyo probably was for workers of the consulate, and I didn't exactly have a utility bill in my name.
Aizawa continued. "Orientation is next week. Be early. Be sharp."
"Yes, sir."
Nezu leaned back, satisfied.
"That's everything, Mr. Kent. Welcome to U.A."
I gave a respectful bow, not too deep, then turned to leave.
The hallway outside felt brighter than before, like the shadows had softened with the weight off my shoulders. The license card was tucked in my hoodie pocket, warm against my chest. I didn't float this time—not even an inch—but there was a kind of lightness to my steps anyway.
The dorm would be quiet.
No roommate.
No familiar faces in the next room over.
But I could live with quiet.
And starting next week, I'd be waking up not as a farm kid from Kansas or the strange foreigner with a sunny smile.
I'd wake up a student at U.A. Academy.