Nezu smiled as he sipped at his tea. The first day of the new year at U.A. was always among the most busy.
The campus pulsed with motion from before sunrise. Cars lined the outer roads. Reporters hovered just beyond the perimeter walls, lenses glinting in the morning light. Staff moved in tight, efficient patterns through corridors polished to a reflective sheen, their voices layered into a constant hum of schedules, orientation briefings, security checks, and last-minute revisions. Each student admitted into its programs represented investment, risk, and possibility in equal measure. The machinery of hero society did not tolerate imprecision, and U.A. had built its reputation on minimizing exactly that.
Nezu enjoyed days like this.
Chaos was most interesting when it believed itself organized.
He set his porcelain teacup down with care. The faint click against its saucer was nearly lost beneath the distant rhythm of footsteps echoing through the administrative wing. His desk was a meticulous landscape of order: enrollment files arranged by course, psychological evaluations tabbed and color-coded, Quirk assessments flagged for review. The incoming hero course roster lay open nearest his right paw, annotated in tidy, looping script. Strengths. Weaknesses. Observed temperament markers. Potential friction points within group settings.
Children were so wonderfully transparent on paper.
And yet.
One folder rested apart from the others.
It bore no bright tab. No cheerful formatting. Its edges were worn in a way that suggested it had changed hands more often than the rest. Multiple signatures crowded the approval line—administrative, legal, advisory. Some firm. Some reluctant. The paper stock was heavier. Thicker. As if weight alone could make a decision feel more justified.
Nezu's dark eyes lingered on it.
Humans tended to believe that documentation created certainty. That a sufficient number of signatures could tame discomfort. He found that notion charming.
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Nezu called lightly.
The door slid open with mechanical precision, revealing Shōta Aizawa in his usual state of controlled disarray. His capture weapon hung loose around his shoulders like a lazy serpent, though the tension in his posture betrayed alertness. Even on the first day of term, even before homeroom assignments had been formally addressed, he radiated vigilance. A man who expected problems as a matter of routine.
"You're going through with it," Aizawa said. Not a greeting. Not a question.
Nezu folded his paws neatly atop one another. "Good morning to you as well, Eraser Head." The rodent sighed, knowing exactly how this conversation will go.
Aizawa's gaze shifted briefly to the isolated folder on the desk, then back. "You're going through with it."
"Of course."
The word was delivered pleasantly, without defensiveness. That, perhaps more than anything else, caused Aizawa's jaw to tighten almost imperceptibly.
"He doesn't belong in a standard intake class."
"No?" Nezu tilted his head. "And what, precisely, defines a standard intake student?"
Aizawa did not immediately answer. He stepped fully into the office, allowing the door to slide shut behind him. The sounds of the hallway dulled to a distant murmur. "Students who passed the entrance exam."
"He did."
"Under observation."
Nezu's smile widened faintly. "Observation is such a clinical word."
"Because it is clinical."
Silence stretched, dense but not hostile. Aizawa's eyes flicked again toward the folder. The weight of it seemed to draw attention without effort.
"He was trained," Aizawa said finally. "Not as a hero."
Nezu hummed in acknowledgment. "No."
The admission hung between them, unembellished.
Aizawa's voice lowered, though they were alone. "You're placing him in 1-A."
"I am."
"With students who have no idea what he was involved in."
Nezu rose from his chair, padding lightly across the polished floor toward the wall of monitors that dominated one side of the office. The screens were dark for now, reflecting only his small form and Aizawa's tall, shadowed figure. With practiced familiarity, he adjusted a dial near the console.
"Children," Nezu said mildly, "are rarely what adults assume them to be."
"That isn't an answer."
"It is the only answer that matters."
The monitors flickered to life one by one, resolving into views of U.A.'s expansive campus: front gates framed by towering walls, the central courtyard already dotted with students, corridors filling in rhythmic waves as orientation signs directed traffic. The school was a contained ecosystem, secure and watchful.
"Environment shapes behavior," Nezu continued. "Repetition reinforces it. Remove one variable, introduce another, and patterns shift."
"You're not describing a science fair project," Aizawa said. "You're describing a kid."
"A kid," Nezu echoed softly, "who was six years old when adults decided what he would be."
The words did not rise in volume, yet they carried weight.
Aizawa's eyes narrowed slightly. "That doesn't erase what happened."
"No," Nezu agreed. "It does not."
He adjusted one of the camera feeds until the front gates filled the largest monitor. Students streamed beneath them in small clusters, laughter bright and unguarded. Backpacks slung over shoulders. Conversations animated with nerves and anticipation. Some looked up at the carved U.A. emblem with open awe; others affected nonchalance.
Aizawa followed Nezu's gaze.
"You're certain he understands the terms?" Aizawa asked.
"Yes."
"And he agreed."
"He did."
Aizawa exhaled through his nose, the sound faint but deliberate. "He knows he's being evaluated."
"Continuously," Nezu said.
"And he still came."
Nezu's smile thinned, sharpening at the edges. "That, Eraser Head, is precisely why this is interesting."
On the monitor, a pair of students stopped abruptly to take a photo beneath the gates. Another tripped over their own enthusiasm, only to be caught by a friend with a burst of telekinetic shimmer. Ordinary chaos. Predictable. Harmless.
Then, at the far edge of the frame, partially obscured by the slow drift of arriving bodies, stood a figure who did not move.
He was tall but thin, with shaggy shoulder length blue hair and tanned skin, and wore the uniform, impeccably. Hands at his sides, shoulders straight but not rigid. His gaze, gold colored, was directed not at the gates, nor at the students, but downward—toward the pavement beneath his feet.
He differed from the other students in that he had an ankle monitor under his pants legs that tracked his whereabouts and had been dropped off in a police squad car. A man with immaculately styled blonde hair wearing a ridiculously high-necked denim outfit patted the blue haired boy on the shoulder, and the two began walking.
Nezu's smiling face turned to face Aizawa and pushed the folder containing the boy's information to him. "You should really get to your class. You have a big day ahead of you. Oh, and one more thing. The boy is being remanded into your custody, you can thank your eyes for the responsibility, Shota-kun."
Aizawa suppressed the revulsion at the honorific and snatched the file into his hand, already in a foul mood. 'Tch. With that brat in class, I can't expel the rest. What a pain…'
--
Niko sighed as he walked his hands coming up to cup his ears. With a quick activation of his Quirk, the sounds around got muffled, more bearable to his senses. Best Jeanist, walking beside him, shot him a look. The boy wasn't supposed to use his Quirk without supervision, but given that he only did so for his own comfort, the current number four hero decided to let it go. "Are you nervous?" He asked.
Niko shook his head, his eyes looking forward. "Yes. Half from anticipation." He stated, his Japanese flawless enunciated, but with a deep voice and a Russian accent. This was the chance of a lifetime. Niko could not afford to fail.
Best Jeanist, Tsunagu Hakamada, allows himself a smile, not that anyone would see it past his collar before stopping. "This is as far as I go. Good luck." The number hero waved at Niko, turning back the way they came. Though the two had only spent a few sparse hours together, Tsunagu sincerely wished that Niko could succeed.