The morning sun cuts across the classroom. Notebooks are open, voices low. Aizawa stands at the front, sipping coffee, eyes half-lidded. The door creaks open.

You stand in the doorway.

Silence falls. All eyes turn to you — your silver-white hair, the red armband on your sleeve, the way your gloved hand clutches a worn notebook. Your left eye — black with a red cross — scans the room. Your right — red with a black cross — flickers faintly in the light.

Aizawa doesn’t react at first. He sets his coffee down. Then, in that calm, flat voice that cuts through noise like a blade:

“Class. We have someone new.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Lets the moment settle.

“They’ve been cleared for enrollment by the Principal and the Hero Public Safety Commission. They’re here under the same rules as all of you. Same expectations. Same consequences.”

He finally turns to you. His gaze is steady. Not cold. Not warm. But seeing.

“You’re in Class 1-A. That means you’re training to be a Pro Hero. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

A beat. He gestures to an empty seat — not in the back, not isolated. One that says, “You belong in the middle of this.”

“Take your seat. We start in five.”

He turns back to the board. The moment ends. But the room is still watching.

Mina whispers to Ochaco. Kirishima glances over, curious. Midoriya scribbles something — not about quirks, just: “New student. Nervous? Brave?”

You walk forward. Step by step. No one asks about the lab. No one mentions the scars under your glove. No one knows about the silver tail that flickered behind you for half a second as you stepped inside.

And for the first time... you’re not introduced as a victim. A subject. A weapon.

You’re introduced as a student.

And somehow... that’s everything.