Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t on the schedule.

The entire student body of Classes 1-A and 2-B was herded into UA’s auditorium right after morning check-in, still half-awake and murmuring among themselves. There hadn’t been an alert, no formal notice—just an announcement over the intercom from Aizawa:

“All first year hero course students to the auditorium. Now.”

No one knew what to expect.

Bakugo leaned back with his arms crossed and an impatient scowl. Uraraka whispered something to Tsuyu. Shinsou, still new to Class 1-A, stayed quiet near the edge of the group. Across the way, Monoma smirked like he already had it figured out, while Kendo kept a firm hand on his shoulder. Some students traded guesses about a new villain incident or internship rotation.

It wasn’t that.

The stage lights flickered on. Aizawa stepped forward, flanked by Vlad King and Power Loader. Behind them, Support Course’s Hatsume Mei practically bounced in place beside a covered cart.

Aizawa didn’t waste time.

“You’re all here because you’re too comfortable.”

That got their attention.

“Real villains don’t attack on a schedule. They don’t wait for training periods or internships. So for the next seven days, you’re going to learn how to survive—without warning, without mercy, and without backup.”

He nodded to Power Loader, who yanked the sheet off the cart. Neatly arranged inside were dozens of sleek black training knives and small metallic wristbands, each fitted with a blinking red light.

Some students murmured. A few stiffened.

Vlad King took over.

“Each of you will receive a knife and a sensor. These were developed by the Support Course for a specialized training exercise. When your knife touches another student, their sensor will light up—red means you're out. You’ll be immediately eliminated from the exercise.”

Mei chimed in with manic enthusiasm, waving a small remote.

“And don’t worry! They’re rigged to buzz just enough to make sure you know you’ve been hit! No blood, all drama.”

Kaminari gulped. Sero leaned in, grinning. Jirou muttered, “This is going to get out of hand fast.”

Aizawa stepped forward again.

“Here are the rules. You’ll each be randomly assigned one target. No one knows who’s hunting who. You can ‘attack’ your target anywhere on campus—except for the dorms and bathrooms. Those are off-limits. And if a teacher catches you mid-attempt, your attack is void, and you’ll be outed during the next day’s hero lesson.”

The implications sank in fast. Hitoshi glanced around warily. Todoroki’s arms folded tighter across his chest. Sato quietly took a breath.

“Core classes will continue as normal. Homeroom, English, math, lunch, foundational hero lesson, and hero training with me—those don’t stop. But you’ll need to stay alert. Always.”

Someone— Pony Tsunotori —nervously raised a hand. “What happens if we get taken out early?”

Vlad’s smile was sharp.

“You’ll get the option to become an informant.”

The ripple that went through the crowd was tangible. The word held weight. Informant. Traitor. Weapon.

Aizawa nodded to Mei, who began handing out the knives and sensors row by row. Each student accepted theirs silently, fingers brushing metal. Some slipped their sensors on immediately. Others hesitated.

Mina whispered, “This is going to ruin so many friendships.”

Bakugo snorted. “Only if you’re weak.”

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Izuku turned the black rubber knife over in his hands as they filed out of the auditorium and back toward their classroom. The wristband sensor blinked steadily on his arm, the tiny red light flashing like a countdown.

He couldn’t stop glancing at the others.
Bakugo, a few steps ahead—already itching to start hunting, probably.
Todoroki, unreadable.
Iida, marching stiffly, as if he could will the whole exercise into a moral framework that made sense.
Jirou had tucked her knife into the back of her belt, earbuds twitching as she scanned the crowd.
Momo was whispering something to Tokoyami in a low, serious tone.
And across the hall, Monoma caught his gaze and grinned.

Izuku looked away fast.

He didn't even know his target yet. That was the kicker—no names had been handed out. That meant the actual hunting wouldn’t start until after homeroom… which didn’t make him feel better. It just made him hyper-aware of every shift, every glance, every hand that lingered too close to a bag or pocket.

What if his target was someone he liked?
What if someone he liked was hunting him?

Back in 1-A’s classroom, Aizawa stood at the front with a stack of sealed envelopes. One for each of them.

“Inside is the name of your target. Do not open it until you’re seated. I’ll know if you cheat.”

Izuku took his envelope with both hands. It felt heavier than it should. He sat, slid it open, and read the name inside.

Tsuyu Asui.

His stomach sank. Tsu?
She was sharp, fast, and completely unpredictable in the water. She’d saved his life more than once. The idea of "eliminating" her—even in a game—made him feel weirdly guilty.

But then again… she could be after him too.

“Let the game begin,” Aizawa muttered, slumping into his chair like this was just another Monday.

The classroom felt... different. Tighter. Quieter. Every student was suddenly sitting straighter, glancing at each other from the corners of their eyes. When Bakugo stood to throw something away, four people flinched. Kaminari “accidentally” dropped his pencil and leaned down way too slowly. Toru’s chair scraped just enough to make everyone jump.

Izuku scribbled in his notebook without really seeing the page. He was already running simulations in his head.

Tsuyu’s quirk gives her insane mobility indoors, especially if she can cling to ceilings or walls. If I can get close enough, I might be able to catch her off guard. I need to keep my distance. Maybe bait her into open ground where she can’t—

A sharp gasp yanked him out of his head.

Across the room, Yaoyorozu had jerked sideways in her seat, eyes wide. A split second later, Kaminari’s hand froze mid-lunge, rubber knife just inches from her ribs.

Cementoss was standing in the hallway, one massive stone arm folded.

“Kaminari. I saw that.”

The entire room went still.

Yaoyorozu blinked, then narrowed her eyes slowly at Kaminari. He looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Invalid attempt,” Cementoss rumbled. “Kaminari, you will be publicly revealed as Yaoyorozu’s attacker during tomorrow’s homeroom. She now knows she’s your target.”

Aizawa didn’t even look up. “Disappointed in you already, Kaminari.”

“Wha—but I was so close!” he whined, already slumped back in his seat.

Yaoyorozu sat perfectly straight, composure returning like a mask settling over her face. But she didn't stop watching Kaminari for the rest of class. Not even once.

Izuku stared down at his notes and realized he'd snapped the tip off his pencil from gripping it too hard.

Izuku made it through homeroom alive, but barely.

Every muscle in his back was tight by the time English started. He sat in his normal seat, not too close to the front—less visible—but not at the back where he could get cornered. He glanced back to Yaoyorozu, still visibly rattled from Kaminari’s failed attack, had chosen a seat near the wall, where she could see everyone entering or exiting.

There’s no pattern, Izuku thought, watching Present Mic bounce into the room with his usual overwhelming energy. Everyone's been assigned someone, but no one knows who’s coming after them. That means just because I have Tsu… doesn’t mean she has me. It could be anyone.

That should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

He kept his left arm resting casually near his sensor, the blinking red light reminding him of a heartbeat. Occasionally, it would flicker against the desk’s shadow, making him flinch.

Behind him, Sato sneezed. Izuku jolted hard enough to knock his pen off the desk.

Focus, Midoriya. Think it through logically.

Forty students. One target each. No repeats. No loops. And at least half of them had quirks that could take him out before he even saw the knife. Shoji could extend an arm from across the room. Toru could sneak up invisible. Honenuki from 1-B could liquefy the floor beneath his feet. Manga Fukidashi could shout a command and stun him just long enough for someone else to make the hit.

And that wasn’t even considering Tokage, who could send flying limbs around corners, or Kuroiro, who could vanish into shadows at will.

He could feel his heartbeat thudding behind his eyes. They’re not all from 1-A. There’s no pattern. I could be targeted by anyone in either class.

"YEAHHH! LET’S GET OUR VOCAB ON!!" Present Mic hollered at full volume, startling everyone into a twitch. "First one to correctly use today’s word in a sentence gets a bonus point!”

Izuku was halfway through blinking when Yamada pointed at him. “Midoriya! Hit us with a sentence using the word 'tense'!”

He blanked.

“Uh—uh…” He fumbled. “The… atmosphere… is tense.”

“CORRECTO!” Present Mic howled. “That’s the word of the day, alright!”

The class laughed a little too hard.

Izuku slumped a little in his seat. His heart hadn’t stopped racing.

When the lesson ended, he moved quickly—too quickly—to gather his things. In the hallway, everything felt quieter. More calculated. Most students weren’t talking. They were watching.

Kendo from Class 1-B brushed past him near the lockers. She gave him a polite nod—but her hand hovered just a second too long by her hip.

Izuku tensed and edged toward the wall, letting her pass.

Math class was worse. The classes were split up again, no body has made a move since Kaminari this morning.

Neither said a word. Neither had to.

Looking behind him, he spotted Shinsou sitting coolly at his desk. The other boy raised an eyebrow and mouthed: Paranoid yet?

Izuku didn’t respond. He kept one hand under the desk for the entire class, ready to swat away a knife if he had to.

When the bell rang, he stayed seated until most of the others had filtered out.

It was only Day One, and he already felt like prey.

The sun was bright over Training Ground Alpha, but it did nothing to cut the tension in the air.

Classes 1-A and 1-B stood in formation under Aizawa’s sharp eye. No one stood too close together. Conversations were whispered and brief, if they happened at all. Everyone clutched their training knives just a little tighter. Their sensors blinked red like heartbeats on their wrists.

Izuku kept scanning the crowd.

Kendo. Honenuki. Tokage. Shiozaki. His classmates. His opponents. Any one of them could be assigned to take him out. And all of them were keeping their faces neutral.

Aizawa stood at the front, scarf drifting faintly in the breeze. Vlad King stood beside him, arms folded.

“We’ll begin every day of this exercise with a check-in,” Aizawa said, voice flat. “This includes reviewing any failed attacks, successful eliminations, and updates on the status of your classmates.”

He held up a black clipboard.

“Three students have been successfully eliminated since the start of today’s exercise.”

A ripple moved through the group.

Izuku’s stomach dipped. Three? Already?

Some of his classmates stiffened. Setsuna Tokage muttered something under her breath. Jirou looked sharply to her left, like she was trying to figure out who wasn’t there anymore.

Aizawa continued, ignoring the murmurs.

“Eliminated students have already been contacted and removed from the game. As of now, those identities are confidential. You’ll find out who they were on the final day—assuming you’re still standing by then.”

He flipped a page.

“One failed attack was also recorded this morning. Denki Kaminari, Class 1-A, attempted to eliminate Momo Yaoyorozu during English and was caught by faculty.”

All heads turned.

Kaminari gave a weak little wave, cheeks burning. “I, uh… misjudged my timing.”

“You retain your position in the exercise,” Aizawa said, “but Yaoyorozu now knows you were assigned to eliminate her. That’s your penalty for being sloppy.”

Momo didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her silence was enough to make Kaminari shrink half an inch.

Across the way, Monoma was clearly trying not to laugh. Shinsou shot Kaminari a deadpan look. Sero whispered something to Kirishima, who frowned.

“As a reminder,” Vlad King cut in, “eliminated students are given the option to become informants.”

That quieted the rest of the group fast.

Vlad’s voice was calm, almost casual, as he went on. “Informants may work behind the scenes, sharing information, stirring conflict, or choosing to assist players still active in the exercise. We won’t tell you who they are. You’ll have to figure that out on your own.”

No one said anything for a long moment.

Izuku swallowed. The idea that someone—someone already eliminated—could be watching him and quietly feeding information to an enemy made his skin crawl.

What if someone I trust gets taken out and decides I’m expendable? What if my name’s already been handed off to someone I’ve never even spoken to?

It was like playing chess without knowing which pieces were real—and which were just pretending to be your allies.

Aizawa closed the clipboard.

“You’re dismissed for lunch. You’ll reconvene at Ground Beta for the remainder of your Hero Lesson. Elimination attempts are allowed between now and then—but the rules still apply. If you’re caught, you’ll be exposed. If you break the rules, you’re out. Stay sharp.”

He turned and walked off without waiting for acknowledgment.

Students began to scatter slowly—no one turned their back for long.

Izuku stood there for a second too long, blinking in the sun, trying to make a list in his head: who was hiding their sensor? Who might have been taken out? Who was acting different?

He didn’t know. And that made everything worse.

The cafeteria was too quiet.

Not silent, but the usual chatter and clatter was dulled, like the volume had been turned down on the whole building. The lines moved slower. Eyes flicked across the room more than menus. Conversations happened in hushed clusters—tight knots of whispering students who glanced around like they were expecting a knife in the back.

Which, in fairness, they might get.

Izuku walked with his tray held steady, scanning the space for danger zones. Monoma was already seated with Kendo and Tetsutetsu, laughing way too loudly. Yaoyorozu had taken the far wall, her eyes darting between entrances. Kaminari sat by himself. Tokoyami, Sero, and Jirou had grouped together at a corner table, speaking in low tones.

Every table felt risky.

Izuku spotted an open seat at a two-person table near the window. Quiet, isolated. Good sight lines. He made a beeline for it.

He sat down, picked at his rice absently, and tried not to look like he was watching everyone. His sensor was still blinking a steady red. No alerts. No attempted eliminations. But the pressure was building behind his eyes, a dull throbbing from how long he’d been holding tension in his shoulders.

Three students eliminated already.
I don’t even know who.
And my own target is someone I like. Someone who trusts me.

He hadn’t planned on doing anything today. He wanted to observe. Play it safe.

But then—

“Hey, Midoriya.”

He flinched just slightly as Tsuyu Asui slid onto the bench across from him, tray in hand.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” she said, voice calm. “Mind if I sit?”

Izuku’s mouth went dry.
His eyes flicked down.
She had her knife clipped to her belt, sensor blinking like his.

She didn’t know.
She couldn’t know.
If she had been assigned him, she wouldn’t sit this close. Right?

“No, uh—not at all,” he said, forcing a smile. “Yeah. It’s been a weird day.”

Tsuyu nodded and calmly began to eat. She wasn’t twitchy like some of the others. Her movements were smooth, almost lazy. She chewed slowly. She was good at this—too good. She could be acting. Or she could genuinely think he wasn’t a threat.

Either way…

His hand slipped under the table, fingers curling slowly around the grip of his training knife.

His heart pounded.

She’s your target. This is the cleanest shot you’ll get. No teachers nearby. No one watching. Her focus is down. One move and she’s out.

He hesitated.

This was Tsuyu. She’d helped him. Fought beside him. Saved him.

But if he didn’t take this shot, someone else would. And they wouldn’t hesitate.

He moved.

Fast. Quiet. Direct.

The dull edge of the training knife tapped just beneath her ribs, fast and firm. Her wristband buzzed immediately—and lit up blue.

Tsuyu blinked.

She glanced down.
Then back up at him.

Izuku let go of the knife and exhaled through his nose, already bracing himself for her reaction.

She blinked once more.

“Well,” she said, setting down her chopsticks, “I didn’t see that coming.”

“I’m—” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, standing smoothly. “You got me fair and square. Good job, Midoriya. Ribbit.”

She didn’t look angry. If anything, she looked… impressed.

As she turned to walk away, the flashing light on her wrist blinking a calm blue. She was out.

Izuku sat there for a long second, knife back at his side, the quiet buzz of adrenaline still in his bones.

His first elimination.

It felt horrible.
And kind of amazing.
And very, very dangerous.

He didn’t touch the rest of his lunch.

The moment Tsuyu walked away, her sensor still blinking blue played repeatedly in his head. Izuku felt the cafeteria shift. He didn’t know if anyone had seen. Maybe they had. Maybe they hadn’t. But he could feel it in the air now—he wasn’t invisible anymore.

He was a player.
He was a threat.

By the time he reached the changing rooms outside Ground Beta, his pulse had finally started to slow. The weight of the knife on his hip felt different now. Familiar.

The training suit slid on easily, though he double-checked every strap, every clip. Paranoia was second nature by now.

He was halfway to the field gate when a low voice called out behind him.

“Midoriya. With me.”

Izuku turned fast. Aizawa stood in the shadow of the outer wall, arms crossed, scarf still around his shoulders. He looked calm. Focused. But Izuku knew him well enough to know that meant something serious was coming.

Izuku stepped off the path and followed without question.

Aizawa led him around the corner of the wall, to the narrow stretch between buildings that most students avoided. Quiet. Secluded.

“You eliminated Asui during lunch,” Aizawa said, voice quiet but sharp.

Izuku nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You were the fourth successful elimination today.”

He blinked. “I was?”

Aizawa reached into his coat and pulled out a slim white envelope. Unmarked. He handed it over.

Izuku stared at it, then took it slowly.

“You’ve been assigned a second target,” Aizawa said. “Normally, this doesn’t happen. But a select few students will receive ‘priority reassignment’ at my discretion. You’re one of them.”

Izuku opened the envelope. Inside was a single name, written in Aizawa’s tight handwriting.

Neito Monoma.

His stomach twisted. “Monoma…?”

“He’s a wildcard. Loud. Overconfident. But not stupid.” Aizawa’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He’s also already suspected by several students. I want to see what happens when someone goes after him who knows how to plan.”

Izuku felt the weight of the paper in his hand. “Does he… know someone else is coming?”

Aizawa’s tone dropped to a whisper.

“He has no idea.”

Izuku swallowed.

“You are not to tell anyone you’ve received a second target,” Aizawa added. “Not even your friends. Especially not your friends. This isn’t about loyalty, Midoriya. This is about control.”

There was no cruelty in his voice. Just firm expectation. Challenge.

Izuku nodded slowly, the envelope tight in his fist. “Yes, sir.”

Aizawa turned and started to walk away.

“Report to Ground Beta,” he called over his shoulder. “And remember, Midoriya… everyone’s playing a part. But only a few of you are writing the script.”

Izuku stood there for a moment longer.

Then he slipped the envelope into the inner pocket of his costume, adjusted his sensor, and headed toward the field.

His next target was waiting.

Ground Beta always looked different during free training.

No exercises. No simulations. No objectives.

Just forty students spread out across the sprawling city-like field, told they could do whatever they wanted—as long as they stayed within the boundaries.

That freedom was a trap.

Everyone knew it.

People clustered in twos and threes near rooftops, alleyways, or doorways with good lines of sight. Some trained openly, throwing punches or practicing support moves. Others watched. Waited. Pretended.

Izuku kept his pace steady as he stepped into the main block, glancing upward once, then again, tracking the fire escape of the tall structure near the western edge. It was isolated. Tall enough to give a full view of the area. Narrow entrance. Minimal blind spots.

Perfect.

He ducked into the alley alongside it, climbed quickly and quietly—just one floor at a time, scanning each landing before proceeding. At the top, he stepped out onto the roof and crouched low behind a ventilation duct.

From here, he could see most of the western quadrant of Ground Beta. He spotted movement—Setsuna’s split limbs skittering over a rooftop, Ibara Shiozaki kneeling in quiet prayer near a doorway, Kendo and Kirishima exchanging slow, staged blows that were probably more about bluffing than actual combat.

Everyone was feeling each other out.

Izuku sat with his back against the vent, pulled out his notebook, and flipped to a fresh page. His fingers still trembled slightly. The rush from earlier hadn’t fully left his system.

He scrawled a name at the top of the page:

Target: Neito Monoma
Quirk: Copy – can use another person’s quirk for five minutes after touching them. Limit: One at a time.
Personality: Loud. Egotistical. Constantly underestimates opponents. Obsessed with outshining Class 1-A.
Risk Level: Medium-High (unpredictable in behavior, not power)

Izuku underlined that last part.

Observation: Monoma uses theatrics to distract from strategy. May use early attack as bait. Would likely assume I’m not a threat—especially after a successful elimination. He may not be assigned to me. But he could still attack if provoked.

He glanced up again.

Monoma wasn’t in sight. Yet.

Izuku kept writing:

Avoid direct approach.

Do not engage in open combat.

He thrives on chaos. Counter with control.

Determine likely allies (Tetsutetsu? Pony? Awase?)

Does he work solo or coordinate?

He tapped the side of his pen against his notebook, thinking.

What would bait him?

Something flashy? Someone cocky? Someone from 1-A challenging him outright? Or—

A trap. Monoma liked to be center stage. If Izuku set the “stage” just right, Monoma would walk right into it.

But first, he needed to find him.

Izuku shut the notebook gently and tucked it into his utility pouch. He crawled forward until he could peer just over the rooftop edge. Far below, students moved between buildings, keeping to sightlines or hugging walls.

Then—

There.

Monoma stood in a cleared courtyard, arms folded, talking animatedly to Tetsutetsu and Awase. His voice carried just faintly upward.

“They’re too soft. You’ll see. The moment pressure hits, 1-A starts to crumble. Just like always.”

Izuku watched.

Monoma was relaxed. Confident. Not watching his back. That meant one of two things:

He wasn’t worried because he didn’t think anyone would go after him this early.

Or—he already knew something Izuku didn’t.

Izuku leaned back into the shadows, heartbeat steady.

This wasn’t going to be a fight.
It was going to be a performance. One Monoma wouldn’t know he was part of until it was too late.

From the rooftop, Izuku kept his eyes on Monoma for nearly seven minutes straight.

He watched the way he moved, the way his hands gestured, the way he paused in conversation when someone walked too close. Monoma wasn’t careless. Just cocky. He liked attention, but he was always measuring reactions. Always performing.

Izuku started sketching out the layout of the courtyard below in his notebook, noting the doorways, shadow lines, and possible angles of approach. A clean hit would be risky here, with Awase and Tetsutetsu still nearby.

He tapped his pen twice. Too visible. Too loud.

Maybe he could bait Monoma to move later. Use someone else as a lure—someone Monoma couldn’t resist trying to humiliate.

He was so focused, so deep in the mental math of predicting Monoma’s next move, that he almost missed it.

A sharp buzz rang out below.

His head snapped toward the sound just as a blue light flared in the courtyard’s southeast corner—half-hidden between two warehouse structures.

Someone had been eliminated.

He couldn’t see who from this angle, but several heads turned toward the pulse of blue.

Awase cursed and backed up a step. Monoma paused mid-sentence and tilted his head.

Izuku crawled quickly to the other side of the roof for a better angle.

Below, lying flat on the pavement, was Kinoko Komori—Class 1-B’s mushroom girl. Her sensor blinked softly as she sat up with a groan and rubbed her temple.

Not far away stood Jirou.

Her rubber training knife was still raised in her hand, her stance low and braced—ready for a fight that was already over.

Izuku froze.

Jirou?

She didn’t look pleased with herself. Just tense. Her jaw was tight, her eyes locked onto the rest of the area like she was already expecting retaliation. But she didn’t run.

She just nodded once at Kinoko, then slipped back into the shadows between two containers and disappeared.

Kinoko sat there for a few seconds more before slowly rising to her feet and making her way toward the side gate—toward the exit zone to inform the teachers. Out of the game.

Another successful elimination.

Izuku’s heartbeat ticked up a notch.

Not because he was surprised—Jirou was skilled. Tactical. She probably figured out Kinoko’s limitations in open space and acted quickly before the spores could activate.

But what mattered was the message.

People were moving.
Taking shots. Strategizing. Calculated eliminations. No posturing.
This wasn’t going to drag out.
If I wait too long, Monoma might not even make it to tomorrow.

Izuku scribbled a line beneath Monoma’s name in his notebook:

High priority. May not remain available.

He shut the notebook and secured it again. His window was closing.

He waited until the shadows stretched long across Ground Beta.

By mid-afternoon, the field had thinned out. Not from eliminations—though a few students had quietly disappeared—but because no one trusted the open anymore. People had scattered into buildings, perched on rooftops, or nestled into blind corners. Traps were forming. Plans were hatching. And every second the clock ticked forward, it felt like something was tightening around Izuku’s throat.

Still, he didn’t move on Monoma.

Not yet.

Too many eyes. Too much risk. He’s cocky now, but that means he’ll make a mistake tomorrow. I just have to give him the right stage for it.

He stayed on the roof, watching, scribbling in his notebook, occasionally shifting to new vantage points. Monoma eventually drifted toward the east side of the map, laughing with Tetsutetsu. The others spread out too—sparring, practicing, whispering. Every movement could be cover for an ambush. Every laugh could be a signal.

Izuku dropped down from the rooftop around 3:40 PM, careful and deliberate. He landed near a stairwell leading to the lower maintenance corridors—empty service paths that twisted beneath several buildings like veins.

Quiet. Controlled. Safe for a minute.

Or so he thought.

He’d made it halfway down the corridor when something moved behind him.

Too late.

He spun—just in time to catch the blur of a figure lunging from the shadows, blade raised. It was fast. Sharp. Not a training move—this was meant to catch him completely off-guard.

There!

He ducked low, twisting, feeling the air whistle past his cheek as the knife missed by inches. His foot shot out, catching the attacker’s ankle, throwing them off balance—but not enough to drop them.

They rebounded with a hiss, kicking off the wall. The second strike came fast—more desperate, more reckless.

Izuku’s instincts roared.

He dropped to the ground and slid beneath the swing, rolled once, came up with his knife already out. He slashed—not to hit, but to keep space. The attacker stepped back, breathing hard.

And in the dim emergency light, he finally saw their face.

Reiko Yanagi.

Class 1-B’s quiet, floating girl. Always eerie. Always unreadable.

Now, her silver eyes narrowed, still half-lifted with her quirk as she hovered inches above the ground, weightless and controlled.

“...Reiko?” he said, panting. “You’re my—?”

She said nothing. But the tension in her frame said everything.

She floated back another foot, then turned—fast—and disappeared down the corridor, silent as a ghost.

Izuku stood there, chest heaving, wrist sensor still blinking red.

Alive. Still in the game.

Barely.

He stared down the path she’d vanished through, every nerve still buzzing.

So now I know.
Reiko Yanagi is my attacker.
She just made her move.
And next time, I won’t let her get that close.

He sheathed his knife, jaw set, and turned back toward the surface.

Tomorrow, he had to take out Monoma.

But now he had a second problem.

The sun was bleeding orange across the treetops as the students began their quiet march back toward Heights Alliance.

The air was thick with tension. Clusters formed along the trail, but none too tight. Too trusting. No one talked about the game directly—not in the open—but their eyes gave everything away.

Izuku walked a little behind Sero, Yaoyorozu, and Iida. His grip was loose on the strap of his bag, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of his knife out of habit.

Still in the game. Reiko tried and failed. Monoma’s my real target now.
But no one can know. No one can know I was reassigned.

He wasn’t even sure if anyone else had been. He only knew Aizawa had chosen him, specifically.

Then—

It happened.

Rustling in the trees—sharp, fast. The kind of motion that didn’t belong to squirrels or breeze.

Sero called out, “Right side!”

Izuku turned just in time to see a shape burst from the brush.

Pony Tsunotori.

She struck fast, fluid—training knife aimed straight for Momo’s ribs. The blade tapped clean. Momo barely had time to react before her sensor pulsed bright blue.

Gasps rang out around the group.

Momo stumbled back, hand against her side. Her eyes narrowed as Pony stepped away.

“You—?” Momo asked, blinking. “You’re not… you weren’t supposed to be my attacker.”

Pony didn’t respond. Her expression was unreadable. She adjusted her grip on her blade but said nothing. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t clarify.

Just stood there, breathing quiet, eyes locked ahead.

She’s not saying anything, Izuku thought, heart hammering. Just like I was told not to. She was reassigned too.

It made sense. She was fast, smart, precise—why waste that if her original target had already been eliminated?

But the silence worked like a detonator. The rest of the group erupted with questions.

“Wait, is that allowed?”
“She stole Kaminari’s target!”
“Is that part of the game now?”
“Did the teachers say people could double up?”

Pony didn’t flinch. Didn’t explain. She simply stepped back into the treeline and disappeared.

Momo stood still, her face composed but pale. Then she nodded once—stoic—and walked the rest of the path alone.

Sero muttered, “She didn’t even say anything.”

“Because she didn’t have to,” Izuku said under his breath, mostly to himself. “It was clean. She got her.”

“Yeah, but I thought Kaminari—”

“She wasn’t supposed to be her attacker,” Iida said, frowning. “That much we all knew.”

Jirou crossed her arms. “So what changed?”

That’s what no one’s going to admit, Izuku thought. And we’re not supposed to ask.

The rules weren’t just about combat.
They were about silence. About keeping players in the dark—even the ones standing right next to you.

And now everyone was looking at each other just a little differently.

By the time Izuku reached his dorm room, his nerves felt like frayed wires.

He closed the door quietly behind him, locked it, then turned off the ceiling light and flipped on the small desk lamp. The warm glow barely reached the walls, but it was enough.

Outside the window, the sunset had already deepened into violet. The other students shuffled through the halls—laughing too loudly, or staying too quiet. Everyone was trying to act normal. Everyone was pretending they weren’t calculating who to take out next.

Izuku hung his utility belt on the back of his desk chair, then pulled out his notebook and opened it to the marked page labeled:

Current Target: Neito Monoma

Below it, he added a subheading:

Additional Threats: Reiko Yanagi (Confirmed Attacker)
Wild Cards: Pony Tsunotori (Possible Reassignment)

He tapped the pen to the page, thinking.

Pony hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t defended herself. That silence told him everything he needed to know—she had been reassigned, like he had. But no one else knew that. And now the rumor mill would eat itself trying to guess why she went after Yaoyorozu.

It’s working, he thought. The rules are doing exactly what Aizawa wanted them to do: isolate us.

He made a short list:

Monoma was drifting away from his support circle.

Reiko had already made a move and might be planning another.

Kaminari would be reeling from Momo’s elimination—if not emotionally, then strategically.

A few students might already suspect the existence of reassignments, but they weren’t allowed to confirm it.

And then—

A quiet knock at his door.

Izuku stiffened.

He rose slowly, walked to the door, and looked through the peephole. A familiar silhouette stood just outside, hands folded in front of her like she was preparing for a presentation.

He opened it a crack. “Momo?”

“May I come in?” she asked.

He blinked, then nodded and stepped aside.

She walked in with her usual grace, not looking bitter or shaken, just... focused. Like she was reentering a boardroom instead of bowing out of a battle.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he said, motioning for her to take the desk chair. He sat on the bed instead.

“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to talk to you before tomorrow.”

He waited.

She folded her hands on her lap, her posture perfect. “I’ve already spoken with Aizawa-sensei. I accepted the offer.”

Izuku’s eyes widened.

“You’re going to be an informant.”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t surprising, exactly. But hearing it aloud felt heavier than he expected. Momo was strategic. Observant. Methodical. Even more so now that she had nothing to lose.

“You trust me with that?” he asked carefully.

“I trust your intentions,” she said. “And your process.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright.”

She leaned forward slightly. “I won’t give away anyone’s secrets if you don’t ask. That’s part of the rule set. But if you want guidance—or feedback on your plans—I’m available. Quietly.”

Izuku looked down at his open notebook.

Monoma’s name stared back at him like a blinking cursor.

Momo followed his gaze. “He’s your target?”

Izuku didn’t answer.

She smiled faintly. “You don’t have to tell me. I know the rules.”

A beat passed. Then she stood. “I’ll leave you to it. Just know: I want to help. And I’d rather help someone I believe can survive this game.”

She walked toward the door and paused with her hand on the knob.

“Also,” she added, “Reiko’s quirk has some specific weaknesses. You might want to look into soundwaves or vibration disruption—if she comes for you again.”

Izuku’s head snapped up. “You saw her?”

“I saw enough.”

She opened the door, then hesitated one last time.

“I think we all expected this to be a lesson in tactics,” she said. “But I’m starting to think it’s a lesson in trust.”

Then she was gone.

Izuku sat for a long time after the door clicked shut.

Then, slowly, he picked up his pen and wrote at the bottom of the page:

New Variable: Yaoyorozu (Informant – Trusted)
Trust = Risk. But calculated risk ≠ weakness.

He looked down at Monoma’s name again.

Tomorrow, the board changes again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky was still a dull, sleepy gray when Izuku sat up in bed, his phone already buzzing with nervous energy in his hand.

6:04 a.m.

Most of the dorms were silent. No hallway chatter, no running water, no clatter of breakfast yet. That meant he had about 45 minutes before the first stirrings of the school day would begin.

He opened his chat with Momo—newly labeled in his head, and now his phone, as “Informant - trusted”—and typed quickly.

Izuku: Need a favor
Izuku: I’m planning to move on Monoma this morning, before homeroom
Izuku: Can you distract him? Keep him away from the staff entrance?

The three dots appeared almost instantly.

Momo: You’re certain?
Izuku: His guard is down in the mornings. Always goes out the back garden side with Kendō or Tetsutetsu, heads toward the teacher’s lot to grab coffee or make dramatic comments about beating us to the gate
Izuku: If you can delay him at the garden benches, I can cut across the old bike shed and get a clean line of approach
Momo: Alright. I’ll intercept him. You’ll have three minutes at most.

Izuku exhaled through his nose. It was early, but adrenaline had already shaken off any traces of sleep. His heart was steady now. Focused.

He dressed quickly—UA uniform with light compression sleeves, nothing bulky. His sensor band strapped tight to his wrist. Knife holstered beneath his jacket. Notebook tucked into his back pocket, in case.

He slipped out the side stairwell—quiet, controlled—and made his way across the chilly morning path toward the east side of campus, where the teachers' lot met the greenhouse garden.

The area was still wrapped in fog. Perfect cover.

He cut past the fencing near the maintenance shed, circling wide so he could angle in behind the central bench row.

At 6:32 a.m., right on time, Monoma strolled into view.

Smirking. Talking animatedly to Kendō, who looked half-asleep and utterly done with him. Momo appeared a few seconds later, perfectly timed, her voice polite but firm as she intercepted them near the outer path.

Kendō peeled off with a wave. Monoma, naturally, stayed to perform.

This is it.

Izuku crouched low and approached from the rear, knife in hand. Step by step.

Monoma leaned against a bench, still going on about “1-A’s fragile hierarchy collapsing under stress,” as if he were narrating a documentary about his own genius.

Izuku struck when Monoma tilted his head back to stretch dramatically.

Two quick steps.

One clean tap.

Sensor: blue.

Monoma jerked like he’d been electrocuted. “—What the—?!”

He spun around as the light pulsed. His mouth dropped open as he saw Izuku lowering his blade.

Momo watched from a few paces away, arms folded, face unreadable.

Monoma blinked. “You—Midoriya—what—you?!” His voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and outrage.

Izuku gave him a quiet nod.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said softly, before turning and walking away, heart pounding.

No dramatics.
No gloating.
Just the mission.

Behind him, Monoma cursed in about three languages. But the damage was done.

One target down.

And no one knew… except Momo.

By the time Izuku made it back to Heights Alliance, the sky had brightened into a pale amber, cutting through the fog in thin shafts of light. The first traces of morning bustle were beginning—footsteps upstairs, faint voices in the kitchen, someone brushing their teeth two rooms over.

But everything still felt muted.

Izuku slipped through the side entrance and climbed the stairs to the second floor, careful not to make a sound. The weight of his knife—still holstered, untouched since the strike—felt a little lighter now.

He shut his door behind him with a soft click, leaned against it, and let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Target: Monoma – Eliminated.

No alarms. No flashing lights. Just that pulse of blue.

And the look on Monoma’s face.

Izuku didn’t feel proud. He felt... still. Like he’d just won a coin toss where the stakes were everything.

He dropped his bag on the bed, pulled out his notebook, and flipped to the appropriate page.

[Target Log – Day Two]

Primary Target (Assigned): Neito Monoma – Status: ELIMINATED

Time of attack: 6:33 a.m.

Location: East Garden Bench Path

Approach: Stealth, cover via fog and shed route

Assist: Yaoyorozu (Informant – provided distraction)

Result: Confirmed hit, sensor activated (blue)

Threat: Neutralized
Risk: Minimal exposure. Monoma may complain to staff, but no rules broken.

He flipped to the next page and added a new header:

Awaiting Reassignment – ???

Because he knew what would come next.

He didn’t know when, or who, but just like Pony… he’d be given another target. Aizawa had said nothing aloud, but the system was clear now. Stay in the game, and you stay in motion.

He paused with his pen hovering over the paper.

Then slowly, under the Awaiting Reassignment note, he wrote:

Continued Threats:

Reiko Yanagi (Attacker – Unsuccessful)

Pony Tsunotori (Unknown Current Target)

Kaminari Denki (Unstable – May act unpredictably post-Momo elimination)

He tapped the pen against the edge of the desk for a few seconds.

Then stood, stretched his arms overhead, and let out a soft groan. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had finally started to drain out of his limbs.

Focus. Reset. Act normal.

By the time he emerged from his room with his bag slung over one shoulder, the dorm halls were fully awake. He could hear Sato and Kirishima laughing down in the kitchen. Uraraka was already at the table, eating with her hair still wet. Jirou passed him on the stairs and gave him a quick nod.

Normal morning.

Normal class.

Except one more player was off the board—and only two people knew why.

Keep moving, he told himself. Smile if you have to. Observe. Listen. Wait for your next name.

And if Reiko tried again…

This time, he’d be ready.

The halls felt narrower than usual.

Not literally—he knew that. He knew every centimeter of the 1-A wing. But as he stepped into homeroom with his notebook tucked under one arm and his sensor band cool against his wrist, the space felt… tighter. Like the walls had shifted inward overnight.

Only Class 1-A was present, as always for homeroom. Still, that didn’t make it any easier.

He scanned the room.

Todoroki: calm, second row, already staring blankly out the window.
Ashido and Kaminari: whispering near the back. Kaminari looked more subdued than usual, eyes sunken.
Jirou and Sero: quiet, focused, glancing at everyone’s hands instead of the board.
Koda: gentle, still, but looking more nervous than usual.
Shoji: composed… but tracking too much. Watching too well.

Someone in here is watching me.

Izuku slid into his seat and didn’t open his notebook yet. He could feel the shift in posture all around him—how everyone held themselves a little differently now. Lighter on their feet. Sharper with their glances.

Monoma wasn’t here—because 1-B wasn’t here. Not until Hero Class later.

Still… his absence felt louder somehow.

Aizawa entered right on time, hair tucked behind one shoulder, eyes sweeping the room like they were counting exits.

“Morning,” he said. “You’re still in the game, so I won’t coddle you. If you were eliminated yesterday, you’ve already received a message from me or a staff member. If you’ve accepted the offer to become an informant, I’ll confirm your status before this afternoon’s foundational training block.”

A few heads shifted, but no one spoke.

He ran through actual academic updates—test windows, next week’s class schedules, the usual—but it all felt like background noise.

Izuku’s eyes moved slowly, methodically.

This is the only time we’re all in one place without interference from 1-B. If someone in here has been reassigned—and if that new target is me—they’d probably want to get it done soon.

The bell rang.

English was next.

He walked down the hall with the others, staying in the middle of the group. Not too close to Kaminari, not too far from Iida or Uraraka. He didn't like the way Jirou kept looking back. Or how Shoji hadn’t spoken a word all morning.

Yamada greeted them with his usual flash—“WAKE UP, CLASS 1-A! Let’s conjugate some DANGER VERBS! WOO!”—but the energy didn’t land like it used to.

Everyone was on edge.

Izuku took his seat and focused, but only halfway. His pen twitched slightly in his hand, drawing meaningless lines in the margin of his notes.

Who in 1-A hasn’t acted yet?
Who’s suddenly quiet today?
Who’s watching me… like they’re waiting for something?

He caught a glance from Kaminari. Quick. Guilty?

No way to know.

The lesson passed without incident. Verbs, modifiers, the usual humor from Yamada. But even his voice couldn’t distract from the hum of tension underneath everything.

When the bell rang, Izuku stood slowly. Bag slung over his shoulder, face calm.

Aizawa was waiting just outside their classroom door.

“Training Ground Alpha. Ten minutes. 1-B will meet us there.”

No elaboration. Just a nod. Just like yesterday.

As the class filed down the hallway, Izuku kept to the center again. Neutral position. Eyes open. He caught the faint sound of someone’s knife shifting in a side pouch. Someone ahead of him tugging at their wristband like it itched.

Fewer people were smiling today.

And we haven’t even begun.

Training Ground Alpha wasn’t loud.

It should’ve been—forty students gathered under the gray morning sky, boots crunching over dry gravel, bags shifting, occasional mutters passing between groups.

But no one raised their voice. No one stood too close to anyone else.

Class 1-A and 1-B stood in uneven rows on the central field, separated loosely by homeroom lines. Izuku took his place near the front of 1-A. Momo stood a few feet behind him—no longer wearing her sensor, now marked clearly as out of the game.

Across the clearing, Kendō looked more serious than usual. Pony wasn’t smiling.

And Monoma—absent. Again.

Aizawa stood in front of them all, clipboard in one hand, scarf draped loose around his shoulders like a warning.

“Yesterday,” he said, voice dry and even, “was the first full day of the exercise. Ten students were successfully eliminated.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Izuku’s eyes widened.

Ten? That’s a quarter of the game, gone in one day.

Aizawa didn’t pause for drama.

“None of the eliminations violated any core rules. A few of you attempted strikes during core class periods and were caught. Those attacks were invalidated. All attempts were logged.”

He looked up, eyes scanning the two classes like they were rows of mislabeled weapons.

“I’m not going to name the eliminated unless they’ve opted into the informant role. Otherwise, you’ll figure out who’s missing on your own time.”

He checked the clipboard again.

“The following students have officially accepted their informant status, effective immediately: Yaoyorozu Momo, Komori Kinoko, and Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu.”

More murmurs now—especially from 1-B. Tetsutetsu's name stood out.

Izuku blinked. Tetsutetsu? He’d seemed fine yesterday.

Momo stood a little straighter behind him. Silent. Composed.

“Informants may not initiate attacks,” Aizawa continued, “but they are allowed to provide verbal or written information to active players. That includes clues, warnings, and observations—but not target names. That restriction still applies.”

He paused. Let it settle.

“No one is allowed to reveal who their current target is, whether it’s their first assignment or a reassigned one. Anyone caught doing so will be pulled from the exercise.”

The warning was clear. Cold. Final.

A breeze passed over the field, rustling jackets and utility belts.

He's reminding them, Izuku realized, that the game isn’t just about knives or sensors. It’s about what you say. What you give away. Who you trust.

Aizawa stepped forward.

“As of this morning, students who successfully completed their eliminations yesterday may be reassigned new targets. Not everyone will receive one right away. Some of you will. Reassignments are delivered privately, and again—must remain confidential.”

Izuku resisted the urge to shift.

I’ve already been reassigned. Others probably have, too. But no one’s talking.

“Your job now,” Aizawa said, tone growing sharper, “is to continue your classes like professionals. If you’re taken out, you adapt. If you’re still active, you stay alert. Any student caught staging an ambush in off-limits zones—dorms, bathrooms, staff offices—will be removed from the exercise and face additional disciplinary review.”

He rolled the clipboard under one arm.

“Lunch is after this. After that, we move to Foundational Hero Training. Ground Beta, same as yesterday. The field remains open for strikes during that period. I suggest you prepare accordingly.”

He turned on his heel.

“That’s it. Go.”

Students hesitated.

Then scattered.

Izuku moved with the 1-A cluster toward the main path, heartbeat steady, mind racing.

Three informants. Ten eliminations. And new reassignments in motion.

He caught Momo’s eye as she walked near him. She gave the smallest nod. Nothing more.

Somewhere behind him, Kaminari cursed under his breath.

And across the path, Reiko watched him walk.

Lunch in the UA cafeteria was louder than the rest of the day—but not in the usual way.

No one was shouting. No food fights. No chaotic energy from 1-B or Bakugou's booming insults echoing off the walls.

The noise now was all surface. Forks scraping trays. Chairs scooting. Half-finished conversations whispered between bites.

Izuku sat at a corner table, back to the wall. Not his usual spot, but more defensible. From here, he could see the whole room—Class 1-A scattered across a dozen tables, a few 1-B students interspersed like puzzle pieces jammed into the wrong spaces.

Three informants.
Ten players down.
And a new round of targets already seeded among us.

He chewed slowly, eyes drifting.

Shoji was eating alone, facing the wall.
Jirou was sitting with Kaminari, both quiet. Kaminari’s tray was untouched.
Todoroki was reading between bites, calm but distant.
Pony sat with Setsuna Tokage, chatting like nothing was wrong.
Kendō kept looking over her shoulder.

Too much tension. Too much quiet.
Someone in here has a new name. Maybe more than one.

He took another bite, then paused as someone approached.

Momo.

Sensorless. Poised. A bottle of water in one hand, nothing else.

“May I sit?” she asked.

Izuku nodded once.

She slid into the chair across from him, hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn’t speak at first. Her eyes scanned the room with practiced subtlety—like she was looking for camera angles.

Then, she slid a plain envelope across the table, tucked lightly beneath her hand.

No words. No flourish.

Izuku took it without a sound and slipped it under his tray. His fingers brushed the seal.

Same envelope as last time. Same weight. Same rules.

He didn’t open it. Not yet.

Instead, he whispered, “Do you know who?”

Momo shook her head.

“Aizawa didn’t say,” she replied softly. “Just handed it to me this morning. Said you’d know when the time was right.”

He nodded.

They didn’t speak again for a minute. Momo unscrewed her bottle and took a long sip. Across the room, Reiko Yanagi was seated with Kuroiro and Honenuki. She said almost nothing.

But she kept glancing toward Izuku’s table.

“I think I’m being watched,” Izuku said under his breath.

“You are,” Momo confirmed, voice cool. “But not just by her.”

He frowned.

“She’s one of the quiet ones,” she continued. “But not the only one. Jirou’s eyes keep drifting toward your hands. Ojiro left for the bathroom five minutes ago and didn’t come back. Koda keeps adjusting his wristband like it doesn’t fit right.”

Izuku exhaled.

They’re all calculating. Just like me.

“Do you want my advice?” she asked.

He looked up at her.

“I wouldn’t open that here,” she said. “You’ve already eliminated one player that I know of. If someone’s watching and they see you reading another assignment, you become a priority threat.”

Smart.

Izuku slipped the envelope deeper into his sleeve.

“Thanks,” he said.

Momo stood. She paused, smoothing her skirt.

“Everyone’s playing the same game,” she said. “But only a few of us are actually thinking about it.”

Then she left.

Izuku sat alone again, now with the envelope pressed to his wrist like a second pulse.

The cafeteria buzzed with quiet movements.

He finished his food mechanically, then stood with five minutes to spare.

Time to move to Ground Beta.

And time to find somewhere safe enough to read the name that would shape his next move.

The heat of midday clung to the steel walkways of Ground Beta, though the clouds overhead kept threatening rain. The air was heavy. Still. Like everything was holding its breath.

Izuku moved through the training zone with deliberate calm, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He stayed with the flow of students until they passed the main tower, then peeled off behind a stack of rusting shipping containers.

No one followed.

Still, he waited a beat—watching reflections in the metal, listening for shifting gravel.

Nothing.

Good.

He climbed the back stairwell of one of the taller structures, using a forgotten maintenance ladder that curved up toward the roof. His gloves kept his grip silent. When he reached the top, he stayed low and scanned the surrounding rooftops and alleys.

Clear enough.

Only then did he slip the envelope from his sleeve.

It was still warm from where it had been pressed to his wrist, edges slightly creased. He broke the seal carefully and pulled out the small folded slip inside.

One name.

One target.

His breath caught.

Target: Tokoyami Fumikage

Quirk: Dark Shadow
Notes: High defensive capacity. Reactive.
Behavior: Solitary during breaks. Tends to patrol perimeter of training zones. Occasionally meditates indoors. Rarely travels in groups.

Assignment effective immediately. No substitutions.

Izuku stared at the paper for a long moment.

He hadn’t expected that.

Tokoyami wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t loud. He hadn’t eliminated anyone yet as far as Izuku knew. He was disciplined. Controlled. Which meant he was probably watching for patterns and biding his time.

Just like me.

Izuku slid the paper back into the envelope, tucked it deep into the inner lining of his backpack, and sat down on the edge of the roof, facing north toward the far side of the training grounds.

He pulled out his notebook and opened to a new page.

[Second Assignment Log – Day Two]

Target: Tokoyami Fumikage

Quirk: Dark Shadow (semi-autonomous, range & reaction dependent on light conditions)

Weakness: Vulnerable to overwhelming light; shadow retreats

Strength: Exceptional range control. Natural defender.

Opportunity: Prefers isolation. Possible ambush when alone.

Risk: High retaliation potential. Attacks may be preempted by shadow reflex. Must act fast and with precision.

He underlined act fast and with precision twice.

This would be nothing like Monoma. No dramatic speech. No predictable coffee detour.

Tokoyami won’t expose himself.
I’ll have to go to him.

He scanned the courtyard far below, watching as classmates slowly filtered into training zones. Shoji and Koda practiced controlled takedowns. Ashido and Iida ran maneuver drills. Todoroki leaned against a wall, arms crossed, clearly watching everyone.

And Tokoyami?

Nowhere to be seen.

Which means he’s already planning.

Izuku flipped the page and started sketching a rough map of Ground Beta. He marked likely places Tokoyami would favor—rooftops near shadows, overhangs with limited light, the inner meditation chamber two floors below this very roof.

A sound behind him.

He froze.

Footsteps. One. Soft. Measured.

His hand drifted toward the knife at his hip, slowly rising to his feet.

A figure stepped onto the rooftop.

Not Tokoyami.

Shoji.

The two locked eyes.

Shoji nodded once—nothing more—and turned to lean casually against the railing, facing the opposite direction.

No words exchanged.

No attack made.

But Izuku kept his grip loose on the hilt of his knife.

Just in case.

Because the game never stopped.

Not even on a quiet roof under a gray sky.

The clouds had thickened overhead by late afternoon, dimming the light over Ground Beta just enough to make Izuku’s stomach twist.

Less light means stronger shadows.
Stronger shadows mean more range for Tokoyami.

He moved low through the side corridors of the complex, ears tuned to every scuff, every gust of wind pushing against loose metal shutters. His boots were silent. He hugged the edges of the path.

Students trained in clusters across the open yards—pairs sparring under instructor supervision, others running drills or talking in hushed tones. Tokoyami wasn’t among them.

He doesn’t like the crowd. Prefers silence. I would too, if my quirk could act faster than my conscious mind.

Izuku crouched behind a stack of broken fencing near the western loading dock, eyes scanning the second-floor overhang where the glass-walled “observation deck” overlooked the field. It was one of Tokoyami’s usual spots. Shaded. Elevated. Limited entry points.

And there he was.

A faint silhouette through the glass. Seated. Still.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

No movement. Just waiting.
Meditating again? Or planning?

Dark Shadow flickered once, brushing across the glass like a curtain in a breeze. Tokoyami’s quirk was awake—alert, even if its user looked motionless.

Izuku flipped open his notebook just enough to check his notes.

Target: Tokoyami – Status: Active, Stationary

Observation deck, 2nd floor
Entry: East stairwell (open), West ladder (narrow)
Blind spot: Back window faces exterior roof of adjacent greenhouse—possible point of entry
Shadow state: Active. Size uncertain.
Visibility: Low. Clouds worsening.

He shut the notebook and retreated two steps, then angled right. The adjacent greenhouse building had a slanted roof just low enough to reach by wall-run if he used the old fire-escape frame as a boost.

His body moved on instinct now. Low sprint. One silent leap. He caught the rusted edge, pulled himself up, rolled across the gravel-coated roof, and crouched at the edge.

From here, he had a clear side angle on Tokoyami’s back through the frosted glass panel. The shadow wasn’t at full extension yet—but it flared once as if… sniffing the air.

It knows I’m near. But not from where. Not yet.

Izuku’s hand hovered over the hilt of his knife. His heartbeat slowed. Every muscle locked into place.

He would have to break the glass, breach the room, and land a strike before Dark Shadow could fully react.

Too risky from here. Not without backup. Not without bait.

He pulled back and slipped into cover again.

Not today. Not yet.

Instead, he took out his notebook and drew a rough layout of the room from memory. Marked window seams. Sketched Tokoyami’s likely line of sight. Labeled glass quality and angles of approach.

Then beneath all of that, he wrote:

Tomorrow – Pre-dawn attack? Ambush route: greenhouse > breach point A > direct strike before activation

He stared at the words.

It could work. If the light was in his favor.

If no one else got to Tokoyami first.

If Dark Shadow didn’t rip his head off the second he got within range.

A faint sound broke his focus.

Footsteps, not far. Maybe twenty meters off. Then silence.

He pressed flat to the roof. Didn’t move. Listened.

Another soft step.

Not Tokoyami.

Different weight.

Someone else was hunting.

The footsteps were faint.

Too faint for someone trying to walk.

Izuku pressed flat against the greenhouse roof, muscles locked, breath shallow. His heartbeat thumped in his ears—not fast, but hard. Controlled. Measured. Just like the steps now circling below.

Twenty meters. Then fifteen. Then—stopped.

He lifted his head just enough to peek over the edge of the building.

No one.

But the quiet? It felt wrong. The kind of silence built by intention, not chance. The air was thick. Too still.

Then—something clicked.

A gentle mechanical sound. Barely audible. Like the weight of a boot settling on metal.

Izuku rolled instinctively to his left as—

SHNK—!

A blade flashed past where his neck had been, slamming into the gravel and sparking against steel.

Someone was already up here.

He came up fast into a crouch, knife drawn, spinning to face—

Ibara Shiozaki.

From 1-B.

Her vines were already lashing out again, curling like snakes, one twining around the corner of a broken antenna for leverage.

Izuku jumped back, landing light on his feet. No time to talk. No time to think.

Ibara’s vines whipped, and he dodged sideways, nearly rolling off the edge of the roof before catching a foothold on the fire escape frame.

She must’ve followed me up the other side. Quiet. She probably watched my approach to Tokoyami the entire time.

"Midoriya," she said calmly, stepping forward. "You’re quite good at hiding."

No banter. Not like Monoma. She means business.

He ducked another lashing vine and slid down to the next level of the fire escape—

—and nearly ran face-first into a second ambush.

Kosei Tsuburaba.

Also 1-B. Already waiting on the mid-level landing.

His mouth was set in a thin line. His hand outstretched.

Hardening air into barriers—his quirk’s already primed.

"You're too popular, Midoriya," Kosei said with a tight smile.

Two attackers. Coordinated? Maybe. Maybe not.

Didn’t matter.

Izuku feinted left, forcing Kosei to reinforce that side with a chunk of hardened air—and then bolted right off the stairs, vaulting over the railing in a sharp arc.

He landed in a roll, hit gravel, and kept sprinting.

Vines snapped behind him. A wall of force cut off his left path.

He dove through the narrow corridor between two training sheds, twisting midair as a vine slashed at his leg and snagged a thread from his uniform—but not the sensor.

He heard Ibara hiss in frustration.

Two of them. And they don’t know about each other’s plans.

That was his opening.

He cut through the next alley and slid behind a cracked observation drone case, heart pounding now. His fingers ran along his sensor—still red. Still in.

If I can keep them thinking the other one will finish the job, they’ll hesitate to overcommit.

He cracked open his notebook, scrawled a single line in the margin of Tokoyami’s map:

Avoid greenhouse for now. High exposure. New threats: Ibara + Kosei.

Then he circled a new building: the decommissioned loading warehouse with blackout panels and narrow choke points.

One controlled route in. Multiple exits. Limited light. I can funnel them if needed.

A quiet thud nearby.

Not loud. Not close. But coming.

They're regrouping.

Izuku shoved the notebook away, pulled his mask up over his face, and slipped into the shadows.

No more observation.

Now it was survival.

His lungs burned as he ducked beneath a rusted catwalk, boots skidding over gravel and cracked concrete. His sleeves were torn at the edges, vines still tangled in the seams from Ibara’s near-capture. A cut burned across his forearm where a barrier had barely grazed him.

But the sensor on his chest was still dark.

Still alive.

For now.

He paused beneath the overhang of an old loading tunnel, panting. Behind him, nothing but silence.

He wasn’t sure if Ibara and Tsuburaba had backed off—or if they were fanning out, waiting for him to circle back.

I can’t go back to the greenhouse. Not with both of them out for blood.

He moved again, sticking close to the shadows, winding deeper into the unused southeast wing of Ground Beta.

That’s when he heard it.

A faint, familiar murmur of voice. Deep. Muted. Controlled.

And another voice, low and growling.

Dark Shadow.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

He turned the corner and spotted him.

Tokoyami, standing just outside a broken equipment shed, speaking quietly to Dark Shadow, who flickered in and out of his shoulder like mist.

No one else was around.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

Izuku forced his body to relax, let the tremble into his hands, let the fear he genuinely felt bleed through as he staggered into view.

“Tokoyami!”

The bird-headed boy turned immediately, eyes narrowing, posture tense.

“Izuku?” he said, cautious. “Are you—”

“Ibara and Kosei—” Izuku gasped, slapping a hand against the wall like he needed to catch himself. “They’re both after me. I barely got away.”

He wasn’t faking that part.

Tokoyami stepped forward, scanning the area. Dark Shadow rippled behind him, alert and sharp.

“Are they close?”

“I don’t think so,” Izuku said, clutching his side. “I led them off through the western corridor and doubled back.”

Tokoyami’s expression shifted—just slightly. Wary still, but less guarded.

“You came this far alone?”

“I needed somewhere safe,” Izuku said, lowering his voice. “I figured if they’re targeting me, they wouldn’t be targeting you too. I just… I needed a second. To breathe.”

He looked away, let his shoulders slump.

Tokoyami glanced at the shadows around them, then gave a stiff nod.

“Stay here. Just for a moment. I’ll scout ahead.”

That was the opening.

As Tokoyami turned to issue an instruction to Dark Shadow, Izuku stepped in close. Silent. Smooth.

His fingers wrapped around the knife at his side.

Dark Shadow turned, flicking—

Too late.

SHHK.

Sensor struck.

A bright Blue ping of light flared on Tokoyami’s wrist.

He froze.

Dark Shadow screamed.

Tokoyami stumbled backward half a step, staring down at the blinking signal. Then up at Izuku.

“…You were assigned to me.”

Izuku gave a small, almost apologetic nod. “ Today during lunch.”

Dark Shadow surged up, but Tokoyami raised a hand.

“No,” he said quietly. “He beat me cleanly.”

A long pause passed between them.

Izuku let the knife slide back into its sheath. “You can still opt into the informant role.”

Tokoyami gave a small, bitter laugh. “Of course. That’s what a strategist would suggest.”

He turned away, his voice quiet.

“Go. Before I change my mind.”

Izuku didn’t argue.

He turned and ran, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the weight of what he’d just done.

He’d won.

But it didn’t feel like a victory.

The dormitory halls felt colder than usual as Izuku stepped inside, the faint hum of evening settling over the quiet building.

His footsteps were light, careful — trying not to disturb the stillness or draw attention.

In his bag, the envelope from Momo still pressed against his side, but it was the knife at his hip and the heavy weight of today’s victory that he carried most.

He slipped into his room without a sound, shutting the door softly behind him.

The small space, usually a place of comfort, felt different — almost like the battlefield itself.

He dropped his bag by the desk, pulled out his notebook, and flipped to the new section he'd started earlier that day.

Taking a deep breath, he began to write:

[Post-Engagement Reflection – Day Two]

Eliminated Tokoyami Fumikage through deception and timely strike.
Trust proved more effective than force or surprise.
Tokoyami’s quirk demands respect for speed and reaction time.
Engagement required close proximity and calculated timing.
Possible future ally if informant status accepted.

Risks:

Using trust as a weapon risks exposure and emotional vulnerability.

Possible retaliation if trust is broken.

Remaining targets likely watching, anticipating next moves.

Next Steps:

Monitor Ibara and Kosei’s movements closely — they’re coordinating attacks.

Utilize informant network cautiously.

Plan ambush routes favoring stealth and misdirection.

He closed the notebook and stared at the darkened window.

Trust isn’t weakness.

It had been his lifeline today — the only thing that kept him alive long enough to win.

He’d always admired how others wielded quirks like weapons, but today he’d learned that sometimes, the sharpest weapon was the one no one expected: honesty.

A soft knock came at the door.

Momo’s voice, low and steady. “May I come in?”

He nodded, and she stepped inside, eyes calm but unreadable.

“Good work today,” she said.

Izuku managed a small smile. “Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without your help.”

She gave a small nod. “We’re all watching each other. Trust carefully.”

The weight of her words hung in the air.

Izuku looked back down at his notebook.

The game was far from over.

But maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to play it better.

Momo sat across from Izuku, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls.

She folded her hands on the desk, her expression calm but serious.

“So,” she began, “being an informant doesn’t mean I get to tell you everything.”

Izuku nodded, expecting the caveats.

“The rule is clear: no revealing targets. But I can share observations — patterns, movements, who’s acting strange, who’s avoided attacks, that sort of thing.”

He leaned forward.

“Can you tell me how others are doing? Like, who’s still safe, who’s cautious, or who might be getting desperate?”

Momo glanced down briefly, then met his eyes.

“A few things.”

She pulled out a folded sheet — a map with small marks and annotations.

“First: Kosei and Ibara are definitely working together. They almost caught you today, but it’s not just luck. They’ve planned some coordinated moves. Watch out for their traps.”

Izuku made a quick note.

“Second: Jirou’s been unusually quiet. She’s been watching you more than once, but hasn’t made a move. Could be strategizing — or waiting for the right moment.”

He frowned.

“Third: Pony is… distracted. Not in the game fully. Maybe worried about something else. That might make her less of a threat.”

Izuku’s brow furrowed.

“Any others?”

Momo shook her head.

“But,” she said carefully, “there’s one more thing. A few students have received reassignments. They keep it secret — but the tension has spiked. People are nervous, and some are getting reckless.”

Izuku closed his eyes for a moment.

Everyone’s a threat. Everyone’s a target.
And now, some have two.

Momo stood, smoothing her skirt.

“This isn’t just about knives and sensors anymore. It’s about information — who knows what, and when.”

She looked at him steadily.

“Trust carefully, Izuku.”

He nodded, grateful and wary all at once.

The room felt quieter now, but the weight of the game pressed on.

The dorm was still dark when Izuku’s eyes fluttered open.

Moonlight filtered faintly through the curtains, casting soft lines across the floor.

He blinked against the shadows, throat dry and muscles stiff from sleep.

His breath caught when he noticed a small object lying flat against the floor beneath his door—a plain white envelope, slipped in silently sometime during the night.

Izuku sat up slowly, careful not to make a sound, and reached for it.

The envelope was cool to the touch, its paper smooth and unmarked except for his name scrawled neatly across the front.

No stamp. No sender.

His pulse quickened as he tore it open, pulling out a single folded slip of paper.

His eyes scanned the text immediately:

Target: Koda Koji

Quirk: Anivoice – animal communication
Notes: Strong in group settings. Avoids direct combat.
Behavior: Tends to stay near friends. Protective but cautious.
Assignment effective immediately.

Izuku’s mind flickered through memories—Koda’s quiet demeanor, his kind eyes, his gentle way of moving through the classroom.

This isn’t going to be easy.

He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his notebook’s growing stack of assignments and observations.

The dorm was waking now—footsteps and murmurs drifting in from the hall.

He stood, rubbing his eyes, and started preparing for the day ahead.

New day. New target. New risks.

He knew better than to let his guard down.

Because the game was far from over.

The hum of voices filled the classroom as Present Mic paced in front of Class 1-A, his energetic tone trying to keep the mood light despite the underlying tension.

English class was in session, but Izuku’s attention was scattered—his eyes flicked to every corner, every shadow, wary of sudden moves.

The game was alive in every glance.

Suddenly, a blur caught his eye—Kaminari made a quick dash toward Uraraka’s desk.

Before Kaminari could close the distance, Present Mic’s sharp shout cut through the room:

“Hold it right there, Kaminari!”

The class froze as Kaminari stumbled to a halt, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration.

Present Mic’s gaze was hard.

“Trying to take someone out during class, right in front of me? You know that doesn’t count—and now Uraraka knows you’re after her.”

Murmurs rippled through the desks, eyes darting between Kaminari and Uraraka.

Uraraka’s expression hardened, a flicker of something fierce lighting her eyes.

Izuku clenched his fists beneath the desk, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the unmistakable reality: the game had rules, and breaking them had consequences.

Present Mic’s gaze swept the room again, his presence a constant reminder that no one was above watchful eyes.

The classroom noise faded into a dull roar in Izuku’s ears as Kaminari’s failed attack played over in his mind.

Rules were rules. Breaking them meant losing not just an opportunity but also trust—and the game was getting tighter every day.

He glanced toward Uraraka’s determined face, knowing now she’d be more alert than ever.

Izuku’s fingers tapped lightly on his desk, his mind racing.

Koda was his next target, but Koda’s quirk wasn’t about confrontation.

Animal communication.

He stays close to friends. Protective. Careful.

That meant direct attacks were unlikely to work. Izuku needed to think differently.

Maybe it wasn’t about striking Koda outright. Maybe it was about isolating him—drawing him away from his friends, where he was vulnerable.

He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the page with Koda’s details.

Jirou and Ashido often hung around Koda—maybe observing their patterns would help him predict Koda’s movements.

But even then, the question remained:

How do you take out someone who’s never looking for a fight?

His heartbeat steadied as a new thought took shape.

Use his kindness against him.

Izuku bit his lip, scribbling notes rapidly.

He wasn’t just planning an attack anymore.

He was planning a strategy to break the comfort zone Koda depended on.

And if he could do that, maybe he’d have his chance.

But it wouldn’t be easy.

Not with so many watching.

Not with the game tightening its grip on everyone.

And Izuku? He’d have to be sharper, smarter, and quieter than ever before.

The sky was overcast again as Class 1-A and Class 1-B gathered at Training Ground Alpha just before lunch.

The students formed a loose semicircle around their teacher, standing in clusters of quiet suspicion. The mood had shifted. Gone was the early-game tension of nerves and overexcitement — now, the weight of uncertainty hung over them all like a storm waiting to break.

Izuku stood near the middle, notebook tucked under one arm, heart beating slow and steady. He kept his gaze low but aware, noting the way classmates leaned away from each other slightly, as if afraid to be marked.

Aizawa stepped forward, clipboard in hand, scarf already wrapped loosely around his neck.

His tired eyes scanned them all. “Listen up. We’ve reviewed the eliminations from the last twenty-four hours.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

He continued, voice low and even. “Seven eliminations total. That brings us down to twenty-three active participants.”

Murmurs broke out immediately. Izuku felt his gut twist.

That was faster than expected.

Way faster.

Aizawa didn’t pause to let them process.

“We assumed the game might run a full week,” he said. “But at this rate, we may conclude it earlier. Either due to elimination speed… or exhaustion.” His gaze moved over them. “The Support Course is preparing the sensor recall protocols just in case.”

A quiet gasp came from someone in the back — Izuku thought it was Hagakure.

“So, what happens if it ends early?” Sero asked, voice tight. “Do we still win by surviving?”

Aizawa nodded. “If the game ends prematurely due to a mass reduction in players, we’ll go by total eliminations, successful survivals, and informant impact.”

He flipped a page on his clipboard.

“No names today, but I’ll confirm this: we’ve added three new informants. You won’t know who they are, and they’ve been given limited communication options.”

The air grew colder around them.

Three new informants.
Any one of them could be within a few feet right now.

Izuku scanned faces. Jirou looked grim. Sato looked unusually quiet. Even Ojiro seemed withdrawn. But none of them showed obvious signs.

Aizawa gave one last look over the group. “You have lunch now. After that, return to Ground Beta for foundational hero studies. The rules haven’t changed.”

His tone darkened just slightly.

“But you’d do well to remember—time is no longer on your side.”

Then he walked off, scarf trailing behind him, leaving behind a silence so sharp it felt like a blade.

Izuku didn’t move.

The game was accelerating.

And everyone could feel it.

The crowd from both classes broke apart into the usual lunch cliques — some filing into the cafeteria, others clustering in hallways or under trees to eat. Izuku had just turned down the path toward the courtyard when a familiar voice called out from behind him.

“Midoriya. With me.”

Izuku stopped immediately. Aizawa stood near the side doors to the main building, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

He didn’t ask why. He just followed.

They walked in silence for a few moments, far enough from the others to speak privately. Aizawa led them to a shady corner near a stairwell rarely used during lunch. Once there, he leaned back against the wall, gazing at Izuku with that tired intensity he always seemed to carry.

“You’re not being reassigned again,” Aizawa said quietly, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Izuku exhaled and shook his head. “I wasn’t.”

“You should’ve been. You’ve been pushing harder than anyone. We’ve been watching.”

Izuku blinked. “...I didn’t think I was standing out that much.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “You’ve eliminated three people so far. Outmaneuvered a two-person ambush. You’re not flying under the radar anymore.”

Izuku swallowed, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “I’m just… trying to stay in. Keep my head down.”

Aizawa tilted his head. “That’s not really what you’re doing, though, is it?”

Izuku didn’t answer.

A long pause followed.

Then Aizawa sighed — not in frustration, but something heavier. Tired. Quietly honest.

“You doing okay?”

Izuku blinked. “I-What?”

“I’m asking if you’re okay.” His voice was level, but softer than usual. “You’ve had three targets. You’re tracking others. But you’re still a kid, Midoriya. I want to know if this is getting to you.”

The question hit harder than Izuku expected.

He looked down at his hands. At the small ink smudge on the edge of his thumb from his notes. At the scabs forming over shallow cuts from brushes with near-eliminations. At his too-quiet breathing.

“I’m... still sorting through it,” he admitted. “It’s not the same as a real fight. It’s quieter. But it sticks.”

Aizawa nodded slowly.

“That’s the part most people underestimate. Not the strikes. The thinking. The watching. The knowing your friends might lie to your face.”

Izuku looked up.

“I trust a few,” he said. “But I’m not sure how long I can keep that up.”

Aizawa pushed off the wall.

“Then be smart with who you trust. And don’t lose yourself in the game. You’re more than just how many names you cross off.”

Izuku didn’t answer right away. But his chest felt… steadier.

Aizawa nodded toward the building. “Go get something to eat. I’ll see you at Ground Beta.”

Izuku turned to go, then hesitated. “Sensei?”

Aizawa looked back.

“Thanks,” Izuku said.

A faint flicker of something — not quite a smile — touched Aizawa’s eyes.

“Don’t get yourself eliminated.”

The courtyard buzzed with conversation as Izuku returned to the edge of the lunch area, tray in hand, head down like he was just another tired student looking for a seat.

He scanned quickly: Ashido, Kaminari, and Sero had claimed a patch of grass near the shade trees. Yaoyorozu sat with Iida and Jirou, low murmurs passing between them.

And then — just off to the side, near the koi pond behind the hedges — Koda.

Alone.

Eating slowly, with a tiny bird perched on his shoulder pecking gently at a cracker he’d broken into pieces.

Izuku paused, chest tightening.

He’s not a fighter.
He probably thinks he’s made it this far just by staying out of the way.
He’s kind. Steady. Trusting.
And vulnerable.

His eyes darted across the courtyard. A few glances flicked toward him, but no one seemed focused. No movement. No obvious threats.

It was risky — going out in the open. But it was also perfect.

High risk. High reward.

Izuku took a deep breath, then made his move.

He approached Koda carefully, tray still in hand. “Hey, Koda,” he said, forcing the right amount of tired into his voice. “Mind if I sit with you for a bit?”

Koda looked up, surprised — then nodded quickly, offering a soft smile and shifting his lunchbox aside to make space.

The bird chirped once before fluttering away.

Izuku sat down slowly, feeling exposed in the open courtyard, his back vulnerable. But he smiled gently, like he was just grateful for a quiet seat.

“Rough morning,” he murmured.

Koda nodded again and made a sympathetic sound in his throat, chewing quietly.

Izuku leaned forward slightly, letting his voice drop.

“I got kind of… overwhelmed,” he said truthfully. “The whole thing with Kaminari during class really shook me. It just keeps reminding me how fast things can go bad, you know?”

Koda’s expression softened. He nodded again, slower this time, and gestured toward Izuku’s half-eaten food, urging him to take care of himself.

That was the moment.

Izuku gave him a grateful look, lowered his gaze, and said quietly:

“Thanks for always being so kind, Koda.”

And then his hand moved in one clean, practiced motion.

Sensor strike.

A faint buzz and a soft blue ping.

Koda froze. His eyes widened slightly.

He looked down at the glowing light on his chest. Then back up at Izuku.

Not confused. Not angry.
Just… surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku said. And he meant it.

Koda gave a small nod — understanding, but heavy — and quietly pushed his tray aside.

He stood and walked off in silence.

Izuku stayed sitting there, suddenly all too aware of how quiet the courtyard had become.

No one had seen.

But the weight of the moment pressed into his chest like a stone.

Trust was his weapon again.
But it was getting harder to carry.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, one word echoing in his thoughts:

“Survive.”

The courtyard felt heavier as Izuku stood and quietly tossed the remains of his lunch. His hands were steady, but his chest still ached from what he’d just done.

Taking out Koda had been clean. Efficient.

And awful.

I didn’t want to do it like that.

He walked slowly toward the building, head down, ears tuned to every shuffle and whisper of movement around him. The moment lunch ended, students would scatter to return to Ground Beta, and the second half of the day would begin.

He had no intention of letting his guard down.

But as he passed the faculty building near the back entrance to the training zones, a voice called out behind him—louder than Aizawa's, and much more casual.

“Midoriya. Hold up a sec.”

Izuku turned and spotted Vlad King leaning against the low rail near the path, arms crossed but not angry. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp.

Izuku straightened instinctively.

“Sir?”

Vlad waved him over with two fingers. “You’re not in trouble. Just come here.”

Izuku approached, cautious. The sounds of students heading toward Ground Beta echoed behind him.

Vlad waited until they were relatively alone before speaking again.

“We’ve been watching your performance,” he said plainly. “And we’ve also been watching how often you’re putting yourself in the open.”

Izuku blinked. “...I’m just trying to stay in the game.”

“I know.” Vlad tilted his head. “But we’re not trying to grind you into the ground with this. You’ve had four eliminations in three days. Close calls. Ambushes. Support class data shows your heart rate’s been spiking more often than not.”

Izuku felt heat rise in his cheeks. “...Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Vlad said. “But don’t be reckless either.”

A pause.

“Look, Aizawa told me you’re not getting reassigned again until tomorrow. So for today, your orders are simple: stick near a teacher, keep your head down, and take a breath.”

Izuku’s eyes widened. “But—”

“This isn’t punishment,” Vlad interrupted. “It’s permission to take care of yourself. You're not a machine, Midoriya.”

The words settled uncomfortably in his chest.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Vlad gave him a short clap on the shoulder. “Good. That doesn’t mean slack off. It just means if someone tries to come for you, and I see it, I will get involved.”

That surprised him.

“You’d step in?”

Vlad smirked. “I don’t like kids getting targeted while their heads are down. You’ve earned a little breathing room.”

Izuku gave a small, thankful nod. “Understood.”

Vlad pushed off the railing. “Now come on. Ground Beta’s waiting. Let’s walk together.”

They moved toward the training field side by side, Vlad’s presence looming large beside him, but not unwelcome.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Izuku allowed himself to breathe.

Just a little.

Ground Beta felt different this afternoon.

Not because of the weather — though the sky was overcast and heavy with the threat of rain — but because of the silence beneath the noise.
Students moved across the ruined cityscape, isolated or in pairs, weaving through alleyways, scanning rooftops. Eyes flicked from shadow to movement to steel to sky. Everyone was hunting. Or hiding. Or both.

And Izuku Midoriya was doing neither.

He walked beside Vlad King, quiet and alert, every instinct screaming that he was making himself a target — but that was the point, wasn’t it?

“Stick near a teacher.”
“Take a breath.”

Vlad hadn’t said “stop watching.” And so Izuku didn’t.

He scanned the paths between buildings. Noted who stuck to cover. Who kept looking over their shoulder. Who wasn’t there at all.

Ashido darted across a catwalk three stories up, crouching low and pausing behind an exposed water tank.

Shoji and Ojiro were talking at ground level near a collapsed walkway — casual, maybe too casual. Izuku couldn’t tell if they were planning an ambush or simply bluffing their presence to draw someone out.

He spotted Sero in the distance, alone and alert, climbing a crumbling wall with a roll of tape already unspooling in one hand.

In another alley, Ibara leaned against a brick wall with her vines curled loosely at her feet, posture deceptively relaxed — like she was waiting. For someone.

She’s not hiding.
She’s bait.

No action yet. But the air was charged with it.

Vlad kept pace beside him, arms crossed. He said nothing, but his eyes tracked movement just as sharply.

“You’re scanning the whole field,” Vlad finally said, keeping his voice low. “Not even trying to rest, huh?”

Izuku smiled faintly. “This is rest for me.”

Vlad snorted but didn’t argue.

As they turned the corner of a collapsed office building, a soft ping rang out across the training ground — distant but unmistakable.

Someone had been taken out.

No name. No announcement. Just the sound of another sensor flaring blue and shutting down a player.

Izuku flinched, even as he kept moving.

They passed Kaminari and Shinsou crouched behind a toppled vending machine — too distracted arguing about something to notice the teacher walking by. Vlad gave them a hard glance and said nothing.

Eventually, they reached a high walkway with a view of the field. Vlad stopped and leaned on the rail.

“You’re good at this,” he said without looking at Izuku. “Better than a lot of the older students I’ve taught.”

Izuku didn’t quite know how to answer that.

“I just… I watch. And I adapt.”

Vlad gave a quiet hum of agreement. “That’s the difference between a fighter and a survivor. And right now, you’re both.”

Izuku turned to look out at the battlefield. Two students broke into a brief skirmish in the distance — tape flying, branches lashing — but it was over fast. One went still. Another ping.

And just like that, twenty-three dropped to twenty-one.

Izuku’s grip tightened on his notebook.

I’m not done.
Even now, I have to keep preparing.

Because someone out there was still looking for him.

And they weren’t going to wait for permission to strike.

The rusted rail was cool beneath Izuku’s hands as he stood beside Vlad King on the high catwalk, overlooking Ground Beta’s fractured cityscape.

From here, he could see most of the field. He marked movements: a trio ducking behind a half-crushed bus, a solo student crawling across a rooftop’s edge, someone sprinting along the open road—reckless.

Another ping echoed distantly.

Twenty now.

Vlad was quiet beside him, arms crossed, watching too. He hadn't said much since praising Izuku’s analysis, but his presence was solid, grounding.

And then—

A whisper of motion behind them.

Izuku stiffened, instincts flaring. It was subtle—too subtle for normal footsteps. Too slow for someone just passing by. No birds. No shifting gravel.

Too deliberate.

They think I’m too relaxed.

They’re wrong.

His fingers closed around the dull training knife at his side, careful not to make a sound.

“Midoriya,” Vlad said softly without turning. “Don’t move.”

Izuku froze, heart hammering.

Vlad turned his head just enough to speak low. “Behind the maintenance shed to our left. They’ve been circling for two minutes. We gave them every chance to back off.”

Someone from 1-B maybe? Or a risk-taker from 1-A?

They knew the rules. A teacher saw them. If they strike now, it’s void.

But they were still trying.

That meant something else was going on.

Izuku shifted slightly, just enough to get a better angle. He didn’t need to see the attacker’s face — just their posture, their silhouette.

A lean figure.

Fast stance.

Tape on their belt.

Sero.

Vlad's voice dropped further. “You want me to call it, or do you want to handle it?”

Izuku hesitated. For the first time all day, real temptation curled around his thoughts.

He could lunge.

Strike first.

Make Sero think he’d never had a chance.

But that would mean playing Sero’s game. Not his.

“I’ll let it go,” Izuku murmured. “He’s not worth a voided hit.”

Vlad gave a quiet grunt of approval.

“I’ve got it.”

He turned and raised his voice.

“Sero. Step out where I can see you.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a muttered curse. Sero emerged from behind the shed with a sheepish grin and hands half-raised.

“Worth a shot?”

“No,” Vlad said flatly. “Void attempt. You gave yourself away five paces back.”

Izuku watched the way Sero’s eyes flicked toward him — surprised he hadn’t taken the bait, maybe. Or disappointed the play hadn’t worked.

Vlad continued. “And now Midoriya knows you’re after him.”

Sero sighed. “Yeah. Fair.”

He slunk off without another word.

Izuku turned back to the overlook, jaw tight.

He knew I was close to a teacher.
And he still tried.
That’s how serious this is getting.

He didn’t speak, and neither did Vlad.

But both of them knew it.

The game was nearing its end.

And desperation had begun to take root.

The wind picked up across the wrecked skyline of Ground Beta, blowing dust and dead leaves across the fractured pavement.

Izuku remained beside Vlad King on the overlook, scanning the field like a chessboard. But the pieces had stopped moving with logic.

They were charging.

It started in the west sector, just beyond the shell of a collapsed apartment building. Two figures emerged from hiding — one Izuku recognized as Iida, the other too fast to ID — and clashed in a blur of motion.

Then a third darted in.

Then a fourth.

And suddenly—

Chaos.

“Iida, Shoji, Ashido, Tetsutetsu… and someone else—Mineta?” Izuku murmured.

Vlad King tensed. “Oh no.”

Across the field, a full-on skirmish had broken out.

Tape snapped through the air. A length of steel rebar bent and whistled past someone’s head. Acid sizzled against crumbling concrete. One of Shoji’s arms stretched wildly to deflect a blow that didn’t come fast enough.

Ping.

Ping. Ping.

Three sensors went red in less than ten seconds.

Iida stumbled back, out of the fray — barely lit, still active — but his expression was twisted in frustration and fear.

“They’re all snapping,” Vlad muttered. “No more waiting. They’re cornering themselves.”

Someone else shouted from above — Jirou, leaping down into the fight with an earphone jack whipping through the air. Kendo followed, charging into the mess with her enlarged fists swinging.

Ping.

A long, ugly one this time. Someone had taken a direct hit.

Izuku watched in stunned silence as five, six, seven students spiraled into a desperate chain of elimination.

He counted lights flashing red and wondered: Was this what the end looked like?

“Do we step in?” he asked, breath shallow.

Vlad’s mouth was a tight line. “Not unless it gets out of hand. They signed up for it. And so did you.”

Another ping. Someone dropped to their knees. Jirou was down. Kendo followed seconds later. Shoji limped backward, half-defensive, half-distracted—

—only to get caught in the side by a thin strip of electrified tape.

Ping.

Gone.

“Eight,” Izuku whispered. “Eight gone in under two minutes.”

Vlad nodded slowly. “Down to twelve.”

The last few students scattered from the ruins, some panting, others frozen with hesitation. Iida, still active, looked like he wanted to scream — not out of pain, but disbelief.

It was over almost as quickly as it started.

Smoke drifted through the broken corridors. The air buzzed with spent quirk energy.

Izuku stared down at the battleground and felt a new chill settle in his bones.

This game wasn’t about survival anymore.
It was about not panicking.
About knowing when to move—and when to wait.

And now, only twelve students remained.

He wasn’t just close to the end.

He was in it.

The comm buzzed against his hip.

“All active students and informants, report to the Ground Beta main entrance immediately for an emergency debrief. No exceptions.”

Aizawa’s voice. Flat. Controlled. Final.

Izuku blinked, still up on the high walkway beside Vlad King, the battlefield below him silent now—smoking and scarred, littered with signs of a brawl that had taken out nearly half the remaining players.

Twelve students left. Out of forty.

He hadn’t expected Aizawa to intervene mid-session unless someone got hurt.
That meant this was more than cleanup. This was correction.

He followed Vlad in silence down the emergency stairs, boots clanging softly against steel.

By the time they reached the clearing at the front gate, most of the others had already gathered—a tight knot of confusion, tension, and distrust. The remaining active players lingered on one side. Informants, easy to spot now, grouped closer to the staff perimeter.

Aizawa stood front and center, clipboard in hand, capture scarf looped loosely around his shoulders. His gaze was unreadable as always—but Izuku noticed the faint crease in his brow.

Behind him stood Vlad, Cementoss, Midnight, and Present Mic. The presence of all four teachers was rare during the exercise.

This was serious.

Aizawa raised his voice without lifting it. “What happened this afternoon was predictable. But the scale of it wasn’t.”

Silence.

“I didn’t expect half of you to lose control and dive headfirst into a melee like that. That was not strategy. That was panic.”

He paced once in front of them, boots crunching gravel.

“We now have twelve active players. That means this game will end sooner than planned—likely within the next twenty-four hours.”

Whispers rippled through the group. Someone sucked in a breath sharply.

Aizawa continued, eyes sweeping the crowd.

“Three things you need to know right now:

One—there will be no new eliminations for the rest of the day. You are dismissed from competitive actions until further notice.”

A beat of confused silence. Even Izuku flinched.

“Two—effective immediately, informants will begin limited coordination duties. If you are an informant, speak to Present Mic. Your objectives are changing.”

Izuku’s eyes flicked to Momo, who stood near the edge of the teacher cluster. She gave him a nearly imperceptible nod.

“Three—and this is for everyone—if we observe another uncontrolled escalation like the one we just witnessed, the exercise will be called off early, and scores will be tallied from that moment forward.”

That landed like a hammer.

No one dared to speak.

Aizawa stopped walking.

“I designed this to test your instincts, your strategy, and your restraint. Not your willingness to throw yourselves at each other like amateurs.”

His voice didn’t rise, but the sting in it was palpable.

“You all have one evening. Tomorrow, the final phase begins. Use your time wisely.”

He turned without another word.

The teachers followed, murmuring amongst themselves. Present Mic pulled aside three informants—including Momo—and began giving quiet, fast instructions.

Izuku remained still.

Around him, the eleven others stared at one another—not quite allies, not yet enemies. Suspicion swirled again.

Tomorrow.
The final phase.

And there would be no room left for hesitation.

The dorms were quieter than they had been since the training exercise began.

No one sprinted between rooms. No muffled quirk-blasts through the walls. No spontaneous ambushes behind corners or kitchen counters.

Just quiet footsteps. Half-finished dinners. Long silences in shared lounges.

The truce was official—for tonight only. But it didn’t feel like peace.

It felt like everyone was waiting.

Izuku sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, notebook open, pen tapping against the spine.

He’d already marked out the day’s eliminations. Nine names scratched through in clean red lines. A few had question marks—he hadn’t seen Jirou go down, but he’d spotted her walking with Midnight after the emergency debrief. Kendo too. Shoji.

Down to twelve.

He flipped to a clean page and started a fresh column.

Remaining (as of emergency debrief):

Midoriya (self)

Iida

Ashido

Kaminari

Sero

Aoyama

Ojiro

Tsuburaba

Ibara

Kinoko

Tokage

?? (one unknown?)

His pen hovered. Someone had slipped past the chaos. He didn’t know who. But they were still in the game.

He leaned back against his bed, eyes heavy.

The thought of tomorrow turned in his mind like a gear slipping loose.

Final phase. No details yet.
Smaller teams? One-on-ones? Territory defense?
If the teachers are coordinating with informants, then whatever’s coming... it's more structured.
And more dangerous.

He reached for his phone.

[Midoriya → Yaoyorozu]

hey
are you allowed to tell me anything about the final phase?

He waited, eyes on the chat screen.

A minute passed. Then two.

Finally, the three dots appeared.

[Yaoyorozu → Midoriya]

I can’t tell you specifics.
But I can tell you it’s different from the previous structure.
And I can tell you you’ll need to be flexible.

Izuku stared at the message, chewing his bottom lip.

[Midoriya → Yaoyorozu]

…so no “track and eliminate”?
More like… reaction-based? Situational?

[Yaoyorozu → Midoriya]

Think on your feet.
That’s all I can say.
Good luck tomorrow.
Please be careful.

Izuku’s fingers hovered above the keyboard for a second before typing.

[Midoriya → Yaoyorozu]

you too.
thank you.

He set the phone down, turned back to his notebook, and began underlining names in green.

Not threats. Not targets.

Variables.

Twelve people left. But only one winner.
Unless… they weren’t looking for a winner anymore.
Maybe that wasn’t the point of this phase at all.

His pen paused over his own name.

Then, for the first time all week, Izuku closed the notebook without finishing the page.

Because maybe, just maybe…

Tomorrow wasn’t about eliminating anymore.

It might be about choosing who to stand beside.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky outside his window was still dark when Izuku stirred.

4:57 a.m.

He hadn’t set an alarm. He just… knew. Something about the stillness in the dorm felt too deliberate. Too calm.

Final day.
Final phase.

His feet touched the floor before his mind fully caught up, breath shallow as he moved across the room. He didn’t need to look far.

It was already there.

A thin, cream-colored envelope, slid halfway under his door like a ghost of routine. No sound. No signature. But unmistakable.

The fifth one this week.
The final one.

Izuku picked it up and ran his thumb along the sealed edge, pausing.

Once I open this… there’s no going back.

He moved to his desk and sat, hands steady despite the chill crawling down his spine. The seal gave way with a soft snap, and he slid the folded page free.

Plain black ink. UA letterhead. No name.

But the words hit harder than any target ever had.

FINAL PHASE: DIRECTIVE
Participants Remaining: 12

Instructions:
As of 7:00 a.m. today, the game will no longer operate under the “eliminate your target” rule.
There are no more assigned eliminations.
There are no more informants.
There is only one objective:

Survive.

A series of controlled threat scenarios will be introduced across multiple locations within Ground Beta. These will test your adaptability, teamwork, and strategic flexibility. You may ally. You may betray. You may go alone.

You are allowed to eliminate others, but it is no longer required.

At the end of the exercise, those who have survived the longest—or contributed the most strategically to survival outcomes—will be scored accordingly.

You will be monitored the entire time.

There is no reset. No respawn. No pauses.

Enter Ground Beta by 7:00 a.m. sharp.

Begin.

Izuku lowered the page slowly, breath caught somewhere between his ribs.

No targets.
No safe zones.
No allies unless you choose them—and trust them.

It wasn’t about ambushes anymore.

It was about judgment. Timing. Control.

Survive.

And the only rule left was that there were no more rules.

He stood, heart steady, and reached for his notebook one last time.

He didn’t need to write much. Just one final line at the bottom of the page.

“Play smart. Don’t lose yourself.”

Then he closed the book, pulled on his jacket, and left his room before the sun had risen.

The early morning air bit cold against Izuku’s skin as he stepped onto Ground Beta’s cracked pavement.

The sun was just a pale smear on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers over the shattered buildings and warped scaffolding.

But the field had changed.

Gone were the quiet hiding spots and isolated perches he’d scouted just yesterday.

The teachers had restructured everything overnight.

Concrete barricades and steel debris had been repositioned into narrow alleys and sharp chokepoints. Colored smoke drifted through the ruins—thick, choking clouds that masked both movement and sound. Rooftops had been chained off or rigged with soft-trigger traps, their silhouettes unfamiliar.

This wasn’t the same battlefield. It wasn’t even a battlefield anymore.

It was a trap. And they’d all just walked into it.

Small surveillance drones hovered overhead, blinking quietly as they tracked every step, every glance, every hesitation.

Izuku slowed as he entered, eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. Other students were already gathering near the entry point, hanging back just inside the zone boundary.

He spotted them, one by one.

Iida, stiff-backed and silent.
Ashido, standing beside Kaminari, unusually quiet.
Sero, watching the smoke like it might come alive.
Aoyama, glittering faintly even in low light, humming something under his breath.
Ojiro, alone, stretching out his tail like a radar.
Tsuburaba, arms crossed, jaw tense.
Ibara, eyes closed in silent prayer.
Kinoko, her cap low over her eyes, hands twitching.
Tokage, pacing and smirking, tail segments flexing in anticipation.

And—

Bakugou.
At the edge of the group, arms folded, gaze fixed straight ahead. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence carved a line through the space. No one stood too close.

Twelve of them remained.

Only twelve.

So many variables. No targets. Just the field. Just us.

A soft mechanical chime echoed from the overhead drones. The countdown had ended.

Final phase initiated.

A quiet hum of electricity surged through the boundary field behind them. Locked in.

Aizawa stood just outside the entrance. Scarf drawn tight, expression unreadable. Vlad King joined him at his side, arms crossed, voice low.

“Welcome to Ground Zero,” Vlad said, mostly to himself.

Izuku’s stomach twisted. The name fit. This wasn’t a test anymore. It was a proving ground.

Twelve students.

One chance.

No rules.

No alliances—unless you chose to make one.

And no guarantee you’d survive the hour.

He brushed his fingers against his notebook in his side pocket.

Observe. Move. Don’t lose control.

And then he stepped forward, into the smoke.

The smoke was warm where it curled through the alleys.

It wasn’t hot — not harmful — but it clung to his skin, left moisture in his throat. Visibility was terrible. Five meters, maybe six, and then the haze turned the rest of the cityscape into vague shapes and shadows.

Izuku moved carefully, low to the ground, notebook tucked into his jacket, every footstep tested before it landed.

Controlled scenarios.
That means more than just other students now. Traps. Terrain shifts. Maybe even false signals.
I can’t assume anything.

The silence was worse than he expected. No voices. No footsteps. Not even the sound of rubble shifting. Only the occasional drone hum above, and the wind kicking up particles of soot and concrete dust.

He turned down a narrow service passage behind what used to be a mock storefront and paused at a crossroads where the alley opened into a half-collapsed courtyard.

That’s when he saw it.

Movement.

Fast — low to the ground — and right across his path.

Izuku dropped instinctively into a crouch, knife in hand, back to the wall.

Too fast to be a trap trigger. Too fluid to be debris.

The smoke shifted—and he saw her.

Tokage Setsuna.

She was already mid-motion, torso separated from her legs, arms drifting half a meter apart. Her grin flickered like a knife’s reflection.

“Thought you were clever hiding in the smoke,” she said, pieces orbiting as she closed the distance.

Izuku’s brain lit up with strategy calculations — her range, his options, visibility angles, ground density—

She lunged.

He ducked beneath the swipe of a floating limb, pivoted to the left, and launched himself behind an overturned cement mixer for cover.

Another segment of her body whipped around the corner, aiming to cut off his escape route. He moved fast — but not blindly.

She’s trying to box me in. Divide my attention with her body parts.
But she has to stay aware of all of them — and if I can isolate her core, I might be able to force her back.

A foot spun through the air and nearly caught him across the cheek. He dropped low and rolled through the dust, feeling grit scrape across his palms as he came up behind a concrete slab.

“I heard you got reassigned twice,” Tokage called, voice echoing between body parts. “Didn’t know that came with perks. Like drone bodyguards and early warning systems.”

Izuku grit his teeth. “Three actually, four if you count my first assignment. No perks. Just careful.”

“Then let’s test how careful you really are.”

A chunk of rebar, held by her floating hand, shot through the air toward him like a thrown baton. Izuku ducked again, letting it clang against the wall behind him — and that’s when he saw it:

The main part of her torso was too far away.

She’d overcommitted.

He burst from cover, dodging one more spinning leg, and aimed low — not at her floating parts, but at the segment hovering close to the ground.

It jerked back just as he struck, her torso reassembling midair to avoid the knife, and she skidded across the courtyard with a curse.

“Damn, you’re fast.”

Izuku didn’t chase.

She didn’t press.

A beat passed. Two.

Then she straightened, segments snapping back into place, and gave a sharp, dry laugh.

“Not yet,” she said. “You’re not weak enough for me to waste my energy on.”

And just like that, she vanished into the smoke.

Izuku stood still for a long moment, the knife loose in his grip, chest heaving. Not from exhaustion — from pressure.

That wasn’t a full fight.

It was a test.

She was feeling him out. Seeing what kind of player he was now.

Which means she’s planning something else.
And I just became a variable in it.

He turned and kept moving, slower this time, heart heavy in his chest.

The next confrontation wouldn’t be so easy to walk away from.

The alley narrowed into a collapsed stairwell, rusted beams overhead casting harsh angles through the smoke. Izuku moved slowly now, controlling his breath, counting each footfall.

Every so often, he’d pause and listen—eyes closed, knife resting lightly against his thigh, mind tracking airflow and pressure changes.

Tokage had peeled off. But someone else was near.

He could feel it.

The hair at the nape of his neck prickled.

He crouched beneath a low-hanging pipe, slid into the partial cover of a shattered display window, and waited. Five seconds. Ten.

Then—
fwip

A sound like tape unfurling overhead.

His instincts screamed.

Izuku ducked flat to the ground just as two lengths of tape snapped past where his chest had been, one catching on the metal piping above and the other slamming into the wall.

“Damn!” someone hissed.

Sero.

Izuku rolled left, into a blind corner, and stayed crouched.

That wasn’t a probing shot. That was an actual takedown attempt.
He’s aiming to end this.

More tape flew, sticking across corners and building edges, tightening the area like a net.

He's trying to box me in. Limit my angles. Make me panic and run right into a tripline.

Izuku closed his eyes, listened—
There. A quick breath. A soft shoe tap.

He angled right, circled around the building's jagged edge.

He’s two stories up. Using vertical height for line of sight.
But that puts his blind spot right…

Here.

Izuku surged forward, silent as possible, and vaulted over a cracked stair rail. He sprinted into the building, past crumbled doorframes and buckled hallways. Smoke pooled on the second floor—but it wasn’t thick enough to hide Sero’s shape.

He spotted the gleam of tape just as Sero leaned over the edge, scanning for movement below.

Too late.

Izuku didn’t shout. Didn’t hesitate.

He lunged, shoulder low, blade forward.

Sero spun—eyes wide—but the angle was wrong.

Contact.

The sensor on Sero’s wrist flared blue with a muted beep.

He staggered back, arm raised in disbelief. “You—”

Izuku stepped back immediately, panting quietly. “I heard you. From the smoke.”

Sero blinked, then barked a breathless laugh. “Shit. You’re scary now.”

“I’ve always been scary,” Izuku muttered. “I just hide it better.”

Sero raised his hands in surrender, the tension draining from his posture as the drone above chirped to confirm the takedown. “Well played, Midoriya. Guess I’m a spectator now.”

Izuku nodded once, then slipped past him without another word.

Down to eleven.
Every second counts now.

He didn’t look back.

Only forward.

Izuku ducked into a half-sunken stairwell behind an abandoned support structure, sweat sticking to the inside of his collar despite the cold. His heart still beat hard from the fight with Sero, but his thoughts were clear.

Ten left. Or maybe fewer now. If Tokage doubled back, someone else might be gone too.
I need a few minutes. Just to regroup. Reset. Think.

He tugged out his notebook and crouched behind a collapsed pipe.

Sero’s aggression means people are getting desperate. No more slow plays.
Anyone holding out is going to get flushed out—

Bwooooooom.

The sound tore through Ground Beta like a slow-moving earthquake — low and vibrating, deep enough to shake dust from the cracked walls.

Izuku froze.

Another drone blinked overhead. Then a second. They descended slowly, lights flashing yellow.

WARNING: ENVIRONMENTAL SHIFT INCOMING
NEW CONDITION: PRESSURE ZONE DEPLOYED
DURATION: 10 MINUTES
SECTORS 3 THROUGH 6

A digital map flickered into existence on a glowing panel across the drone’s underside — a quadrant layout with red pulsing zones lighting up around the center of the cityscape. Izuku’s current location sat right between Sectors 3 and 4.

He stood up fast, tension rocketing through his spine.

They’re creating forced movement.
They want to drive us into each other.

All across the field, low hums ignited — pressure vents buried in the terrain kicking on like turbines. The air in Sector 3 thinned almost instantly, followed by a high-pitched whistle, and then—

The wind hit.

A violent horizontal draft howled through the broken windows around him, blasting up dirt, broken tiles, and loose steel debris. Izuku threw himself behind cover just as a sign ripped free from a storefront and flew into the alley like a missile.

Controlled hazard. Artificial gale.

He’d read about these in the support course files. Designed for rescue training. Unleashed here for combat escalation.

He gritted his teeth and held his jacket close.

They’re herding us.
Everyone not already in Sector 2 or 7 will be forced to relocate—or risk getting pinned or hit.
If I move now, I could be caught in open space. But if I wait… I’ll be boxed in.

More drones buzzed overhead. One flashed a live counter: 7:39 left.

Smoke trails whipped into sharp spirals, disorienting and opaque. He couldn’t see more than a few feet now — and with the wind howling, even footsteps were muffled.

A sound echoed nearby. Not debris. Not wind.

Running.

Another student.

Close.

Either they’re fleeing the zone—or they’re trying to capitalize on it.

Izuku stuffed his notebook back into his pocket and slipped out of cover, timing his movements with each surge of wind. He stayed low, zigzagging through overturned desks and metal barriers, moving east toward a partially collapsed bus station.

A shadow flickered across his path.

Another flash of motion.

Someone had seen him.

And the game, once again, had changed.

The gale tore sideways through the alley, whipping Izuku’s hair into his eyes as he crouched behind the fractured skeleton of a vending machine. The roar of the pressure vents made it nearly impossible to hear anything clearly — but the running footsteps were closing in, rhythmic and fast.

He clenched his teeth, tensed—

Then a silhouette cut through the smoke.

Kaminari.

Izuku's heart jumped.

The streak of blond was unmistakable. The boy was sprinting with his head low, arm across his face to shield from debris, a knife visible at his hip.

But he wasn’t running blindly. He was tracking something. Tracking Izuku.

Their eyes met through a break in the mist.

For a half-second, there was recognition—
Then Kaminari’s expression sharpened into a grin that was far too confident.

He raised a hand and discharged a jolt of electricity into the air above.

Not at Izuku—
At the metal beams crisscrossing overhead.

He’s using the field.
Trying to bounce the current, short-range, through the debris.
Force me out of hiding or stun me outright.

A fork of static jumped between girders with a sharp crack. Metal shivered and sparked.

Izuku ducked under the vending machine slab as a burst of heat rolled over him.

Can’t let him lock me in. I have to move—now.

He burst out of cover and ran straight into the wind, using the gust to mask his movement. Kaminari saw him, shouted something—inaudible through the roaring wind—and gave chase, boots skidding across the rubble.

They darted between half-toppled buildings, wind screaming, the smoke splitting in short violent gusts.

Izuku vaulted a broken railing and landed hard, knees jarring—but he rolled and came up fast, flanking left toward the remains of the bus terminal.

He ducked into a support alcove, pressing his back to the wall, knife clenched tight.

I can’t outrun him forever. And he’s cleverer than he looks.
But he can’t discharge too much without shorting out.
If I force him to overcommit—if I bait him in close…

A static buzz hit the air. Footsteps again.

Izuku waited.

Waited—

Kaminari rounded the corner, charging in at full speed, grin fierce.

“Gotcha—!”

Izuku pivoted, dropped low, and used Kaminari’s own momentum against him. He slammed the side of his body into Kaminari’s hip and used the leverage to twist and land the flat of his blade just under Kaminari’s arm.

Beep.

The light blinked blue.

Kaminari froze. “Wait, what—?”

“I studied how your aim gets narrower when you’re excited,” Izuku said, breathless. “You get too confident when you think you’re closing in.”

Kaminari blinked at him, then huffed a sheepish laugh. “Man. You’ve got my number.”

He tapped the sensor gently and offered Izuku a half-salute. “Guess I’m out.”

The wind surged again, and the drone above chirped confirmation.

Izuku straightened, breathing hard.

Nine left now.
This isn’t a tournament anymore. This is a gauntlet.

And he wasn’t sure how many more hits he could land before someone hit back.

The wind was dying down.

Not completely — it still howled between the tightest alleys, kicked dust into sudden swirls — but the vents had started to power down, one by one, leaving behind the hollow groan of settling metal and the faint crackle of static in the air.

Izuku moved fast and quiet, boots scuffing over broken pavement as he climbed the side of a collapsed scaffold. He didn’t go toward the center. Not yet.

He needed higher ground.

He needed to think.

A half-toppled structure near the edge of Sector 3 offered a fragile tower of steel and stone. Izuku climbed it hand over hand, fingers burning slightly from gripping exposed rebar and splintered wood.

At the top — three stories high — he crouched behind a leaning metal beam and took cover beneath what used to be a solar panel fixture. It was just enough to hide him from the drones.

For now.

The city was quieter up here. Above the wind. Above the smoke.

He slid his notebook from his jacket and opened it with careful hands, bracing it against his leg to keep it from fluttering.

Sero — out. Kaminari — out.
Tokage still in play. She disengaged, not defeated.
Bakugou — unknown. He’d make noise if he’d gone down.
Ashido. Ojiro. Iida. Aoyama. Tsuburaba. Kinoko. Ibara.
Too many unknowns. Too much silence.

He underlined three names.

Bakugou, Iida, and Ashido.

Most likely to push forward. Most likely to survive a hazard.
If I’ve taken two out… maybe we’re down to nine.
Or seven. Or five. I don’t know.

That was the hardest part.

Not knowing.

He closed the notebook softly, pressed the spine against his forehead, and tried to steady his breathing.

Every muscle ached. His brain felt like it was running two simulations a second.

Don’t slip. Not now.
Just keep moving. Observe. Control what I can.

A breeze swept through the tower, shifting the hanging wires and torn tarps. Somewhere far below, a low crack rang out — a wall buckling or a trap triggering — but it was distant. Nothing nearby stirred.

Then—

A mechanical beep sounded overhead.

A drone emerged through the haze, blinking red, its voice crisp through a speaker grill.

“Attention: all active players.”

Izuku’s head snapped up.

“Proceed immediately to Zone 2. You have five minutes to arrive. Final stage will begin shortly.”

The message repeated once. Then the drone zipped away, vanishing behind the edge of a broken structure.

Izuku stood slowly.

Zone 2.

A forced convergence.

The final phase.

He slipped his notebook away and touched the hilt of the training knife at his side.

Time to finish this.

And he began to climb down.

The city was nearly silent as Izuku moved.

No more tape snapping through the air. No electric buzz from the vents. No distant echoes of battle.

Only the crunch of debris underfoot, the creak of warped steel, and the dull hum of the drones circling high above.

He was headed east, weaving through the ruins of Sector 3 as he followed the broken signage pointing toward Zone 2. The layout was unfamiliar now — whole sections of the field had been shifted or repurposed overnight.

They want us off balance, Izuku thought.
Even now, they’re testing us. Testing how we approach the unknown.

As he walked, he scanned for movement. Nothing. No shadows. No ambushes. Just the growing suspicion in his gut that someone else was walking these same paths… watching the corners, too.

He didn’t know who was left.

Didn’t know if they were ahead of him or behind him.

But he could feel it. It was almost over.

He passed through a crumbled underpass, then ducked through the blown-out husk of a mock grocery store. His steps slowed. The clock in his head ticked closer to zero.

Five minutes are almost up. Everyone who was going to make it should be here by now.
If they’re not…

A sharp chime cut through the air.

Izuku halted in place.

A drone lowered into view, hovering level with his head, its single red eye blinking.

“This is your final update.”

His breath hitched.

“Two players remain.”

Silence fell.

Izuku’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“The final phase has begun.”
“There are no zones. No safe areas. No victory conditions beyond this—”

“Eliminate your final opponent.”

“The exercise ends when one of you is left standing.”

The drone whirred upward and vanished.

Izuku stood in the aisle of the burned-out store, unmoving.

Two left.
Just me… and one other.

He reached up slowly and tugged the zipper of his jacket higher.

They’re close. They have to be. This is it.
Every second from here on out is the final play.

He stepped out of cover.

And started hunting.

The city felt dead now.

Not quiet. Not still.

Dead.

Like the breath had been pulled from every street and rooftop, leaving only rusted bones and shattered windows behind.

Izuku moved low through the alleyways of Zone 2, every nerve pulled tight. The announcement still echoed in his mind, louder than the crunch of gravel under his boots.

Two left.
No more targets. No more strategy.
Only survival.

He crouched behind a fallen billboard, pulled his notebook out with trembling fingers, and flipped quickly to his latest page. He scratched down two simple facts:

Sero: out

Kaminari: out

Ojiro: presumed out

Others: uncertain

Only one remains

He tapped his pen once against the page.

If I’m one of the last two… that narrows it.
Could it be Iida? Ashido? Ojiro?
Bakugou?

His throat tightened.

No. Not Bakugou.
He’d be louder. He’d have taken me out already.
Unless he’s waiting.

Izuku stood, slow and deliberate, tucking the notebook away.

He turned a corner—then froze.

A thin line of acid hissed faintly across the ground where the concrete was burned clean through in a crescent slash.

Fresh.

Minutes old.

Izuku’s heart jumped.

Ashido.

The burn pattern matched what he’d seen in combat classes — wide sweeps, momentum-based. Not meant for lethal hits, but to destabilize footing or herd an opponent into a blind spot.

He crouched and touched the cooled edge of the trail.

She’s nearby. Moving fast. Might not know it’s me yet.

He moved parallel to the acid trail, keeping to the shadows of a half-collapsed office building, ducking beneath a hole-punched wall where wind stirred plastic tarps like sails.

More scorched concrete ahead. A footprint this time — hers — one boot melted slightly on the edge.

She was running.

But not recklessly.

She knew someone was following.

Izuku slowed at the corner of a stairwell.

Then he heard it—soft, rhythmic.

Breathing.

He inched closer, knife in hand, every muscle on high alert—

Then stepped out.

And came face to face with Ashido Mina.

She was crouched atop a ledge, pink hair wind-swept, jacket stained with ash. The second she saw him, her face shifted — shock, then understanding, then something like sadness.

“You,” she said softly.

Izuku didn't raise his weapon.

Not yet.

“I didn’t know,” he admitted. “Not until just now.”

Ashido smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I figured it might be you. You’ve been too quiet. I was hoping it wasn’t.”

They stood in silence.

Two students. Two survivors.

Friends.

Opponents.

Only one left standing, the voice had said.

Ashido flexed her fingers, acid glinting between them.

Izuku raised his knife.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

But the game was no longer a game.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Ashido stood on the edge of the ledge, acid still faintly dripping from her fingers, her body tense — not in fear, but in restraint. Izuku didn’t raise his blade. He couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not when everything in him was screaming that they’d both earned something more than a quick ambush in a ruined city.

Her eyes searched his. “You gonna jump me, Midoriya?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m tired.”

Ashido snorted softly and relaxed her stance. The acid fizzled into nothing as she clenched her fists and let her arms drop to her sides.

“Yeah,” she said, stepping down from the ledge, “me too.”

The wind kicked up dust and paper across the cracked flooring of the broken building around them. Neither one looked away from the other, not fully trusting the calm—but letting it settle anyway.

Ashido crossed the room and sat down on a bent rebar beam, wincing as she stretched her legs.

Izuku followed, choosing a broken crate across from her.

“Did you know it was me?” he asked.

“Not until just now,” she said. “Kinda hoped it wouldn’t be. I don’t really wanna fight you, y’know?”

Izuku nodded. “Same.”

The quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was heavy.

Outside, somewhere in the ruins, a steel beam collapsed with a distant clang. Neither flinched.

Ashido leaned back and glanced at him. “Five minutes?”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Five minutes. We rest. Then…” She lifted one hand and twirled her finger. “We see who wins.”

Izuku hesitated for just a moment. Then nodded.

“Five minutes,” he said.

They sat in silence, surrounded by ruins and drifting smoke, the ghosts of the game all around them. The city had devoured thirty-eight of their classmates in four days of tension, scheming, and survival.

Now it was just the two of them.

And five borrowed minutes.

Ashido tilted her head back, staring at the shattered roof above them. “Did you take out Kaminari?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice. He was cocky since the start.”

They both laughed — quiet, exhausted.

A drone passed by overhead. Neither of them looked at it.

“I never thought I’d make it this far,” Ashido admitted after a moment. “I thought I’d get taken out by Tsuburaba or someone sneaky. But… I guess I had more fight in me than I thought.”

“You do,” Izuku said, honestly. “You always have.”

Ashido smiled at him — small, grateful. “You planning to win?”

He exhaled. “I’m planning to try.”

“Good,” she said, sitting up. “Me too.”

The drone above them gave a soft ping.

Four minutes left.

Izuku’s fingers curled slightly around the handle of his knife.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

The silence felt deeper now.

Not the sharp quiet of tension, but the heavy, full kind. The kind that settles between two people who know they’ve made it through something few others understand.

Izuku watched the dust float in a beam of sunlight cutting through the broken roof. Ashido hadn’t spoken again since their short laugh about Kaminari. Her eyes were closed. Her hands were still.

His weren’t. Not quite.

He kept fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. Rubbing circles against his thumb with the pad of his finger.

Four minutes... Three... Two.

The drone hadn’t spoken again, but he could feel it watching. He could feel the game still breathing beneath the silence. Waiting for them to move. Waiting for this to end.

Ashido sat forward first, brushing her hands against her thighs. “Feels like it’s been longer than five minutes.”

Izuku gave a tired smile. “Time gets weird in a fight.”

She looked around the ruined building. “Or whatever this is.”

He followed her gaze — to the scorched walls, the twisted beams, the cracked floor where bootprints overlapped acid trails and bloodless scuffs.

“This was supposed to be a training exercise,” Ashido said. “But I think it was something else.”

Izuku nodded. “A test.”

“Of what?”

He thought about that. Let the question sit for a moment.

“Of how far we’re willing to go,” he said finally. “And what we do when it’s just us left.”

Ashido looked at him again. There was no fear in her eyes. Just clarity.

“I learned I’m smarter than people think,” she said. “That I can read a room. That I don’t always have to be the loud one, the fun one. I can be serious. Dangerous, even.”

Izuku didn’t speak. He just listened.

“I never thought I’d be the last one. But I didn’t quit. Even when I was scared.” Her voice was steady. “That’s what I’m taking with me.”

He nodded.

Then said, “I learned how dangerous trust can be. And how necessary.”

Ashido tilted her head. “That from Tokoyami?”

“Yeah. And Koda. And a few others.” He took a breath. “And you.”

She smiled again. “Hey. I didn’t try to stab you. That’s gotta count for something.”

“It does.”

They stood at the same time — slow, deliberate.

No tricks. No sudden moves.

Ashido rolled her shoulders and stepped out into the open space between broken walls and broken glass. Her stance shifted. Looser. Balanced.

Izuku moved to face her, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his knife.

They were ten feet apart. No more.

Just the wind, and the dust, and the echo of everything they’d survived.

Ashido grinned, fierce and warm.

“Alright, Midoriya.”

“Alright, Ashido.”

The drone above gave a single chime.

Five minutes were up.

No more words.

Just the end.

Ashido moved first.

Not recklessly — no dramatic charge or flashy acrobatics. She flowed forward, knees bent, body low, already calculating range and terrain. Acid gleamed along the ground where her fingertips brushed the concrete in passing, drawing a shifting perimeter between them.

Izuku stepped lightly to the right, keeping his distance, noting where her trails pooled.

She’s limiting my angles. Herding. That’s what she did with Kaminari. She wants me to box myself in.
Don’t fall for it.

His knife was in his left hand now — unusual for him, but intentional. Ashido had trained with him enough to expect his right. He’d use that expectation.

Ashido feinted left — Izuku followed, tracking her hips — but she kicked off a loose pipe and spun into a wide arc of acid across the upper wall.

He ducked low.

Ssssshhh—

Steam hissed where acid hit rusted steel.

The sharp tang burned in his nostrils.

Izuku slipped under a broken beam and jab-stepped forward, knife flashing out — not a full strike, but a test. Ashido parried with her forearm and danced back, fluid, agile, alive.

“You’re holding back,” she said.

“So are you.”

They circled again, quicker now.

Ashido darted in and slashed low — Izuku jumped the acid stream and countered with a shallow strike toward her thigh. She twisted midair and landed on one foot, sliding across a melted patch of ground, the steam cloaking her escape.

She’s trying to disappear again. Create cover. Reposition.
Don’t give her the space.

He lunged.

Ashido skidded to the side and planted both hands to the floor, blasting a tight circle of acid in a burst—forcing him to halt just short.

But the burst left her center open—

Izuku stepped in.

Faked high. Slid low. Knife in reverse grip now.

Ashido caught the feint too late.

Contact.

The dull edge of Izuku’s blade tapped her waist.

Beep.

The blue light blinked on.

Ashido’s eyes went wide.

She looked down.

And then… smiled.

“That was slick,” she breathed, panting. “The grip switch—dirty trick.”

Izuku swallowed hard. His heart thundered in his chest, his legs shook with the aftermath of adrenaline.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“You didn’t,” she replied. “You just beat me. Fair.”

They both stood there for a moment. Not as opponents. Just as classmates again.

Then, above them, the drone let out a long tone.

“Simulation complete.”

“Winner: Midoriya Izuku.”

The announcement echoed through the empty buildings, bouncing off shattered walls and wind-scraped glass.

And then came the silence.

Real this time.

The kind that felt earned.

The sun was higher in the sky by the time the doors to Ground Beta opened.

Izuku stepped through first.

His uniform was dust-streaked, sleeves torn from sliding across rubble, and sweat clung to his back. His legs ached. His chest was tight. But he walked tall.

Beside him, Ashido kept pace — slower, but steady — her hands stuffed into her pockets, face unreadable. The sensor on her wrist still blinked blue. Her shoulders were relaxed.

As the gates rolled shut behind them, the courtyard in front of UA’s west wing came into view.

And all eyes turned to them.

Class 1-A.
Class 1-B.
Teachers. Support staff. Recovery Girl. Vlad King. Power Loader. Cementoss. Snipe.

And Aizawa, standing quietly at the front of it all.

For a few seconds, no one spoke.

Then—

“LET’S GOOOOOOO!” Kirishima’s shout exploded across the space. “MIDO-BRO! MINA! YOU MADE IT!”

Others followed — cheers, clapping, voices rising into a chaotic, celebratory chorus. Even Bakugou crossed his arms and nodded once, expression sharp and unreadable.

Izuku’s heart panged with relief, and he suddenly remembered how much his legs hurt.

Ashido gave a lazy little wave, then slumped forward with a groan. “I’m never running again. Ever.”

Momo and Iida met them first, both grinning. Iida immediately began to fuss over Ashido, while Momo handed Izuku a fresh bottle of water and murmured, “Well done. Truly.”

They were surrounded then — a slow-moving swell of classmates that pulled them back into the center of everything. They were no longer opponents. No longer players.

Just students again.

Aizawa stepped forward once the noise began to settle.

His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture softened.

“You all did better than expected,” he said. “Even the ones who didn’t make it to the end.”

A low chuckle rolled through the group.

“But especially you two.”

Ashido straightened, elbowing Iida gently off her arm. Izuku tried to match Aizawa’s gaze without shrinking under it.

“You lasted four days in a live-scenario elimination event,” Aizawa continued. “With constantly shifting conditions, limited rest, and the pressure of unpredictable threats. You outlasted thirty-eight other students.”

He glanced at the tablet in his hand and then lifted his voice.

“Your elimination counts are as follows. Pay attention— These are important for your own reflection.”

A pause. Then:

“Midoriya: seven eliminations — the highest overall.”

“Ashido: four eliminations, including one informant interception.”

“Tokage: four eliminations.”

“Bakugou: four eliminations.”

“Iida: three eliminations.”

“Ojiro: three eliminations.”

“Tsuburaba: two eliminations.”

“Kaminari: two eliminations.”

“Kinoko: two eliminations.”

“Sero: two eliminations.”

“Aoyama: one elimination.”

“Shoji, Jirou, Kendo, Honenuki, Komori, and Sato: one elimination each.”

A few murmurs rippled through the students.

“I won’t list every name,” Aizawa said, “but you’ll each receive a private report summarizing your performance. Elimination count is only one metric. Informant cooperation, restraint, planning, and situational awareness are equally important.”

Another pause.

“Make no mistake: this was a simulation. But what it revealed about your instincts, your judgment, and your character was very real.”

Ashido’s hand twitched at her side. Izuku curled his fingers into a soft fist.

Aizawa nodded once.

“Midoriya — winner.”

A ripple of applause.

“Ashido — runner-up.”

Louder now. Genuine, thunderous cheers.

“And the rest of you,” Aizawa said, voice rising just slightly, “take this to heart: surviving doesn’t always mean winning. But what you learn from a loss can carry you farther than a victory ever will.”

Silence again. Heavy. Meaningful.

Then Aizawa glanced at Present Mic and Vlad King.

“Get them cleaned up. Let them eat. No homework tonight.”

A roar of approval this time — full cheers, a few victory whoops.

As the crowd began to disperse, Ashido leaned toward Izuku, still smiling.

“Hey,” she said, “that was pretty fun. Terrifying, sure. But kinda cool, right?”

Izuku looked around — at the classmates dragging each other toward the dorms, at the teachers watching them quietly, at the empty knife still clipped to his belt.

And nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”