U.A. Faculty Conference Room – One Hour After the Exam
The room was still, save for the rustle of papers and the soft click of Recovery Girl's pen against her clipboard. A large screen replayed footage of Takuma's zone, frozen on the final frame: the Zero Pointer lying crushed in a mangled heap of alloy and smoke. Takuma, collapsed beside it, unconscious and bleeding from the nose.
"I assume no one needs a reminder of the risk we took," Midnight said, arms folded tightly under her chest. "He could've snapped. Turned his anger on the other examinees."
"But he didn't," Aizawa said flatly. "He put himself between the Zero Pointer and the other students."
"He nearly died doing it," Recovery Girl added, adjusting her glasses. "Fractured vertebrae. Four cracked ribs. Microfractures in both arms. Nerve strain consistent with severe Quirk overuse. That limiter was the only thing that kept him from tearing himself apart."
"He still tore himself apart," Present Mic muttered. "Kid doesn't know how to hold back."
"He knows," Aizawa corrected. "He just doesn't know how to stop once he's already moving."
Nezu's ears twitched thoughtfully as he rewatched the moment Takuma reached out toward the Zero Pointer—no flash, no spectacle, just a slow grind of metal as the giant collapsed like a building imploding from within.
"His approach wasn't elegant," Nezu said at last, "but it was decisive. He saved a student, stayed within the bounds of the exercise, and demonstrated critical control of a destructive Quirk under stress. But what interests me most is why he acted."
"To protect them," Cementoss offered. "Instinct."
"But he doesn't trust people," Aizawa murmured. "Not yet. That moment? That was reflex colliding with something deeper. Guilt. Maybe redemption."
"I'm more concerned with how the students will react," Midnight said. "He's not like them. He's seen things they can't imagine."
"And yet," Recovery Girl said, "They'll see what he did. They'll see someone who stood alone and still chose to save others. That's a language they understand."
Nezu's tail flicked. "Minoru Mineta will be assigned to Class 1-B to accommodate Takuma. His capture-focused Quirk has utility, but his performance was… lacking."
A dry cough from Aizawa. "Lacking is generous."
"Takuma's place in Class 1-A would bring tension," Midnight said.
"And growth," Nezu replied. "He will push them. Challenge them. Maybe even teach them. The question remains…"
He looked around the room, then settled his gaze on Aizawa. "Will he accept the place we're offering him?"
Aizawa stood without a word.
U.A. Infirmary – Several Hours Later
The ceiling above Takuma was a blur of soft light and white panels. He blinked slowly, each movement heavy and disjointed. His limbs ached—dull, persistent fire burning through his arms and shoulders. His ribs throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Pain meant he was alive.
Good...maybe.
He turned his head. A glass of water sat on the nightstand beside the hospital bed. Electrodes trailed from his chest to a monitor that beeped softly in the background.
"Still breathing," he murmured to himself. "That's… something."
The memories returned like an avalanche.
The Zero Pointer. The trapped student. The weight of the machine's armor resisting his every command. The moment it yielded—not to strength, but to will.
And then darkness.
Why? Why did he do it? He hadn't known that student. Hadn't trusted anyone there. And yet he'd stepped forward, knowing it would cost him something.
"I didn't think," he whispered. "I just… moved."
His hands curled into fists beneath the blanket. They trembled. He wasn't sure if it was from exhaustion or fear.
Footsteps.
He turned to see Aizawa standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, scarf draped loosely over his shoulders.
"Nice move," The pro hero said quietly. "You made quite the impression."
Takuma said nothing.
"You knew it'd hurt. That you'd burn yourself out. And you did it anyway."
Still, no response.
"You could've walked away."
"I didn't want to."
Aizawa tilted his head. "Didn't want to save him, or didn't want to walk away?"
Silence.
Aizawa stepped closer, eyes half-lidded but focused. "You've been watching people a long time, Takuma. Analyzing them. Understanding them. But there's a difference between knowing what someone else might do… and deciding who you want to be."
Takuma's jaw tightened. "I don't know who I am yet."
"You will," Aizawa said. He placed a sealed folder on the edge of the bed. "Inside is your exam score. Your overall performance. The staff's evaluation. Everything."
Takuma stared at it. Aizawa stepped back toward the door. "We've made our decision."
He paused, hand on the handle. "But the final word?"
Click.
"That's yours, kid." The door closed behind him, leaving Takuma alone with the folder. It sat there.
Waiting.