Her fingers tapped idly against her knee, eyes scanning the screens as the battlefield unfolded.
Some students stood out immediately.
Bakugo Katsuki—wild, ruthless, but undeniably efficient. His explosions carved through the robots like paper, and his kill count climbed by the second. He fought like someone who had never once doubted his own strength.
"Damn," her other half snickered, watching Bakugo barrel through a group of students without a second thought. "Are we sure he's not the villain here? 'Cause that guy's got issues."
She huffed lightly. For once, they weren't wrong. The way Bakugo fought—unapologetic, aggressive, like he was tearing through enemies, not obstacles—if someone had told her he was a villain-in-the-making, she might've believed it.
Iida Tenya—precise, disciplined, but predictable. He moved with the efficiency of someone who had trained for this moment his entire life. Fast, but too rigid. He lacked the instinct of a true fighter.
Then there were those who barely scraped by, scrambling for points, faltering under pressure. The difference between the strong and the weak became more obvious with every passing second.
She glanced at the clock. Only a few minutes left. And then—her gaze flickered back to him.
Midoriya Izuku.
Still at zero.
Her jaw tensed. "What the hell is he doing?"
He wasn't weak. He had that look in his eyes—the same desperate determination she had seen in warriors who refused to die. So why the hell hadn't he fought back?
"Pathetic," her other half scoffed, but even she sounded vaguely curious. "Maybe he's just not as strong as you thought."
Her knee bounced. A bad habit. But she couldn't help it. Something about his inaction bothered her.
Then—the battlefield trembled.
Her head snapped up just as the massive Zero-Pointer was unleashed.
Metal groaned, dust kicked up, and students ran for their lives.
Her gaze locked onto Midoriya just as he moved.
Not to escape.
To save someone.
A girl—trapped, helpless, seconds from being crushed. The kind of person most would abandon for their own survival.
Her breath hitched.
She knew this scenario.
A disaster unfolding. A choice between self-preservation or throwing yourself into the fire. Hers had been different—but still the same.
And then—He jumped.
Her heart lurched and the air cracked with tension and suprised. The force of his punch shattered the air itself, and in the next instant—The giant robot exploded into scrap metal.
Her breath caught in her throat.
No hesitation. No regard for his own safety. Just raw, overwhelming power. She didn't realize she had leaned forward in her seat, nails digging into her palm.
"Well, damn," her other half murmured, for once sounding impressed. "Didn't think the kid had it in him."
Midoriya crashed back down. His body broke instantly. Her stomach twisted. He'd destroyed that thing in one hit—but at what cost?
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as the girl—Ochako, wasn't it?—rushed forward. She touched him, reversing his fall, keeping him from splattering across the concrete.
Only then did she let out a breath.
The tension in her shoulders eased—just slightly.
"Funny," her other half mused. "You were ready to see him fail, but now you're relieved?"
She scowled, looking away. It wasn't the same.
She wasn't like him.
Midoriya had charged in to save someone because he wanted to be a Hero. She had done it before because she had no other choice.
She wasn't like him.
She wasn't.
And yet—she still couldn't take her eyes off the screen.
Aizawa had been watching the exam—but now, he was watching her.
His sharp gaze flickered to the girl at his side, the one surrounded by suspicion and unease. She sat stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, as if shielding her body from the weight of the judgment in the room. Bandages covered her arms, but he knew they weren't just for show. She wasn't some reckless fool who got into fights for fun. She was someone who had bled too many times just to feel something.
She had been quiet for most of the test, barely reacting beyond the occasional sharp remark to herself. Detached. Observing. A product of her upbringing—trained to expect nothing but hostility.
But then Midoriya moved.
Aizawa barely caught it, but it was there—the brief, unconscious pull toward the screen, as if something inside her had been stirred awake.
And in that instant—he saw it.
The flicker of light in her eyes.
It was the kind of look he had seen before. Not in criminals. Not in villains.
In students.
In people who wanted—desperately to believe in something.
She was leaning forward, fists tight in her lap, lips slightly parted like the breath had been stolen from her lungs. For the first time since she stepped into this room, she looked like a kid.
Her grip on her own wrist tightened, nails pressing into skin. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. She didn't even realize how much she was reacting.
Aizawa exhaled slowly.
There it was.
The reason why Nezu had insisted on this ridiculous gamble.
The reason why, despite everything—Aizawa still hadn't given up on her.
In the eyes of kids who had been told their whole lives that they were nothing—until they found proof that maybe, just maybe, they could be something more.
She didn't even realize it. She wouldn't realize it herself, not yet. Not for a long time.
But whether she liked it or not, there was something left in her worth saving.
The observation room emptied slowly. Teachers exchanged comments, discussing student performance, debating scores.
Aizawa leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He glanced at her.
"You saw something you liked?" he asked.
She scoffed, looking away. "Reckless."
"So are you."
She didn't respond.
Aizawa exhaled. His gut told him she wasn't ready—but he also knew what he had seen. That flicker. That hesitation.
"Principal Nezu's going to push for your next step." He stood up. "If you want a place here, you'd better decide soon."
She didn't answer immediately.
But she didn't argue either.
The room had emptied, leaving only the low hum of the monitors and the faint echoes of voices from the hallway. She didn't move.
Aizawa stood beside her chair, arms crossed, waiting.
Waiting for an answer she wasn't sure she could give.
Her mind replayed the scene—Midoriya, throwing himself into danger, shattering the air itself with that reckless, desperate punch.
He had saved someone. He had nearly destroyed himself doing it.
And for what? Because it was the "right" thing to do?
Her other half let out a dry chuckle in her mind. "What a hero. He's an idiot, but at least he's an entertaining one."
She swallowed, hands tightening into fists again.
She had saved people before, too. Not because she wanted to. Not because she believed in heroism. Because she had no other choice. Because the alternative was worse.
She had spent years running on survival instinct—fighting, resisting, retaliating. There was no room for hesitation when every moment could be life or death.
Yet, when she had seen Midoriya move without hesitation—not for survival, but for someone else— It had made something ache. And that terrified her.
Aizawa sighed, shifting his weight slightly. Still waiting.
She knew he wasn't the patient type. She should say something.... Anything...
But the words lodged in her throat, heavy with uncertainty. What if she said the wrong thing? What if she admitted too much?
What if she made a mistake?
Her other half scoffed again. "What, afraid to disappoint them? Please. They already expect the worst from you."
Her nails pressed deeper into her palms.
Was that true?
Or was she the one expecting the worst from herself?
She took a breath, finally daring to meet Aizawa's gaze. He wasn't looking at her like the others had.
Not like a villain.
Not like a monster.
Not like a mistake.
Just… waiting.
She hesitated—then forced herself to speak.
"…Don't know."
It was the safest answer. The only one she could give without lying.
Aizawa studied her for a long moment. Then, he gave a slow nod.
"Honest answer. That's a start."
Her shoulders loosened slightly—though she wasn't sure if it was relief or something else.
Aizawa stretched, rolling his shoulders. "You'll have time to figure it out. But not too much." He turned, walking toward the door. "Come on. Principal Nezu's going to want a report."
She exhaled slowly. Her other half hummed. "Guess we're not running from this one, huh?"
No, not with a guy who has an "Erased" Quirk. For now, at least, she would have to face whatever came next.
And that was terrifying.
The office was quiet, save for the faint scratching of a pen against paper.
Principal Nezu skimmed through the stack of score sheets Aizawa had handed him, eyes gleaming with unreadable amusement. "A very strict evaluation, as expected."
Aizawa leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "They're going to be heroes. If they can't handle harsh judgment, they won't survive the profession."
Nezu chuckled. "Ever the realist, Eraserhead."
Across the table, she sat—silent, tense, gripping the teacup in both hands to keep it from trembling.
She hadn't wanted tea. But Nezu, ever the unpredictable creature, had insisted.
"You should try new things! You might like them!"
She didn't argue. She rarely did anymore. But now, as the warm cup pressed against her fingertips, she realized she wasn't shaking from the tea's heat.
She was nervous.
Aizawa's score sheet mattered. His judgment, Nezu's decision, all of it would determine her fate.
And then there was the plate.
Small, delicate. Lined with cookies. Chocolate chip.
And a handful of candies, their colorful wrappers glistening under the light.
Her stomach twisted—not in hunger, but in uncertainty.
She had never eaten anything like this before. Food had always been an obligation, not an experience.
White water. Bland meals.Sneaky stolen scraps that never had flavor, just enough to keep going.
Not this.
Not something that looked warm, tasted sweet.
Her fingers twitched against the ceramic. She lifted the cup carefully, taking a sip. The slight bitterness of tea met her tongue—but it was gentle, soothing.
Her other half hummed. "Enjoying yourself?"
She ignored the voice, pretending not to notice the way her grip tightened when she reached for a cookie.
She didn't react when she bit into it. Didn't let her expression change.
But for the first time in a long time, something didn't taste like survival.
Something tasted… good?
She swallowed, setting the cookie down before she could betray any more weakness. Aizawa glanced at her but said nothing.
Nezu, however, watched. Smiling.
"I hope it suits your taste," he said cheerfully. She didn't answer, only tightening her hold on the cup. Because she wasn't sure how to explain what she felt, Shion set the teacup down with a soft clink, exhaling slowly through her nose.
She wasn't sure if it was the weight of the evaluation, the quiet tension in the room, or the unfamiliar warmth still lingering on her tongue, but something inside her itched. Finally, she broke the silence. "Why did you bring me here?"
Nezu's ears twitched, his expression unreadable. "Whatever do you mean?"
Shion's fingers curled against her knee. "All of this." Her voice was quiet but firm. "The test. The tea. The cookies. The evaluation. What's the point?"
Her other self clicked her tongue in amusement.
"Ah, finally questioning their little game, huh? Took you long enough."
She ignored Shizoku's voice, eyes locked on Nezu. She expected him to dance around the answer. To say something cryptic, something frustratingly evasive.
But Nezu just smiled. "Admission paperwork."
Shion blinked a giant question mark appeared on her head. "...A what what?"
Nezu gestured lightly to the stack of documents beside him. "Oh, you know. Official procedures, documents, signatures, red tape… The usual. You're still an exception to the rules, but even exceptions need paperwork."
She stared at him, struggling to process the sheer normalcy of that statement.
Paperwork?
After everything?
After being chained underground, interrogated, judged, observed—after fighting All Might himself? After standing on the edge of being seen as a villain or something salvageable?
It came down to… paperwork?
Shizoku burst into laughter. "Oh, this is rich. Imagine going through all that chaos and trauma, only to be handed a stack of forms and a damn pen." Shion's fingers twitched. Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temple.
"Don't look so surprised. If Nezu wants you in this school, he's going to make it official."
Nezu nodded cheerfully. "Of course! Every student deserves a proper record, don't you think?" Shion didn't answer. Because for the first time in a long time, she didn't know what to say.