Chapter Text
Shota Aizawa is not typically a man to make assumptions.
It’s not in his nature, and it’s certainly not in his professional practice. He’s been doing this too long—too many years in too many classrooms, with too many students who’ve shattered his early notions of predictability.
He learned quickly, painfully, that the surface never tells the whole story. The loudmouths with too much bravado who turned out to be the first to run in a crisis. The quiet ones—reserved, deferential—who became the strongest leaders.
There were the reckless, the impulsive—who, given time and hard lessons, learned the art of caution with a precision that rivaled strategy. The anxious, the overlooked, the stuttering and uncertain—they were often the ones who stepped forward when everything was burning down, who carried others when no one else could.
If there’s one lesson the job has carved deep into his bones, it’s that teenagers are not static. They’re volatile, shifting—caught in that agonizing, miraculous stage between who they’ve been and who they might become. A thousand versions of themselves flickering beneath the surface, changing from moment to moment, sometimes regressing before they leap forward.
Trying to define them too early, to pin them down, is not only a waste of time—it’s a betrayal of the very process they’re meant to go through.
So he doesn’t make assumptions. He doesn’t cling to first impressions, or put stock in easy narratives. He watches. He listens. He catalogues the small changes: posture, tone, hesitation, the moments when a student glances back at someone else before speaking. He adjusts. He intervenes when necessary and steps back when it’s better not to.
He trusts the long game.
And still—he’ll admit, if only to himself, in the quiet corners of his mind where honesty doesn’t accuse you of hypocrisy—that when he first saw the roster for Class 1-A and spotted that name… he wasn’t exactly thrilled.
Shouto Todoroki.
The youngest son of the Number Two Hero. Endeavor’s son.
Not because of any personal history with the man, but because of everything Endeavor represented. Power without compassion. Discipline without kindness. A towering, smoldering figure who built his legacy brick by brick on raw strength. Shota had watched from the sidelines for years as Endeavor clawed his way up the ranks, always with that same grim determination.
And somewhere in the periphery of that rise was a child. Silent. Pale. Marked by ice and fire. Endeavor’s youngest had always been a bit of an enigma. An oddity. A child the public glimpsed only in curated fragments. He was rarely seen without Endeavor looming over him, and when he was, it was never for long.
Shota had seen those old photos. The ones the media always carefully cropped. Shouto, small and expressionless, standing just behind his father’s broad frame, one side of his face hidden by a curtain of hair.
There were no interviews. No cheerful cameos at school festivals. No candid, smiling photographs tucked between the glossy pages of fan magazines, like so many other up-and-coming hero kids were granted. No charming childhood anecdotes for the public to cling to. When it came to Shouto Todoroki, there were only the bare bones of what could be considered fact—sterile, clinical, and carefully curated.
His quirk. That was the centerpiece. A rare dual manifestation—half-cold, half-hot. Ice and fire in perfect anatomical symmetry, split down the middle like a living metaphor. To some, it was a miracle of genetics, a once-in-a-generation gift. To others, it was something colder. A product of design. A calculated creation, born not from chance, but from purpose. From ambition. From obsession.
A person having more than one quirk was virtually unheard of—genetically improbable to the point of myth. Which made Shouto an anomaly. A scientific marvel. A child of two bloodlines known for strength and precision, fused into one body like a case study. The media latched onto that immediately. Not with warmth, or even curiosity, but with the detached fascination usually reserved for rare animals in captivity.
They speculated. They dissected. Without ever hearing him speak, without ever seeing him act, they labeled him prodigy, project, potential powerhouse. They referenced his lineage with clinical reverence, as though he were not a child at all but a pedigree. The culmination of years of calculated effort from the man who had chased All Might’s shadow his entire career.
And through it all, Shouto remained silent. Hidden behind carefully managed appearances, his expression perpetually unreadable. There was no warmth to him in those early glimpses. Just stillness. A strange, solemn kind of quiet that made it difficult to tell whether he was arrogant or just disinterested.
But Shota hadn’t needed much to know—intuitively, instinctively—that Todoroki Shouto would not be a fun student to have. That knowledge didn’t come from anything specific in the boy’s file. Not from the neatly typed summaries of academic excellence or combat aptitude. Not even from the glaring surname. It was something quieter than that. Heavier. Less precise.
It wasn’t enthusiasm that stirred in him when he read the name. Not curiosity, not intrigue, not even the sharper edge of professional wariness he reserved for potential problem cases. What he felt was something far older, far more familiar.
Fatigue. The quiet kind. The kind that settled in the chest before anything had actually gone wrong. The kind that whispered, Here we go again, before the problem had even properly introduced itself. A slow, sinking weight. Like standing at the bottom of a hill and seeing the storm clouds forming overhead, knowing you’ll have to climb anyway—rain, wind, and all.
So he had braced himself. Quietly. Unconsciously. The way you might square your shoulders before a long night’s patrol. Before a meeting you know won’t end well. Before the kind of conversation that always leaves something sore behind.
He hadn’t expected much. Not hope. Not inspiration. Just the shape of a familiar story. Another legacy kid, handed too much too early. Someone raised not by values, but by expectations. Shaped like a blade. Sharpened before they were ever asked what they wanted to be.
Shota had seen that pattern more times than he cared to count. Children born into fame, dragged onto the stage before they could walk, groomed for greatness like livestock for show. They came through his doors polished and brittle, armored in ego and suffocating under the weight of their last names. Arrogance in their stride. Entitlement in their tone. The belief that they’d already made it—that being a hero was a birthright, not a responsibility.
And he’d had to break them. Not with cruelty, but with precision. With silence. With long hours and hard truths and the kind of challenges that stripped away the polish and forced them to reckon with who they actually were beneath the branding.
Some of them cracked. Others rebuilt. A few… surprised him. But most of them were just exhausting.
And given who Todoroki’s father was—given what Endeavor was—Shota had expected the worst. How could he not? That man didn’t raise children; he cultivated assets. He didn’t mentor; he commanded. A walking furnace of pride and pressure, all too eager to mold the next generation in his image, whether they wanted it or not.
And the son? The so-called perfect heir ?
Shota didn’t have time for that kind of ego. He didn’t have the energy to spar with another kid who thought he was above the rules, who believed his name was enough to get him through the door and into the spotlight.
So no—he had not been looking forward to meeting Endeavor’s infamous youngest son.
But he didn’t judge. Not aloud. Not officially.
Not in any way that would leave a trace in the record or echo in the staff meetings where the new first years were reviewed with too much optimism and too little caution. He kept his face neutral, his tone flat, his thoughts tucked away behind that practiced stillness that had become second nature after so many years on the job. He had learned—sometimes the hard way—that students didn’t benefit from their teachers’ preconceived notions. Even when those notions turned out to be right.
So he read the file. Thoroughly. Line by line.
He committed the numbers to memory—top percentile in every academic subject, quirk control evaluations well beyond his age group, combat scores that would make third-years raise an eyebrow. He scanned the glowing recommendations, the neat summaries from instructors who had clearly written them with care, or with fear, or both. He noted the precision. The performance. The complete absence of anything human between the lines.
There were no personal anecdotes. No scribbled remarks about temperament or team dynamics or growth areas. Nothing that hinted at who the boy was beneath the statistics. Just results. Perfect, polished, unyielding results.
And that told him more than the numbers ever could.
Still—he said nothing. He didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t dismiss the file with a sigh. Didn’t voice the quiet thread of cynicism winding its way up his spine. Because that wasn’t how he worked. No matter how many times the story repeated itself, no matter how clearly the patterns aligned, Shota didn’t make judgments until he had proof . Until he had seen it with his own eyes. Until the student in question stood in front of him—not as a name, not as a legacy, but as a person.
So, like always, he waited. He waited to see who would walk through the door. Not the file. Not the son. Not the prodigy or the experiment or the media spectacle. But the boy himself.
But then he saw him. And everything was… off.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. There was no outburst, no awkward stumble, no glaring mistake that immediately marked him as different. If anything, Todoroki entered the room like a shadow—quiet, composed, attentive. There was no attitude in his stride, no hesitation in his movements. And yet, despite the unremarkable way he crossed the threshold, Shota felt something in him still. Something subtle and immediate.
Something in him panged with a type of wrongness. Not in the dangerous sense. Not in the way that set his hackles up. But in the quieter, more dissonant way that made you take a second look and wonder if what you were seeing matched what you were supposed to be seeing.
For one, he was small .
Well—no. Not exactly. Among his classmates, he looked decently average. Maybe a little thin, maybe a little pale, but nothing out of the ordinary for a kid that age. He wasn’t unusually short, didn’t carry himself like someone overly shy or frail. Just… standard. Unassuming. If he’d been the son of a local salaryman or a mid-tier pro hero, Shota probably wouldn’t have thought twice about his stature.
But that was the thing. He wasn’t the son of a local nobody. He was Endeavor’s son.
And compared to that hulking, fire-forged behemoth of a man—the walking furnace of raw aggression and suffocating dominance Todoroki Enji had spent years cultivating in the public eye—this kid looked… slight. Delicate, even. His limbs were too long and narrow, his shoulders not yet filled out. He didn’t radiate confidence or power or ambition. He didn’t radiate anything at all.
Where Endeavor was built like a battering ram, Todoroki stood like a placeholder. Not weak. Just… quiet. Undeclared.
It made Shota pause. Just for a moment.
He’d expected something else. Not flames, necessarily. Not a carbon copy. But something—presence, maybe. That oppressive weight that Endeavor carried with him everywhere, the kind that bent a room just by stepping into it. He thought, perhaps, that some of that might have rubbed off on the boy. A little arrogance. A little heat.
But Todoroki emitted nothing.
And then he listened. Or—tried to.
Because Todoroki barely spoke.
It wasn’t just that he was quiet. Plenty of students were quiet, especially in the first few weeks. Some were anxious. Some were reserved. Some just preferred to observe before jumping into the chaos of the group. Shota didn’t mind that—he often preferred it. He wasn’t the type to demand noise for the sake of performance. Silence could be honest, even productive.
But Todoroki’s silence wasn’t the ordinary kind. It didn’t feel like nervousness, or awkwardness, or shyness. It wasn’t the quiet of someone who didn’t know what to say. It was the quiet of someone who had already decided that speaking was a waste of energy. He was silent in a way that drew attention in its totality.
Shota had met Endeavor a handful of times over the years, and while they were far from close, there were things about the man you didn’t forget. His volume , for one. Not just his literal voice—which was loud, commanding, as though every sentence were meant for an audience—but his presence. His heat. The way he filled up a space like a wildfire, demanding that people bend around him or burn. Even when he wasn’t talking, he seemed to declare himself. You never wondered where he stood on something. You never had to guess what he wanted.
And this boy? This boy was the opposite. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t volunteer. He didn’t assert anything. He simply existed, quietly. Polite, yes. Respectful, technically. But cold. Flat. Mechanical. Like someone playing a role they weren’t invested in.
Since arriving on campus, Todoroki hadn’t offered a single unnecessary word. Not one. No commentary, no jokes, no idle curiosity. When addressed, he responded with clipped, automatic precision—always just enough to satisfy protocol, never enough to invite continuation. His voice was soft, nearly monotone, and his gaze didn’t meet people so much as pass over them. As if they were part of the scenery. As if they didn’t matter.
His other students, for the most part, had already begun the slow, chaotic work of forming their early social structures. Small groups were starting to take shape—some obvious, some unexpected. It always happened quickly with first years. Shared quirks, shared class, shared nerves. A joke here, a laugh there, a spark of camaraderie forged through the unspoken relief of we made it. Some of them would drift apart over time, others would solidify into something lasting, but this early clustering was always a good sign. It meant they were finding their footing.
But Todoroki didn’t cluster.
He stood off to the side like a misplaced statue, half-shadowed by the edge of the room, posture neutral but not relaxed. Eyes tracking, but not really seeing. His gaze flicked from person to person like someone analyzing a battlefield rather than a group of classmates. Not curious. Not cautious. Detached. Almost bored.
Internally, Shota frowned. Just slightly. It wasn’t the distance that bothered him—some kids needed time, and he respected that. But there was something about the quality of Todoroki’s silence, the way he positioned himself just enough outside the perimeter of the group that it wasn’t accidental. The way his face remained perfectly still, unreadable, as if any visible reaction would cost him something.
It was the eyes, too. That strange, glass-flat glint. Not disdainful, but distant. Like he was surrounded by creatures he didn’t quite understand. Like these other students—laughing, chatting, colliding into one another with youthful clumsiness—were alien to him. Not threatening.
Just irrelevant.
Shota watched, arms folded, saying nothing as the more extroverted kids—always the first to test new waters—drifted over toward him.
Ashido went first, all sunshine and swagger, bouncing up with a smile that could disarm a minefield. She greeted him like she already knew him, as if enthusiasm alone could bridge the gap. Behind her came Kirishima, whose sincerity preceded him like a spotlight. Open posture, easy grin, the kind of presence that invited warmth whether you wanted it or not. The two of them were good kids—approachable, resilient, unafraid of awkwardness. If anyone could get a shy classmate to relax, it would be them.
But Todoroki received them like a system error.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, didn’t snap or scowl. But the rejection was written plainly in his body. His shoulders tensed fractionally inward, a subconscious effort to turn away. His arms remained tight against his sides, hands clenched just enough to register in Shota’s trained eyes. His stance was firm, not aggressive, but deeply guarded.
And his response—when it finally came—was short. Blunt. A few syllables, flatly delivered in that same quiet, emotionless voice. It wasn’t cruelty, not really. There was no heat to it. No sharpness. But that only made it worse. It wasn’t anger. It was indifference.
Dismissal. A quiet, efficient refusal to engage.
Ashido blinked, still smiling but visibly puzzled, her usual effervescence dimming just a little. Kirishima gave a small, polite chuckle and scratched the back of his neck, throwing out a friendly “Cool, man, see ya around,” before subtly nudging her toward the next group. They drifted off with a strange stiffness in their movements—two kids who were used to being liked and suddenly weren’t sure if they’d done something wrong.
Todoroki didn’t watch them go. He simply turned slightly, repositioning himself half a step closer to the window, as if to reestablish the perimeter.
And Shota, still watching from his spot across the room, let out a slow, silent exhale through his nose.
It’s not the arrogance that bothers him. Arrogance is common. Expected, even. Especially at this level. Kids who’ve coasted on natural talent. Kids who’ve been praised their whole lives, handed trophies before they’ve earned them, told again and again how special they are. Arrogance is loud. It postures. It seeks approval, even when it pretends not to. Arrogance, for all its teeth and noise, wants something. And that means you can work with it.
You can challenge arrogance. Apply pressure. Let it fail in a controlled environment and watch it squirm, recalibrate. With time—and patience and pain—you can bend it into something useful. Something real .
But what Todoroki has? It’s something colder. Quieter. More dangerous.
Apathy. Not the performative kind some teenagers use as a mask, a way to shield themselves from embarrassment or failure. Not the slouching, eye-rolling indifference of someone who thinks everything is beneath them. No—this is deeper. More internal. A type of detachment that doesn’t look like rebellion—it’s far too genuine for that.
Like someone who’s already made up his mind that none of this matters. Like Todoroki isn’t here to learn, or grow, or strive. He’s just here because he has to be. Because this—U.A., hero training, the most prestigious hero course in the country—is not a dream. It’s a requirement . A roadblock to something he was always meant to have. Like it’s all just a list of tasks to complete, and once he checks the final box, he can be done with it all.
And that absence—it’s not harmless.
Because apathy? True, hollow-eyed apathy? That’s hard to reach. It doesn’t argue back. It doesn’t throw tantrums. It doesn’t give you anything to hold on to. It just drifts. And when a student drifts, unmoored from meaning, from desire, from purpose , they become dangerous—not just to themselves, but to the people around them.
Especially in a field like this.
Because being a hero isn’t about perfect scores or textbook quirk technique. It’s about presence . About clarity in chaos. It’s about making impossible choices under pressure and still choosing to care —again and again and again.
And someone like Todoroki—someone so capable, so precise, so frighteningly controlled —if there’s nothing beneath that? No passion, no conviction, no emotional center to ground him?
He’ll be the one others look to in a crisis. People will turn to him expecting strength. Expecting leadership. Expecting heart . And what will they find? Cold, brittle silence.
That’s what terrifies Shota more than any attitude problem ever could. Because that kind of emptiness? It can hold for a while. It can pass every test. But eventually, something will break. And when it does, someone else will be standing too close.
He keeps that thought in his mind—filed not with urgency, but with a careful, quiet tension—as he leads the students out to the training field for their first real test. A quirk assessment. Standard enough in structure, but not in tone. Not the way he runs it.
He keeps his expression impassive, clipboard in hand, scarf shifting faintly in the breeze. Around him, the students buzz with nervous energy, still unsure whether to treat this like a gym class or a battlefield. That’s exactly what he wants.
He delivers the rules with clipped precision. No friendly preamble. No welcome speech. Just instructions. And then—his usual threat.
Last place means expulsion.
The words fall like a hammer. He can see the shock ripple through the group—eyes widening, shoulders tightening, a few of them visibly faltering. It’s a lie, of course. Technically. He’s not in the business of destroying kids’ futures over one bad throw of a softball. But it’s an effective lie. And more importantly, a necessary one.
Because what he’s testing isn’t raw quirk strength. That would be easy. That’s what entrance exams are for. What this test reveals is something harder to teach—how they respond under pressure. Who adapts. Who panics. Who folds. Who rises. Who sees the challenge as a threat, and who sees it as an opportunity.
He watches them carefully—not just how they move, but how they think. The ones who size up the competition. The ones who make themselves small. The ones who glance at him too often, seeking reassurance. The ones who act like they’re alone on the field, even in a crowd.
And, privately, there are only two students he’s seriously considering cutting.
Midoriya . For obvious reasons.
The kid’s quirk is a ticking time bomb. A power he doesn’t seem capable of wielding without breaking himself in half. It’s reckless. Dangerous. If Midoriya can’t find a way to activate his quirk without catastrophic injury, then it doesn’t matter how strong it is. It’ll kill him. Or worse, it’ll get someone else hurt. Someone who trusts him in the middle of a crisis. Someone who assumes he knows his limits and tries to follow his lead. A hero who can’t control their own body is a liability, no matter how noble their intentions are.
And then there’s Todoroki .
Not for lack of skill. His quirk control is nearly flawless. His timing, his awareness, his execution—all impressive. He moves like someone who’s been trained since he could walk. Which, knowing Endeavor, is probably exactly the case.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Everything about him feels… manufactured. Todoroki is precise, powerful, and utterly detached. He’s not pushing himself to prove something. He’s not trying to connect, or inspire, or lead. He’s just executing. Performing. Checking off boxes. And when a hero operates like that—without emotional investment, without connection to the people around them—they become dangerous in a different way.
They don’t flinch when someone’s in danger, because danger is a problem to be solved, not a person to protect. They don’t ask for help when they need it, because needing help implies they’re not functioning at optimal capacity. They don’t trust . They operate alone. Because that’s how they were taught. Because that’s all they’ve ever known.
And a hero who isolates himself—who sees the people around him as obstacles, or worse, as irrelevant —will get people killed.
So no, Shota doesn’t expect Todoroki to come in last. Not with those scores. Not with that quirk. But privately—quietly—he kind of hopes he does.
As expected, Todoroki excels.
He moves through each segment of the assessment with a quiet, almost clinical grace, his actions precise and deliberate—as if following a set of internal instructions rather than reacting in the moment. There’s no hint of strain or hesitation in his movements; no sign that he’s pushing beyond his limits or wrestling with uncertainty. His control over his quirk is frighteningly good, almost unnervingly so.
His ice—when it blooms from his fingertips—is like a living thing, a natural extension of his body. Sharp and cold and swift, it carves through the air with an effortless elegance, freezing with a delicate yet unyielding touch. It’s the kind of mastery that looks practiced, honed by endless repetition, tempered by a will of iron.
If not for Bakugou’s sheer, relentless explosive determination—his wild, fierce, unyielding refusal to be overshadowed—it might have been a clean sweep. But Bakugou, for all his abrasive bravado and unpredictable temper, refuses to be pushed aside.
The two of them trade blows on the leaderboard, one inching ahead, the other clawing back with unrelenting ferocity. It’s a contest of hot and cold, chaos and control, raw force meeting calculated precision.
In the end, Todoroki still emerges on top, but Bakugou’s presence is a sharp reminder that strength isn’t just measured in flawless execution.
When the others, caught up in the excitement of the moment, reach out with smiles and words of congratulations, Todoroki’s response is muted to the point of invisibility. He shrugs them off with the same blank disinterest he’s worn like armor all day. He doesn’t even lift his head. Not to meet their eyes. Not to acknowledge their praise. Not to accept their approval.
Instead, he offers a nod—almost imperceptible, as if the gesture itself is an afterthought, a tick in a checklist—and then looks away. As though their admiration means nothing. As though he’s already decided he’s far beyond their reach.
He carries himself with a quiet certainty, the kind that doesn’t invite questions or challenges. The kind that declares, without words, that he has already chosen the path he will walk. That he has already defined the kind of hero he intends to be. And that no one else’s opinion—no matter how enthusiastic or sincere—has any bearing on that choice.
No, Shota wouldn’t be expelling anyone today.
Midoriya—despite everything—had managed to rein himself in just enough to pass. The boy still had a long way to go, both physically and mentally, but at least he hadn’t self-destructed during the assessment. That was a start. A fragile one, but a start nonetheless.
And Todoroki… well. The boy was too capable to cut loose.
His skill was undeniable. His quirk control flawless. His instincts sharp. Even if his cold demeanor set Shota’s teeth on edge and his detachment made him wary, the raw potential Todoroki carried was impossible to ignore. He wasn’t some reckless wildcard who needed to be weeded out early; he was a weapon in the making.
But there was work to be done.
If Todoroki was going to stay in his class—and there was no doubt in Shota’s mind that he would—then his attitude had to change. Not because Shota expected the boy to become the life of the party or to suddenly pour his heart out in group discussions. But because heroism wasn’t just about power or technique. It was about trust, about connection, about seeing and valuing the people beside you, especially when the world was falling apart.
If Todoroki couldn’t see the value in his peers, then Shota would take it upon himself to help him do so. That was part of his job as an educator. Not just to teach them how to fight. Not just to prepare them for exams or practicals or hero licensing tests. But to reach the kids no one else could. To show them that they still had a chance. A chance to become something better . To become heroes not just by power, but by heart.
He’d done it before. With other kids who didn’t want to listen. Other kids who pushed back or shut down, or fought back. Other kids who didn’t see the value in anything outside of themselves.
And he would do it again. Whether it took months or years. Whether Todoroki resisted or rebelled or retreated. He would get through to him.
Because Shota had a stubbornness bred from years of frustration. A stubbornness forged in the quiet battles that took place long after the classroom emptied and the training grounds fell silent. A stubbornness that refused to give up.
And he had a feeling that with Todoroki, that was exactly what it would take.
Stubbornness. Effort. Patience. And that same relentless refusal to quit.
Good thing Shota was always good at all three.
Shota Aizawa is also not typically a man to make comments on his students’ first hero costumes.
He’s seen far too many variations over the years—spikes and capes, clunky armor and overcompensating helmets, glowing visors and more impractical footwear than he cares to count. Most of the time, he keeps his thoughts to himself. Let them figure it out, that’s always been his policy. Teenagers don’t respond well to criticism at the best of times, and especially not when they’re still riding the high of stepping into their own dream for the first time. They need space to make mistakes. To learn, on their own, what works and what doesn’t.
A heavy gauntlet will wear down a shoulder before long. A cape will snag on a piece of debris mid-fight. Loud colors will attract unnecessary attention in a covert operation. These things correct themselves over time. Reality teaches. Pain teaches. He’s never needed to say much.
But Todoroki…
Todoroki challenges that philosophy in ways that make Shota grit his teeth behind his scarf.
The kid’s costume is… baffling. In both function and form. The left side of the suit is completely encased in ice, built up like some kind of exoskeleton. Dense, brittle, cold. He’s encased himself in it like armor, like a wall. His left side is left useless, unaccessed, and unusable. Not even the faintest hint of flame is permitted. And that headpiece… an elaborate, unnecessary contraption that curves over the left side of his face, almost theatrical in its severity. Shota doubts he can see much of anything through it.
It's not just a bad design. It's self-sabotage.
And it grates.
Most students choose costumes that enhance their strengths or complement their fighting style. Todoroki has chosen one that limits him. He’s handicapping himself on purpose. Making a point to everyone watching that half of him is off-limits.
And what’s worse—no one seems to be stopping him. The designers clearly honored his request. They filed the paperwork, made the adjustments, handed over the gear. No questions asked. Just another legacy student, allowed to call the shots before he’s even learned how to take a proper punch.
It had come to his attention during their first real training session. Shota watches him walk across the field in that ridiculous outfit—one eye half-covered, right side exposed and inert, ice crackling across the other like a prison—and his jaw tics behind the high collar of his capture weapon.
Todoroki performed well—exceptionally, even.
There was no denying the boy’s skill. He moved with a precision that rivaled seasoned pros: deliberate, calculating, efficient in every step. No wasted movement. No visible tells. Every decision he made had a purpose, every quirk activation timed down to the second. On paper, it was an ideal performance. The kind that would make a scout sit up straighter. The kind that should’ve impressed Shota.
But it didn’t. If anything, it left a sour taste in his mouth. Because something about it felt… off. Too precise. Too contained. Too controlled. Not once during the entire session did Todoroki use his fire. Not in offense. Not in defense. When the opportunity came to strike with flame, to retaliate or shield or overwhelm—he simply… didn’t. Not once did a flicker of heat rise from his left side.
It was glaring.
To a casual observer, it might have passed unnoticed. A stylistic choice, maybe. A preference for one side of his quirk. But Shota saw it for what it was: refusal . Deliberate and practiced. And it wasn’t the firepower—or lack thereof—that bothered Shota. It was the restraint .
There was a silence in it. A kind of stillness that didn’t feel natural. Like something had been hollowed out of the boy and filled with ice in its place. The absence of heat didn’t feel like a strategy. It felt like emptiness. And not just in battle. In how he stood. In how he moved. As if it was a part of himself he couldn’t—or wouldn’t —acknowledge, and every second of his performance was carefully constructed to avoid its emergence.
Then there was the way he acted toward his classmates. Not cruel. Not hostile. Just… detached. Dismissive.
He didn’t glare or mock or provoke. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even seem irritated. He simply wasn’t present in the way the others were. Like there was a pane of glass between him and everyone else in the room. His eyes never lingered on anyone for long. He answered questions with curt efficiency, never volunteering more than necessary. He kept a polite distance, both physically and emotionally, as if proximity alone might contaminate him with something he didn’t want.
It wasn’t arrogance in the traditional sense—no puffed-up chest or smug grin or self-aggrandizing speeches. But the effect was almost worse. He watched his classmates like they were strangers at a train station. People he had no interest in knowing. People he didn’t expect to stick around.
When Hagakure and Uraraka made a point of approaching him between drills—friendly, casual, nothing too pushy—Shota made sure to watch closely. Just in case. He always did, especially early on. Some students struggled with social integration. Some needed more time. But Todoroki shut the interaction down so smoothly it bordered on surgical.
He didn’t snap. He didn’t roll his eyes or walk away. He stood there, still and composed, and let them speak. Then he responded with a single, neutral comment. Something clipped. Something final. Something that left no room for follow-up. His expression didn’t shift, not even fractionally. His tone remained flat. Not unfriendly. Just… empty. Like the lights were on, but no one was coming to the door.
Hagakure offered an awkward laugh, then turned back to Uraraka, whose brows had drawn into a furrow. The two of them walked away together, a little quieter than they’d approached. And Todoroki? He didn’t even watch them leave. Just turned his head slightly, attention already elsewhere.
Shota exhaled slowly through his nose.
He’d seen this before. Too many times. Legacy kids. A few of them came in with inflated egos and swagger. Others, like Todoroki, arrived with something more insidious: the belief that they didn’t need anyone else. That their peers were obstacles, not allies. That teamwork was a crutch. That cooperation was optional.
And that kind of thinking didn’t just isolate them. It endangered everyone. In a classroom, it bred resentment. On the field, it bred risk. A student who can’t collaborate in a mock exercise might freeze in a real crisis. Might make decisions that prioritize efficiency over empathy. Might walk away from someone who needed help— or worse, might assume they didn’t need help at all.
Shota narrowed his eyes slightly behind his capture weapon, watching as Todoroki resumed his quiet vigil on the edge of the group, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the conversation happening around him.
Yes—he was becoming increasingly convinced of his initial assessment. The kid had an ego. Maybe not the loud kind. Not the kind that boasted or bragged or needed applause. But the kind that whispered just as loudly:
"I don’t need anyone."
And that was the kind of ego Shota had learned to watch very closely.
So, after class, Shota asked Todoroki to meet him in his office. He didn’t make a show of it—just a simple, quiet request as the students filtered out. No raised voice. No dramatic pause. Just a brief glance, a nod toward the hallway, and a softly spoken, “Stick around a minute, Todoroki.”
No one batted an eye. These little post-class conversations were routine in the early days. Sometimes it was praise. Sometimes it was feedback. Sometimes just clarification on a quirk observation. The other students didn’t even look back. Shota shut the door behind them with a soft click, then moved to his desk, posture casual, voice calm. He’d already decided on his approach.
Start with the harder subject—Todoroki’s attitude—while the events of the day were still fresh in both their minds. If he timed it right, he could pivot smoothly into discussing the hero costume. Ideally, that shift would soften the weight of the earlier criticism.
The first part of the conversation would sting—he didn’t expect it not to—but kids usually responded better when they were given something creative to channel that sting into. Especially in the early days, when their identities as heroes were still forming in their heads. A rework of a costume could feel like control, like agency, like a fresh start.
Most of them liked the chance to reimagine themselves. To play with the idea of who they wanted to be. He was counting on that.
But as Todoroki stood across from him, quiet and composed, hands resting respectfully at his sides, something in Shota’s gut tightened. The boy’s expression was unreadable. Not nervous. Not guarded. Just… blank. His gaze was direct but empty, lacking curiosity, lacking engagement. He didn’t shift on his feet. Didn’t glance around the office. Didn’t fidget or ask why he was there.
He simply stood there, silent and still, like he’d been summoned for a formality. Like he already expected to be spoken at, not with.
Shota watched him for a moment, then gestured toward the chair across from his desk.
“Have a seat.”
Todoroki obeyed without a word. No hesitation. No resistance. His movements were clean, quiet, mechanical. He sat with his back straight, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed somewhere slightly left of Shota’s own—not in disrespect, but in a way that made it hard to tell if he was actually seeing him. There was something closed-off about the boy. Something practiced. A learned stillness that went beyond emotional control and landed squarely in the territory of self-erasure.
He was no stranger to tough conversations with difficult kids. He knew how to challenge egos, how to apply pressure where it would teach and not damage. But this wasn’t shaping arrogance. This was something colder. Something deeper.
Still, he pressed forward, voice low and even.
“I wanted to talk about today. About your behavior in group settings. The way you interact—or rather, don’t—with your classmates.”
Todoroki didn’t blink. Didn’t tense. Just nodded, once, like he was taking in a weather report. Shota continued, watching carefully for any flicker of reaction.
“You’re strong. No one’s questioning that. But strength alone isn’t enough in this line of work. Heroes don’t operate in a vacuum. You’re going to need people. Teammates. Partners. Support.”
Still no response. No protest. No flicker of defensiveness or guilt. Just that flat, unnervingly blank gaze. Shota leaned forward a fraction, tone quiet but pointed.
“You’re shutting people out. And if you keep doing that, it’s going to get someone hurt.”
Silence. A long one. Not the defensive kind. Not the sulky kind. Just emptiness . Then, finally, Todoroki spoke.
“I understand.”
Two words. Simple. Polite. Unarguable. But they landed like a steel door slamming shut. Not because they were wrong. But because they weren’t engaged . Because they felt less like understanding and more like compliance. A formality. And that’s when Shota knew—this conversation wasn’t going to go the way he hoped.
“Look, kid,” Shota finally said, the weight of the conversation wearing at the edges of his voice. He sighed, not out of frustration, but resignation—the kind that comes from knowing a truth you can’t make someone else accept. “I’m trying to help you.”
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t lean forward to loom. Just sat still, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled, watching the boy across from him with that practiced, unreadable calm he reserved for delicate students and detonating situations.
“These students—your classmates—they’re not just background noise. They’re not temporary. They’ll be your allies in the field one day. Your backup. Your eyes when yours can’t see. The ones pulling you out when you’re pinned under rubble or bleeding out or worse.”
Todoroki’s eyes didn’t move. But his jaw tensed, almost imperceptibly.
“If you make it to the pro level,” Shota continued, “and I’m betting you will—you’ve got the control, the discipline, the raw power—you’re still going to need them. You won’t last long if you insist on doing everything alone. That’s not how this works.”
He let the words hang there, suspended in the stillness between them like a wire strung tight.
“Do you understand?”
It was a soft question. Not a challenge. Not a rebuke. Just an invitation— engage with me. Meet me here.
Todoroki nodded again. Slower, this time. His shoulders shifted, a slight hitch in the otherwise perfect posture. A hesitation, maybe. A crack. And in his eyes—just for a moment—there was something. Not anger. Not defiance. Shota knew those when he saw them. And not the blank detachment he’d been watching all day. No, this was different.
There was a flicker, like static behind glass. A shiver of something raw and unprotected surfacing before being shoved back down. It passed so fast it could have been imagined. But Shota had trained himself to notice details most people missed. He made a living off catching flickers before they turned into flames.
It wasn’t fear, not exactly. But it was close. Something fragile. Something too brittle to name.
The hairs on Shota’s arms rose, his instincts sharpening. He didn’t know what he’d touched—but it was there. Deep beneath the surface. Buried under all that ice and silence. And despite himself, he felt the faintest pull of grim satisfaction. Not because the boy looked shaken—Shota didn’t take pleasure in unsettling his students—but because something had been unsettled.
Maybe—just maybe—he’d gotten through. Maybe this was a first crack in the armor. Maybe the kid wasn’t unreachable after all.
It was when he brought up the kid’s costume that things really started to go downhill. Up until that point, the conversation had been uncomfortable, sure—but manageable. Todoroki had remained polite, if distant. Guarded, but not combative. He’d nodded in the right places, hadn’t raised his voice or rolled his eyes. Just sat there with his hands neatly folded in his lap, expression unreadable, posture rigid. The kind of quiet compliance that often passed for respect, but was more likely just a learned habit.
But the moment Shota pivoted toward the topic of the hero costume, something shifted. Todoroki didn’t scowl or lash out. He didn’t flinch. But the change was there—subtle and sudden, like the drop in air pressure before a storm. His shoulders went straighter. His eyes sharpened—not with interest, but with wariness. A wall slid into place behind them. Not obvious, not theatrical, just… present. Guarded.
Shota didn’t let it throw him. He’s yet to meet a fifteen-year-old who takes well to having their fashion sense criticized, especially when it’s tied to the first real public image of their would-be hero persona. Most of them have been dreaming about their costume since they were old enough to scribble in crayon. And even the ones who hadn’t—well, even they wanted to feel like someone when they stepped into it. Bigger. Sharper. Real.
So he softened his tone, let the weight of the earlier talk drain from his voice.
“I’m just worried about the practicality,” he said, keeping it light, almost offhand. “That’s all.”
Todoroki didn’t respond.
“I’ve got some concerns,” Shota continued, leaning back slightly in his chair, giving the illusion of ease. “Not about how it looks—though, honestly, the headgear’s a little much—but about how it’s functioning with your quirk.”
Still nothing from the boy.
“It should help you,” Shota said. “Not limit you.”
He waited, gave space for a reaction. Todoroki’s jaw shifted. Barely.
“Right now,” he pressed gently, “it’s keeping you from using half your potential. That kind of imbalance isn’t going to fly in the field.”
There it was again—that flicker of tension, like a muscle pulled taut. Shota could almost hear the quiet click of something locking into place behind Todoroki’s eyes.
“If you’re going to be a hero,” he said, carefully now, deliberately, “you need to be able to function at one hundred percent capacity.”
Still no reply. Not even a breath.
“That means being able to use both sides of your quirk. Your ice and your fire.”
The words hit the room like a dropped coin in an empty well. Small sound. Long echo. Todoroki’s eyes didn’t move, but Shota could see it—the instant drop in temperature, like a freezer door opening somewhere behind his gaze. His face didn’t change, not in any dramatic way. But something in it shut down. A veil. A freeze-frame. And suddenly, it felt like they weren’t just talking about combat optimization anymore.
He leaned forward again, slow and deliberate, watching the boy’s face with new precision. “You’ve got both for a reason,” he said, voice even. “And I’m not just talking genetics.”
Todoroki didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. That was the moment he lost him.
Shota didn’t know exactly where the line had been drawn—only that he had crossed it. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voice, no slammed fist, no flaring temper. Just a shift. A quiet, internal recoil that seemed to seal the boy off from the conversation entirely. One second, Todoroki had been still and guarded but present; the next, he was… elsewhere . Gone, in some way Shota couldn’t quite trace.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know why .
It should’ve been obvious. He hadn’t yelled, hadn’t mocked, hadn’t accused. He’d made a valid point—a practical one. Hell, it was practically textbook: a hero costume that actively limits the use of one’s own quirk isn’t a good costume . That’s not opinion. It’s logic. Survival 101. So why did it feel like he’d stepped on a landmine?
Todoroki’s posture didn’t change drastically, but the tension in his shoulders became something else entirely—more rigid, more tightly wound, like a wire pulled taut to the point of strain. His mouth was a flat line, jaw clenched hard behind the neutral mask of his face. Shota could see it now, clearer than ever: the walls were up. And not just up. Reinforced.
He tried to pivot, soften. Mentioned the headpiece—its weight, the way it likely obstructed vision on the left. Meant it to be a lighter point, almost a practical aside. Something easier to fix, something to shift the tone.
That’s when Todoroki moved. Not much. But his mouth opened. Fast. As if instinctively. As if the words were right there —a protest, a defense, a correction, maybe something angrier. But whatever it was, it didn’t make it out. No sound escaped.
He caught himself, lips pressing shut so quickly it was almost painful to watch. His brows twitched once, his whole face pinching around the impulse, and then locking it down like a vault. Shota watched the boy’s throat bob with a swallow that looked more like restraint than nerves.
He wanted to say something. That much was clear. Maybe he even needed to. But for some reason, he didn’t—or couldn’t. Whatever it was—fear, defiance, pride—he’d deemed it safer to say nothing at all. And that silence was louder than anything he could’ve spoken.
Shota studied him, something uneasy pooling low in his chest. Todoroki wasn’t just quiet now. He wasn’t just distant.
He looked trapped. His gaze had started to flick—barely, subtly—between the floor and the door, like he was mentally tracking the fastest way out of the room. Like the walls were closing in and he was already planning his retreat. And his eyes, those strangely heavy eyes, had taken on a kind of glint Shota recognized but rarely saw in students so early in the year.
It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t disrespect. It was something rawer. Wilder. It reminded him— uncomfortably —of a cornered stray.
He wraps up the meeting quickly after that, uneasy now in a way he hadn’t expected to be.
He wasn’t rattled easily—especially not by students. He’d had more than his share of difficult cases over the years, kids who lashed out, shut down, fell apart, or pushed back with every ounce of rebellion they had in them. He knew how to hold a boundary, how to guide without coddling, how to wait out a silence. But this felt… different. Like he’d misjudged the depth of something buried. Like he’d grazed a live wire he hadn’t seen coming.
Still, he made one last attempt. He repeated his concerns about the costume—softer this time, gentler, his tone modulated as if trying not to spook a skittish animal. He framed it not as a critique but as a collaboration: you’re already powerful—let’s make sure your tools match . He didn’t mention the fire again. He figured once was enough.
He encouraged him—lightly, but clearly—to try connecting with the other students. Not even friendship, not yet. Just teamwork . Awareness. A nod of acknowledgment in the hallway, maybe. A willingness to step beside someone instead of always ahead.
Todoroki didn’t react to any of it. Didn’t argue, didn’t nod in agreement. Just stood there—so straight it looked painful—and listened. Or at least pretended to. Then, after a beat of silence long enough to be called strained, he bowed.
Not deeply. Not fluidly. Just a stiff, mechanical tilt at the waist, the kind that felt like it had been drilled into him. He murmured a thank you—soft, flat, utterly devoid of emotion—and turned so sharply toward the door it felt more like an escape than an exit.
He didn’t slam the door. Didn’t stomp. Didn’t make a single sound that could be labeled disrespectful or impolite.
But he fled. That was the only word Shota could find for it. He fled the room like it was burning down behind him, shoulders tight, head down, footsteps rapid but almost eerily quiet for how fast he was moving. As if even the sound of his departure had been trained out of him.
And just like that, he was gone.
Shota sat back in his chair and exhaled slowly, a knot forming between his brows. He hadn’t expected to walk away from a fifteen-minute debrief with more questions than he started with. But that’s exactly where he was—watching the door swing gently closed, wondering how a boy so composed could carry that much tension under his skin.
Something was wrong. That much was clear. And whatever it was, it wasn’t just about a costume.
He couldn’t help but feel that he had somehow missed something important.
He’s pretty sure Todoroki is avoiding him. Scratch that—he’s certain of it.
At first, he tried to write it off. Shota wasn’t in the habit of assuming ill intent from every odd behavior, especially not from a fifteen-year-old still settling into one of the most intense environments a kid could be thrown into. He told himself it could be coincidence, bad timing, general teenage aloofness. But after the third day in a row where Todoroki managed to leave class precisely thirty seconds before Shota finished speaking, after the fifth time he turned a corner only to glimpse the back of Todoroki’s head disappearing into a stairwell, he stopped making excuses.
It wasn’t subtle. Not exactly. But it was deliberate. And the effort was almost impressive.
It wasn’t easy to avoid your homeroom teacher—not when said teacher practically lived in the building, had a notoriously low tolerance for bullshit, and possessed a personality tailor-made for catching patterns and sniffing out problem behavior. Shota had spent years perfecting his ability to notice the cracks: the falter in a step, the flicker in a gaze, the twitch of a shoulder when something hit too close to home. He saw things other people missed. He was supposed to be unavoidable .
Still, Todoroki was trying his damned best—and Shota had to begrudgingly admit, he was doing a decent job of it.
He didn’t act out in class. Didn’t skip. Didn’t give him anything concrete to call him out on. He was polite, quiet, and unnervingly consistent. If anything, he acted more attentive than before, answering when called on, nodding in all the right places. But he kept his distance, surgically clean. Wouldn’t linger after lessons, wouldn’t make eye contact unless directly addressed, wouldn’t so much as pass Shota in the hall if he could help it.
It was evasive in the most strategic sense of the word. Not avoidance born of rebellion or laziness, but something sharper. More calculated.
In the beginning, Todoroki had been consistent. Almost too consistent. Predictable, even. The kind of steady presence that made you think you had him figured out before the semester had even really started. One of the earliest to arrive in the classroom every morning, he never missed his window to slip in ahead of most of the others. Not quite as punctual as Iida, who treated punctuality with near-religious reverence—always exact, always precise, as if the very concept of being late was an unforgivable sin—but Todoroki was close behind, reliably prompt in his own quiet way.
He would enter the room almost silently, as if he were a shadow moving just at the edge of the light, and take his seat without a word or glance to spare. His movements were deliberate, practiced—never hurried, never careless. The chair would scrape softly against the floor, the faintest sound, yet noticeable in the morning stillness of the classroom. He settled in with a posture that was rigid but not uncomfortable, like a statue carved from ice—upright and composed, shoulders squared but never tense, hands folded neatly in his lap or resting quietly on the desk.
That changed after the meeting.
Ever since Shota had pulled him aside to talk about the costume—and, by extension, the quirk—something in Todoroki had shifted. The steady, dependable routine of those early days began to unravel in subtle but unmistakable ways. It started with small delays, arriving just a few minutes later than usual, a missed early seat near the front, a slight slackening in the sharpness of his posture. Then the tardiness crept forward like a slow tide, until now, weeks later, Todoroki barely made it in time for the morning chime, slipping into the classroom almost as the bell rang—but never after.
At first, Shota told himself it was nothing more than typical teenage behavior. The initial excitement of a new school year had faded, the adrenaline of starting something fresh had worn off, and the kid was simply sleeping in, pushing the limits of discipline like any adolescent testing boundaries. That would have been an easy explanation, and one Shota would have accepted from most students.
But that theory unraveled the moment he spotted Todoroki off the usual paths, away from the main building.
There he was, early in the morning, well before first period started—loitering around campus like a ghost who didn’t want to be seen but couldn’t bring himself to leave. Shota saw him lingering in the carefully tended gardens, where the dew still clung to the petals and the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and blooming flowers.
Sometimes Todoroki sat beneath the heavy shade of an old tree, arms crossed loosely over his knees, face tilted just enough to catch stray rays of light filtering through the leaves. Other mornings, he was perched along the edge of the training field, sitting on the worn grass or a low stone wall, his gaze distant and unfocused, eyes staring out past the horizon as if searching for something no one else could see.
He wasn’t sleeping in. He was just… waiting. Delaying. Avoiding.
And not subtly.
At this point, it had become a pattern so precise it was almost like clockwork. Todoroki had clearly taken the time to study Shota’s routines with an alarming degree of focus—almost as if he’d mapped out the exact moments and movements to evade any unwanted interaction. Shota caught on quickly, noticing how the boy slipped quietly into the classroom only once he was certain Shota was already stationed behind the podium, eyes trained elsewhere, unlikely to call on him or engage directly. It was a carefully choreographed entrance, low-profile and nearly invisible, as if the entire room were a stage and Todoroki was desperate to stay in the shadows.
And then, the moment the final bell rang, the transformation was complete. The kid was gone.
First out the door, practically bolting like he’d been holding back a storm all lesson long. Always with that same posture—shoulders hunched forward like a shell, head bowed low, eyes fixed on the floor as though trying to disappear entirely beneath the weight of the world. It wasn’t just a casual stride; it was a hurried retreat, a flight from something invisible but deeply felt. The way he moved suggested the classroom was hostile territory, and Shota himself, for whatever reason, had become a presence to be avoided at all costs.
There was something almost comical about it.
Shota couldn’t help but find it slightly amusing—watching the kid skitter out of the classroom like a small animal startled by a predator, every movement tight and controlled, as if he feared being caught or confronted. It was like watching a cat slip away when the room grew too loud, or a sparrow take wing at the hint of a shadow. The contrast between Todoroki’s calm, collected demeanor during lessons and this sudden, near-panicked exodus was stark; there was a type of humor to it.
For now, it didn’t matter.
Because on paper, this was a non-issue.
Todoroki was showing up on time—well, as close to it as he could manage without missing the bell entirely. His academic performance was flawless, a steady stream of top marks and assignments turned in early, evidence of his sharp intellect and disciplined study habits. His combat proficiency, while wildly imbalanced—favoring his ice side almost exclusively—was nonetheless top-tier, bordering on exceptional. He executed every exercise with a cold precision that was both impressive and unsettling, never once showing signs of strain or hesitation.
He hadn’t broken any rules. Hadn’t caused any disruptions, big or small. If anything, he was perfectly well-behaved. From an administrative standpoint, there was nothing to complain about. No incidents to report, no disciplinary measures to consider. The kind of student every teacher hoped for on paper—a model pupil who followed orders, stayed out of trouble, and excelled where it counted.
So really, if the kid didn’t like him? That was fine.
Shota wasn’t in this job to be liked. He’d made peace with that fact a long time ago. The role of homeroom teacher, mentor, disciplinarian—none of it came with the guarantee of friendship or admiration. If anything, his reputation for blunt honesty and relentless standards often put him at odds with students early on, only to be grudgingly respected later. And if Todoroki’s cold shoulder was the price of admission, so be it.
So yeah. If Todoroki wanted to dislike him, avoid him, keep him at arm’s length? Shota could live with that. Because at the end of the day, he was here for something bigger than friendship or approval.
Plus, if he were being completely honest with himself, he was starting to dislike the boy right back.
Not that he’d ever say it out loud. That would be unprofessional. Immature. And beneath his hard edges, Shota knew better than to let personal feelings cloud his judgment. But still—he wasn’t a saint, and Todoroki wasn’t exactly easy to like.
The kid was closed off. Aloof. Wrapped in an aura of detachment so thick it was practically a shield. There was a kind of arrogance there, too—the kind that only those who’ve grown up with power, privilege, or expectation could carry. It wasn’t the loud, brash arrogance of a Bakugou or a Kirishima, the kind that demanded attention and tried to dominate a room. No, Todoroki’s arrogance was quieter, colder—subtle, like a frost that creeps over everything without warning. It whispered, I am better. I don’t need you.
He never made an effort. Never reached out to his classmates, didn’t linger in the hallways, or share in casual conversations. He never joined in during group lunches or training cooldowns. Instead, he kept himself distant, always choosing the edge of the room, the shadow of a wall, or the farthest corner of the cafeteria where he could watch without being watched. His interactions, when they happened, were clipped and minimal, just enough to keep social obligations at bay.
And Shota could see the effects of that distance—how it rippled outwards, fracturing the delicate social fabric of the classroom.
It wasn’t as if Todoroki’s classmates were cruel or deliberately excluding him. Far from it. It was something far more human—fatigue. Exhaustion born from repeated, unreciprocated effort. There’s only so many times you can ask someone how they’re doing, only so many times you can offer a friendly smile or an open seat at lunch, only so many invitations extended to join in conversation before you stop expecting an answer. Before the silence becomes deafening. Before you learn to stop expecting anything at all.
And eventually, people give up. They move on.
Groups had started to form—tight, familiar clusters of classmates who found comfort in each other’s company—and Todoroki wasn’t part of any of them. Sero and Kaminari had linked up with Kirishima, their easy camaraderie filling the spaces between them with loud laughter and shared energy. Yaoyorozu moved gracefully between groups, always polite, always engaging—but never gravitating toward Todoroki, as if some invisible barrier kept them apart. Even Iida, the most polite and persistent of all, had begun to give the boy his space, recognizing that his own efforts were met with polite detachment, and perhaps sensing the futility in pressing further.
Shota couldn’t blame them. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, how draining it was to reach out and be met with a wall of silence. How the repeated attempts to connect could wear down even the most patient souls. It was easier—safer, even—to accept the distance, to respect the boy’s silence as a choice, and to let him be.
But it was a shame, nonetheless. Because the kid could’ve had friends. He could’ve had support. A network of people who might have caught him if he ever stumbled, who might have lightened the weight he carried, who might have offered a small flicker of warmth against the cold walls he built around himself.
All he had to do was take the damn advice. Be nice. Reach out just a little. Let someone in. But Todoroki didn’t. And with each refusal, the gulf only widened.
Still, while Shota didn’t really mind being disliked by Todoroki—it was, after all, an occupational hazard he’d long since accepted—it did confuse him. There was something almost puzzling in the stubborn silence that stretched between them, like a wall neither was willing to tear down. Here they were: a stalemate of unspoken tension, a teacher and a student locked in a quiet battle of wills, both too proud, too cautious, or maybe just too weary to reach across the invisible space separating them.
And for what? Because Shota had pointed out the flaws in a costume? Because he’d dared to suggest—gently, carefully, with more concern than judgment—that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t heroic to refuse half your power out of some misplaced sense of pride or control?
He could understand that having his costume criticized might have wounded Todoroki’s pride. After all, a hero’s costume is more than fabric and function—it’s an extension of identity, a symbol, a statement. To have it questioned was to have a part of oneself questioned. That kind of critique wasn’t easy to hear, especially from a teacher, someone whose approval felt like both a goal and a burden.
But to avoid Shota to this extent? To treat him like an enemy or a shadow to be dodged? That seemed disproportionate. More than that, it felt like something deeper was tangled up in Todoroki’s silence—stubbornness.
That was what Shota kept coming back to. A stubbornness that wasn’t merely teenage defiance or petulance but something honed and sharpened over years of living under the unrelenting gaze of a father whose will had been carved into every part of his life.
Just like his father. Endeavor’s fire wasn’t just a quirk; it was a legacy—a torch passed down with all its heat and pressure. And Todoroki carried it like a shield, wielding his silence and distance like weapons.
Shota knew that kind of stubbornness well. It was the same iron resolve that made some students impossible to break but also capable of incredible growth. It was a double-edged sword—both a barrier and a weapon.
So here they were, locked in this silent standoff, each waiting for the other to blink first.
Shota leaned back in his chair, the worn leather creaking softly beneath him, one hand running through his disheveled hair as his tired eyes settled on the towering stack of assignments still waiting to be graded on his cluttered desk. The faint smell of stale coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. He was halfway tempted to push everything aside, just for a moment, to let his mind wander into a petty little fantasy that had been nagging at the edges of his thoughts all morning.
What if I just swapped him out? The idea nudged at him, almost mischievous in its simplicity. He imagined passing the responsibility of Todoroki off to Sekijiro, the fiery-tempered teacher who’d probably leap at the chance to have the Number Two Hero’s son in his class. Fame-hungry bastard that he was, Sekijiro would relish the opportunity to add that name to his roster, no doubt reveling in the notoriety and whispered gossip it would bring. The thought sparked a quiet chuckle from Shota—dry, low, and full of reluctant amusement.
But then reality slid back in like a cold gust of wind. Too much paperwork. Too complicated. Too many factors to untangle. The logistics alone were a nightmare, and there was no real justification to shuffle students around just because one of them was difficult to reach. Besides, it wasn’t like Todoroki was a problem in the traditional sense. Just… challenging. A different kind of challenge.
He dismissed the fantasy with a shake of his head, but the idea lingered, sweet and fleeting, like a half-remembered song drifting just out of reach. As he sifted through essays and project reports, the notion of a classroom free of Todoroki’s frosty silence felt, if only for a moment, like a relief—a quiet space where the tension between them didn’t simmer beneath every interaction.
And then his fingers paused. There, near the middle of the pile, lay Todoroki’s latest assignment, neatly stacked and pristine. He picked it up with a quiet sigh, flipping through the pages with practiced efficiency. His eyes scanned the answers—precise, methodical, flawless. A perfect score. Again.
A familiar knot tightened in Shota’s chest. No matter the distance, the silence, the cold exterior—Todoroki was exceptional. Brilliant, disciplined, talented beyond question. The kind of student who didn’t just meet expectations, but shattered them with quiet, unyielding force. And that made it harder. Harder to be frustrated. Harder to be angry. Harder to stay distant.
Shota leaned forward again, the weight of the stack forgotten for a moment as his mind wrestled with the complicated person staring back at him in neat, black-and-white ink
Shota’s patience had finally, truly worn thin.
He wasn’t a man prone to high emotional investment or theatrical outbursts; quite the opposite, in fact. He prided himself on maintaining an even keel, a steady calm that rarely cracked, no matter the storm raging around him. His usual approach was measured and detached, built from years of navigating chaos and adolescent volatility with quiet endurance. But watching Todoroki Shouto drag his feet through yet another grueling training session—cold fog billowing silently from the right side of his body while the left remained stubbornly inert—was beginning to gnaw at him like a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch.
It was a subtle, creeping frustration at first. The kind that tightened the muscles in his jaw and made his eyes narrow just a fraction longer than usual. But day after day, week after week, exercise after exercise, the pattern remained unchanged. Todoroki’s quirk was an imbalanced weapon—ice in full force, while fire was locked away like a forgotten secret. It was as if the boy was deliberately choosing to wield only half of what was at his disposal, like a swordsman who refused to draw one of his blades in battle.
And frankly? Shota was tired of watching it happen.
The thing was, Shota understood stubbornness. He lived it every day. But this was different. This wasn’t quiet pride or controlled restraint—it was something heavier, a weight pressing down on the boy’s very soul.
And Shota was running out of patience. Not because he wanted to punish or shame Todoroki, but because he feared what this self-imposed limitation meant for the boy’s future. The hero path wasn’t kind to those who held back, who refused to wield their full strength. And Shota, with his years of experience, had seen too many promising students fall because of pride, fear, or stubborn denial.
U.A. wasn’t a place for half-measures. From the moment a student stepped onto those grounds, the expectation was clear: if you wanted to become a hero, you had to commit every fiber of your being to the cause. There was no room for hesitation, no allowance for holding back, no space to coast on legacy or talent alone. This was a proving ground—a crucible designed to forge strength from sweat, determination, and relentless effort.
If the kid wanted to be a hero, then he was going to have to act like it.
Bakugou was a whirlwind of explosive energy and raw, brutal force, never sparing a moment or an ounce of power in his training. His intensity was a force of nature—wild, fierce, and utterly relentless. Midoriya, too, poured himself into every challenge with unwavering dedication, often pushing beyond his limits, his grit shining through even when his body begged for rest.
Even the support students—those who weren’t on the frontline but whose roles were just as critical—showed up each day bone-tired and sleep-deprived, their faces marked with exhaustion but their spirits unyielding. They gave their full effort, because they understood what was at stake.
All of his other students were putting in a hundred percent. No excuses. No shortcuts. Todoroki wasn’t special. He wasn’t exempt. His name—Endeavor’s son, the prodigy with a rare dual quirk—didn’t grant him immunity from the demands that shaped every hero in this academy. Legacy might open doors, but it didn’t replace hard work. It didn’t shield you from failure or forge character on its own.
If Todoroki wanted to act like a student of his, then he was going to give everything—every damn thing he had—just like the rest of the class. Because here, at U.A., the world wasn’t going to cut anyone slack. He wasn’t asking for perfection, nor was he demanding fire and ice be used equally in every exercise. What he needed was commitment. The willingness to face discomfort, to wrestle with fear, to push past limits—not just in bursts, but consistently. That was what made a hero. And if Todoroki wasn’t ready to do that, then he wasn’t ready to stand among the others.
Shota had given him a chance.
For weeks, he’d watched and waited. He’d let the tension simmer beneath the surface, silently observing from the sidelines as Todoroki navigated the routines and rituals of U.A. He’d hoped—maybe naively—that the boy simply needed time. Time to adjust. Time to find his footing in a world that demanded everything but offered little in return. Time to learn that strength wasn’t just about power, but about trust, connection, and the courage to face oneself fully.
But the time had passed. The quiet tolerance Shota had afforded was gone now, replaced by a hard-edged resolve. He was done waiting.
So when the morning sun streamed through the school’s wide windows and the rest of Class 1-A buzzed with excitement, suiting up in their vibrant hero gear for Toshinori’s outdoor lesson, Shota moved with purpose. His footsteps echoed down the hallway as he caught Todoroki just outside the locker rooms, the boy’s posture stiff, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Shota’s own face was a mask—flat, controlled, voice colder than the ice curling under Todoroki’s fingertips.
“You won’t be joining them today.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Todoroki blinked up at him, startled. His eyes, usually so guarded, widened with uncertainty, caught completely off guard by the bluntness of the statement.
“Sensei?”
Shota didn’t waver. Didn’t soften.
“Change into your gym uniform. You and I are going to do some private training in Gym Gamma.”
There was a pause. A fragile moment suspended in the air between them, thick with unspoken words and heavy with expectation.
Shota’s eyes flicked to the subtle twitch at the corner of Todoroki’s jaw, a small, involuntary movement betraying the rigid mask the boy wore so carefully. Behind those mismatched eyes—one a fiery crimson, the other an icy blue—Shota caught a flicker of something elusive. Uncertainty, maybe. Or dread. Perhaps a tangled mixture of both.
But whatever it was, it vanished almost instantly, swallowed by a wall of practiced restraint. Without a word of protest, without hesitation, Todoroki gave a slow, deliberate nod. His voice, when it came, was quiet and muted, stripped of any emotion. “Yes, Sensei.”
He trailed after the rest of the class at a deliberate distance, looking small, every line of his posture rigid with tension. Shota didn’t watch him go—he turned and left for the gym, knowing Todoroki would follow. The boy was too proud not to. Todoroki may be pompous, but he wasn’t disobedient. Shota had no doubts the kid would do as instructed.
He fell into step behind the rest of the class, keeping a deliberate distance—an island apart. The space around him seemed to contract, folding inward with the tension etched into every line of his posture. Shoulders squared but tight, movements careful, controlled, as if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile calm. The boy looked small—smaller than his age, smaller than the prodigy he was supposed to be. Vulnerable in a way.
Shota didn’t watch him go. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed straight for the gym, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hallway. He knew Todoroki would follow—pride like that ran too deep to ignore a direct order. Todoroki might be cold, distant, even pompous, but he wasn’t disobedient. Not truly. There was a certainty in Shota’s mind, a quiet confidence that didn’t waver: the boy would do as he was told.
And he did.
Just as Shota expected, a few minutes later Todoroki appeared in the vast, cavernous space of Gym Gamma. The gym, usually bustling with energy and clatter, felt empty and cavernous today—echoing softly with the distant sounds of footsteps and muffled voices from the other parts of the school. The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh, sterile glow, highlighting every hard line and shadow in the room.
Todoroki was dressed down in the plain, utilitarian gym uniform, the fabric hanging on him loosely, almost like a punishment. The absence of his usual hero costume—so carefully designed, so heavily symbolic—seemed to strip away a layer of his usual armor, leaving him looking more vulnerable than Shota had ever seen.
His movements were stiff, uncertain, as if each step was a reluctant concession. He lingered just inside the doorway, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clenched tightly at his sides like he was trying to hold himself together. The boy looked out of place—like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights, frozen for a moment before deciding whether to flee or stand his ground.
Shota didn’t greet him. He didn’t soften his expression or offer any welcoming gesture. Instead, he gave a half-hearted flick of his fingers—an invitation, or maybe a command. If he were honest with himself, the motion was closer to dismissive than inviting, a subtle but clear reminder that Todoroki was here to work, not to be coddled.
“I told you once already that the way your costume limits your quirk is an issue,” Shota began, cutting straight to the point without bothering with pleasantries or softening his tone. His voice was firm, carrying the weight of hard-earned experience and unyielding expectation.
Todoroki’s gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing just a fraction. His lips pressed tightly into a thin, unreadable line, but he remained silent. Good. Maybe this time, finally, he was ready to listen.
Shota’s eyes didn’t waver. “Obviously, that conversation had no impact on you, because I haven’t seen you use your fire even once since the start of the semester.”
He spoke quickly, not pausing to give Todoroki a chance to interrupt, even though he caught the faint movement of his mouth opening, a silent protest barely on the verge of forming. No interruptions. Not today.
“If you want to be a student at U.A., you’re going to have to train every aspect of being a hero. Not just the parts you’re comfortable with. Not just what you feel like showing off. You don’t get to pick and choose.”
His voice dropped slightly, sharper now, carrying an edge that cut through the sterile gym air. “I don’t personally care how you feel about it. Whether you want to or not, you’re going to use your fire.”
He took a step closer, his shadow falling long over the boy’s tense form. “And since you clearly aren’t capable of doing it on your own, you’re stuck with me today.”
Shota’s gaze bore into Todoroki, unwavering and resolute. “You and I are not leaving this gym until you get some practice in—until you start using both halves of your quirk—or until the school day ends. Do you understand me?”
All at once, the fight seemed to drain completely from Todoroki’s eyes. The sharp spark of defiance, the restless energy that had simmered just beneath the surface moments before, faded away as if snuffed out by an unseen hand. His mouth, which had hung open—poised to interrupt, to argue, to push back—snapped shut abruptly, cutting off the words before they could escape.
For a long beat, he simply stood there, the tension in his frame coiling and uncoiling like a tightly wound spring, struggling to find release but ultimately staying restrained.
Finally, in a voice that was low and flat, carrying a hollow emptiness that echoed through the silent gym, Todoroki replied: “Yes, Sensei. I understand.”
His eyes were dull, clouded with something closer to indifference than any real emotion Shota could place. There was no flicker of passion or resistance, only a quiet, resigned acceptance that settled like a shadow over the boy’s features. Shota studied him carefully, reading the stillness not as submission, but as a guarded withdrawal. It wasn’t defeat, not exactly. More like a lack of care.
Still, for Shota, that was good enough. He didn’t need enthusiasm or gratitude, not yet. What mattered was that Todoroki had heard him. That, at least for now, the boy was willing to engage—even if only on the surface. And sometimes, that was where change had to start.
What followed was not the kind of battle of wills Shota had braced himself for.
There was no argument, no stubborn refusal, no sharp retorts or excuses. Todoroki didn’t complain about the session or attempt to evade the exercises laid out before him. Instead, he moved with a quiet compliance—almost eerie in its steadiness. He obeyed every instruction without hesitation or resistance, his movements deliberate and precise, as silent and unobtrusive as a ghost slipping through the gym.
On paper, that should have made things easier. But it didn’t. Because what was meant to be a focused technical refinement—an opportunity to hone the finer points of his dual quirk—quickly morphed into something far more revealing, and far more troubling.
The moment Todoroki summoned flame for the first time, Shota’s stomach clenched. The fire didn’t obey him like the ice did—smooth, controlled, an extension of his will. Instead, it burst forth in jagged, erratic bursts: sudden explosions of heat that flared unpredictably, lashing out with uneven intensity. Sometimes the flames roared too hot, scorching everything in their path with reckless abandon. Other times they sputtered weakly, barely enough to singe a leaf, as if the boy’s control was fading in and out with every breath.
Todoroki’s entire body was jittery, taut with tension, as if he was trying to lift a weight he hadn’t touched in years—an old, unfamiliar burden. His hands trembled slightly as he struggled to modulate the fire, every attempt feeling labored and uncertain.
His aim was a mess. Blazing jets of flame veered off course, scorching the training dummies haphazardly, setting one ablaze after another with reckless disregard. Within minutes, half the targets were burnt to blackened ash, while others remained untouched, frustratingly out of reach.
His timing was equally off—sometimes firing too early, before the stance was properly set; other times hesitating too long, missing the moment entirely. The rhythm was broken, fractured, as if the fire had a will of its own that refused to be tamed.
There was no finesse in his fire at all. No practiced rhythm, no smooth flow from one movement to the next—only raw, unwieldy energy that seemed barely contained, like a wild beast straining against an invisible leash. The steady, fluid control he wielded with his ice was completely absent. Instead, each flare of flame was a jerky, unpredictable burst, lacking the grace or precision of true mastery.
Watching him was like witnessing someone attempt to train with a limb they never even realized they had—tentative, awkward, and painfully unnatural. His motions were hesitant, as if unsure of how to even begin commanding the power within him.
Every time the flames erupted from his palm, Todoroki’s whole body flinched, twitching with a reflexive tension that betrayed a deep-seated fear. It was as though he expected the fire to lash back at him, to strike him down in retaliation for wielding it. The way his muscles tensed and recoiled made it clear that, despite all his talent, he hadn’t yet reconciled with the heat coursing through his veins.
Shota’s gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing with an intensity born of both frustration and concern. This wasn’t merely a problem of insufficient practice or lack of effort. No, this was something far deeper—a fundamental disconnect, a fracture between Todoroki and one half of his own power. He didn’t know how to use it. Not really.
And that realization sent an eerie chill through Shota’s spine. There was something almost unnatural about it—watching such immense potential stifled by invisible chains. The flames that should have roared to life in harmony with the boy’s will instead sputtered and snapped, betraying the silent battle raging within.
And it made no damn sense.
This was the son of the Number Two Pro Hero in all of Japan—the youngest descendant of Endeavor himself. A man whose very name was synonymous with fire and power, whose career had been forged in the blaze of relentless ambition and unyielding training. If the rumors whispered in the halls were to be believed, Endeavor had been preparing his heir since the boy was barely able to walk—pushing him, drilling him, molding him from the moment he could grasp the smallest flicker of flame.
So how, Shota wondered bitterly, how in the hell was Todoroki this inexperienced? How was it possible that a child raised in the shadow of the country’s fiercest hero could stand here, struggling to summon even a fraction of the control his bloodline should have guaranteed? It was like watching a master painter’s apprentice who had never picked up a brush. Like witnessing the heir to a great legacy who was still fumbling with the basics of his craft.
The disconnect gnawed at Shota’s mind, refusing to let go. Was it fear? Rebellion? Some secret wound buried deep beneath the surface? Or was it something else entirely—something darker and more complicated than he could yet understand?
He clenched his jaw, frustration and confusion warping into a knot of determination. Whatever the reason, this boy—this prodigy—was standing on the edge of a precipice, and it was Shota’s job to pull him back from the brink. Because if Todoroki couldn’t master both halves of his quirk, he wasn’t just limiting himself. He was risking everything. His future, his safety, and the lives of everyone who might one day count on him.
The training session had dragged on longer than either of them had anticipated, stretching thin the thread of patience that held the room together. It was an unpleasant experience for both of them—Shota with his mounting frustration and unspoken concern, and Todoroki with his silent, rigid endurance. The air between them was heavy, thick with unspoken words and bruised pride.
By the time Shota finally called it quits, letting the boy go earlier than he might have otherwise, it felt less like a victory and more like a reluctant retreat. The whole experience had left him with more questions than answers, a knot of unease tightening deep in his chest.
Todoroki didn’t waste a second. He nodded sharply at the dismissal—no hesitation, no relief, no gratitude. No request for feedback, no questions about what he could improve or how to fix the glaring gaps. Instead, he turned on his heel and moved quickly toward the exit, his steps brisk and sure, as if eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the gym.
But then, just as the door loomed ahead and his back was still turned to Shota, the boy paused. His voice, low and almost casual, broke the tense silence.
“You know,” Todoroki said, the words dropping with unexpected weight, “you remind me of my father.”
And then, without another glance, he walked out the door and disappeared from sight.
Shota stood frozen for a moment, the sudden comparison echoing in the stillness around him. For some reason, the statement didn’t sit right. It lingered in the air, bitter and foreboding.
He didn’t think that it was a good thing.