I thought the USJ incident was going to be the weirdest part of my week.

Turns out I was so wrong.

Because now I'm in a duffel bag.

With air holes.

And granola bars.

"I told them I'm taking a personal day," Mirko chirps as she zips the bag just enough to let my face peek out. "Didn't even lie. You're my emotional support bunny. They can't argue with mental health."

I squeak.

Loudly.

She throws me a grin that is way too smug for someone who just kidnapped a student under the noses of the entire faculty.

"They all know something's up anyway," she adds. "No one's saying it, but come on—Nezu has conspiracy charts. Eraserhead's probably halfway to solving it. And Recovery Girl's already furious that I'm not leaving you at school for 'observation.'"

She makes air quotes with one hand while the other clutches her keys.

"Yeah, no. I don't trust any of them not to run tests. You're staying with me."

Ma'am.

That is not—

I am not emotionally prepared for this level of commitment.

We're in her car now. The bag's on the passenger seat, securely belted in. She even has the audacity to play soft pop music like this is a romantic road trip and not a full-scale hostage situation.

I try to crawl out.

She gently bops my nose. "Uh-uh. Don't even think about it."

So I seethe in the bag. Dramatically. Loudly. Furry rage intensifying.

Eventually we arrive.

Her apartment building is fancy. Like, high-ceilinged, all-white-everything, expensive minimalist decor fancy. There's a doorman.

He sees me.

He smiles.

"Oh! New addition?" he asks.

Mirko waves casually. "Yup. Found him after the USJ incident. Didn't have the heart to leave him behind."

My pride dies a little more right there in that luxury hallway.

The elevator ride is agonizingly slow. I can feel the bassline of some bad elevator jazz vibrating through my fur. When the doors finally ding open, I'm greeted by—

Holy crap.

Her apartment is massive.

Open living space. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Hardwood floors. There's a whole-ass weightlifting rack in the corner, and a treadmill that looks like it cost more than my tuition. A full-sized punching bag hangs beside the fridge like that's just a thing people do.

There are shoes everywhere.

Weapons, too.

A bokken under the couch. Two sai in the kitchen. What looks suspiciously like a whip coiled on a bookshelf labeled "Comics & Chaos."

Oh, and pillows.

So many pillows.

I try not to be impressed. I really do.

But this is, like... the dream bachelor(ette) pad if the bachelor(ette) was part-time anime protagonist and full-time gym goddess.

She dumps me on the couch like I'm a potato and starts unpacking snacks.

"You like carrots?" she calls over her shoulder. "I got the good ones."

I glare.

She walks back in with an actual charcuterie board.

"I know you're still in there, by the way," she says casually, dropping onto the couch beside me. "Midoriya. Or whoever you are. You don't act like a normal rabbit. You scheme."

I shuffle my paws.

"Still not gonna talk, huh?"

I pointedly turn away from her and begin nibbling a cracker out of spite.

She laughs.

"Fine. Be that way. But I'm not letting you out of my sight. You pull another escape attempt, I'm investing in a leash."

I choke on the cracker.

"Don't give me that look," she smirks. "You're the one who flung yourself out of my arms like you had a villain arc planned."

I flop dramatically onto my side.

She covers me with a blanket.

...

Why is this blanket so soft.

No. No, I am NOT relaxing.

Do not fall for the fuzzy bait.

"This is temporary," she says after a moment. "Until we figure out how to turn you back. Or at least until I trust the nerds at UA not to dissect you."

Appreciated.

Still terrified.

Her voice softens. "I'm guessing whatever happened... wasn't on purpose."

I blink.

That's the first time someone's said it like that.

Not "what caused this" or "what triggered the Quirk" or "how the hell did you end up adorable." Just... wasn't on purpose.

It wasn't.

I didn't mean to.

I was trying to protect someone—Mineta, I think—and then three villains turned on me at once, and I remember something slamming into my ribs and then I woke up fluffy.

That's it.

That's all I know.

Mirko doesn't press. She just leans back and turns on the TV.

I stare at her, squished under my cloud blanket, feeling more confused than ever.

Why is she being nice?

Why is her couch so comfy?

And why, oh why, do I kind of... not hate this?

She looks over and catches me staring.

"Don't get attached," she says.

Too late.