That night, I sat back down at my desk, the weight in my chest replaced with a quiet determination. I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and picked up my pen, the nib resting lightly against the page.

If Nezu was going to extend his hand to me, then I'd answer in a way that felt right.

Dear Principal Nezu,

Thank you so much for the letter and for believing in me enough to offer me a place in UA's hero course. Your faith in me means more than I can say.

But after giving it a lot of thought, I've realized that I can't accept this offer—not like this.

UA's hero course is the best of the best. Every student there has fought for their spot, proving their worth through the entrance exam. If I take a shortcut, I don't think I'll ever feel like I truly belong.

So, I have a request. Please let me take the entrance exam. Let me face the same trials as everyone else. I need to earn my place in the course—not just for you, but for myself.

Thank you again for this opportunity. I hope to prove to you that I'm worthy of it.

Sincerely,
Izuku Midoriya

I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into an envelope, sealing it with a sense of finality. As I placed it on the corner of my desk, I felt a strange mix of nerves and relief.

This was my choice, my first step toward becoming the hero I wanted to be.

No shortcuts. 

No doubts. 

Just me.

The letter sat in front of me on the desk, neatly folded and waiting for its envelope. My handwriting wasn't perfect—far from it—but I'd put everything I had into those words. As I stared at it, a thought crept in: I could've called. Or emailed. That would've been faster. Easier.

But Nezu had sent me a letter. A formal, handwritten letter. It felt wrong to reply in any other way, like I'd be breaking some sort of unspoken rule of etiquette. This wasn't a casual conversation. It was important—special.

Me: "If Nezu took the time to write to me, the least I can do is write back."

I placed the letter inside the envelope, carefully aligning the edges before folding the flap over. It felt... incomplete. Plain. Just an envelope and a piece of paper. Wasn't there supposed to be something more? Wax seal! That was it. People used wax seals for formal letters.

I pushed back from the desk, the chair creaking as I stood. Somewhere in the house, there was a wax sealing kit. Mom only brought it out for special occasions—New Year's cards, wedding invitations, things like that. This felt like it belonged in the same category.

I went to the hallway closet first, digging through the neatly labeled boxes Mom always kept organized. Birthday candles. Spare batteries. Winter scarves. Nothing labeled "fancy letter stuff."

Me: "Where would she even put it?"

I muttered under my breath, pacing back and forth before giving up and heading to the kitchen.

Me: "Mom?"

She looked up from where she was drying dishes, her eyebrows raised.

Inko: "What's wrong, sweetie?"

I scratched the back of my neck, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous.

Me: "Uh, do you know where the wax sealing kit is? The one we use for New Year's cards?"

She blinked, then tilted her head.

Inko: "The wax seal kit? Why do you need that?"

I hesitated, trying to explain without sounding like I'd lost my mind.

Me: "I'm writing back to Nezu. And... he sent me a letter, so I thought it'd be appropriate to send one back. You know, handwritten and everything. It just feels like the kind of thing that needs a wax seal."

Mom's lips curved into a warm smile, and I could see the glint of pride in her eyes.

Inko: "That's so thoughtful of you, Izuku. Give me a second."

She wiped her hands on a towel and walked to one of the kitchen drawers. Pulling it open, she rummaged around for a moment before producing a small wooden box.

Inko: "Here it is. I haven't used it since last New Year's, so it might be a little dusty."

She handed me the box, and I hurried back to my desk with a quick "Thanks, Mom!"

I set the box down and opened it, revealing the wax sticks, the metal stamp, and the small candle. It was all so... fancy. The kind of thing I never thought I'd be using.

Me: "Okay, how does this even work?"

The instructions were tucked inside, but they might as well have been written in another language. I stared at the diagrams, trying to figure out how to melt the wax without setting the house on fire.

Mom must've heard me fumbling because she appeared in the doorway, a knowing look on her face.

Inko: "Need help?"

I nodded sheepishly, stepping aside as she came over.

Inko: "First, you light the candle. Then you hold the wax stick over the flame and let it drip onto the envelope. Once there's enough wax, you press the stamp into it while it's still warm."

She demonstrated each step slowly, and I watched intently, committing every detail to memory. When the wax pooled onto the envelope, she handed me the stamp.

Inko: "Here, you do the honors."

I took it carefully, aligning it with the center of the wax before pressing down. When I lifted it, the seal was perfect—a simple design, but elegant.

Me: "That... looks amazing."

Mom smiled, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Inko: "It's perfect for a special letter like this."

I held the envelope in my hands, the weight of it suddenly feeling much more significant. This wasn't just a letter—it was my answer to Nezu, my way of saying, "I'm ready to prove myself."

Me: "Thanks, Mom. I couldn't have done it without you."

She laughed softly, brushing a stray piece of hair from my face.

Inko: "That's what I'm here for, sweetie. Now go send it before you change your mind."

I nodded, tucking the envelope under my arm as I headed out the door.