Walking home with a pro hero is... weirdly anticlimactic.

No dramatic music.

No life lessons delivered while the sun sets.

Just the sound of our footsteps and the occasional car passing by.

Also, Aizawa-sensei walks like a man who hasn't slept since the invention of electricity.

I sneak a glance at him.

Disheveled hair. Capture weapon wrapped around his shoulders. Those rectangular glasses that look like they've already lost at least three fights with gravity.

...Huh.

My brain, unfortunately, latches onto that immediately.

I try to ignore it.

I fail.

"So," I start, "can I ask something?"

"If it's not stupid."

"...That feels like a trap, but okay."

He grunts. That probably means continue.

I gesture vaguely toward him. "Why do you wear your hair down during patrol? Doesn't that give away when you're about to activate your quirk?"

He actually looks at me.

Not annoyed.

Just mildly surprised.

"My hair standing up is a side effect," he says. "By the time someone notices, I've already erased their quirk."

"Yeah, but that only works if they know what they're looking for," I reply. "Anyone who's studied you could use that as a timing tell. A tied-back style would reduce visual cueing and make activation less readable."

He blinks.

I keep going before my brain remembers to shut up.

"And the glasses—those are standard reinforced frames, right? But they're still breakable. If someone targets your face, you lose both vision correction and concealment at once. Wouldn't layered polymer lenses or a flexible frame reduce that risk?"

We walk three more steps.

Four.

Five.

The silence stretches.

I finally glance over.

He's staring at me now.

Not the tired, half-lidded stare.

The focused one.

"...They're a compromise," he says slowly. "I need something lightweight. Heavy gear interferes with mobility."

"That makes sense," I nod. "But if mobility's the concern, wouldn't distributing weight along the capture weapon instead of the face solve that? You already use it as your primary tool, so integrating support equipment there would streamline your loadout."

Another pause.

"...I've tried variations," he admits.

Oh.

Oh wow, he's actually engaging.

"That must've messed with your binding speed," I say immediately. "Different balance changes your swing arc."

"...Yes."

"And you reverted because consistency beats theoretical improvement under combat stress."

"...Yes."

I grin.

Okay, this is kind of awesome.

We keep walking, and now that the floodgates are open, my brain refuses to stop.

"Your goggles during heavy combat—those are for debris protection, right? But they also hide eye contact cues, which helps psychologically. Opponents can't tell when you're focusing."

He exhales through his nose.

"Correct."

"And your posture—"

"Midoriya."

"Yes?"

"...How old are you?"

I blink.

"15?"

He stops walking.

I stop too.

He turns toward me fully now, eyes narrowed—not suspicious, not angry.

Just... trying to figure something out.

"Your parents aren't heroes," he says.

"Nope."

"You've never trained at an agency."

"Nope."

"You're quirkless."

"Very."

Another long pause.

"...Then how," he asks, "do you know all this?"

Ah.

Right.

Normal people don't spend their childhood analyzing hero combat footage frame by frame for fun.

I scratch my cheek.

"Well," I say carefully, "some kids collect trading cards."

He waits.

"I collect data."

Silence.

Wind rustles through a nearby tree.

Aizawa looks at me like I just told him I casually read encyclopedias for breakfast.

"...You analyze heroes," he says.

"Yep."

"For fun."

"Yep."

"...Without intending to become support staff."

I hesitate.

"...I mean, the thought crossed my mind once or twice. Or a thousand times."

He studies me for another second.

Then starts walking again.

"...You're a strange kid."

I grin and hurry to catch up.

"Thanks. I get that a lot."

There's a beat.

"...You didn't answer the real question," he mutters.

I tilt my head. "Which one?"

"Why."

I look ahead at the road leading back toward my neighborhood.

Why do I do it?

Why spend hours studying heroes I can never be?

Why memorize strategies I might never use?

Why care so much?

I shove my hands into my pockets again.

"...Because someone has to understand how they work," I say lightly. "Otherwise how do you know they're doing it right?"

Aizawa doesn't respond to that.

But he doesn't dismiss it either.

We make it another half a block before I notice something has changed.

The atmosphere.

Specifically, the part where Aizawa-sensei has gone from tired escort to quietly interrogative underground detective.

I can practically hear the mental notebook opening.

"...Midoriya."

There it is.

"Yes?"

"You said you collect data."

"Uh-huh."

"How?"

Straight to the point. No fluff. No dramatic buildup. Just a question dropped like a weight.

I shrug. "Observation. Public records. Fight footage. Interviews. Hero analysis shows. Anything that isn't classified."

He glances at me sideways. "You catalogue all of that."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"...At home."

"Written?"

"Yes."

"Digitally?"

"Also yes."

He stops walking again.

I stop too, mostly because I don't want to accidentally keep going and look like I'm fleeing an investigation.

"You keep physical records," he says.

It's not a question.

"Yeah."

"...How many?"

I think about my room.

About the shelves.

The stacks.

The color-coded tabs.

The cross-referenced indexing system.

"...Define many."

His eyes narrow.

"...Midoriya."

"Thirteen notebooks," I admit.

There's a pause.

I add, "...and six auxiliary journals for updated revisions."

Another pause.

"...And some loose files."

Silence.

We resume walking, but slower now.

Processing speed: Aizawa Shouta is buffering.

"You analyze combat patterns," he says.

"Yes."

"Strengths. Weaknesses."

"Yes."

"Adaptability."

I nod. "Especially adaptability. That's usually where fights are decided."

"...You're 15."

"Still 15, yes."

"And you've never trained formally."

"Nope."

"Then where did you learn how to evaluate combat structure?"

I rub the back of my neck.

"Trial and error, mostly. At first I was just... copying what analysts said. Then I started noticing things they missed. So I checked. And rechecked. And adjusted."

"You built your own methodology."

"...When you say it like that it sounds way more impressive than it actually is."

Aizawa doesn't look impressed.

He looks concerned.

Which is... new.

He's quiet for a moment before asking the next question.

"...Do you train?"

I blink.

"Physically?"

"Yes."

"...Not at a gym or anything," I admit. "I do bodyweight stuff. Running. Grip strength. Balance drills."

"Why those specifically?"

"Because they don't require equipment," I answer automatically. "And they build baseline mobility. If you can't rely on a quirk, movement becomes your first survival tool."

That earns me another look.

One of those long, measuring ones.

"...How are you treated at school?" he asks.

Ah.

There it is.

The question people usually avoid.

I stare ahead at the sidewalk.

"It's Aldera," I say simply.

That's answer enough, honestly.

But he waits.

So I sigh.

"...I get bullied. Nothing dramatic. Just the usual 'quirkless equals useless' philosophy. Verbal stuff. Sometimes physical."

His expression doesn't change.

But the air gets sharper.

"And you still study heroes," he says.

It sounds like he's trying to understand the math behind it.

I shrug.

"Being bitter doesn't make analysis better."

"...That's not what I asked."

I glance at him.

Oh.

He meant why haven't I quit.

"...Because I want to be one," I say.

The words come out lighter than they feel.

He stops walking for the third time.

I stop too.

"You want to be a hero," he repeats.

"Yes."

"You are aware that hero work is physically dangerous even with a quirk."

"Yes."

"You are aware most agencies would reject that application immediately."

"Yes."

"You are aware UA has never accepted a quirkless student into the hero course."

I smile a little.

"Yes."

Silence stretches between us.

Cars pass.

Somewhere, someone's dog barks.

Aizawa studies me like he's trying to decide if I'm delusional.

"...And yet," he says.

I shrug again.

"And yet."

He exhales, long and tired.

Not dismissive.

Not mocking.

Just... thinking.

"You're either very stubborn," he mutters, "or very stupid."

I grin.

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

That almost—almost looks like it could've been the beginning of a smirk.

"...Do your notebooks include self-analysis?" he asks suddenly.

"Oh, absolutely."

"...You critique your own capabilities."

"If I didn't, the data would be biased."

He shakes his head once, like he's trying to reset something.

"...When we reach your home," he says, "you are not showing me thirteen notebooks."

I light up.

"So you want to see them digitally first?"

"No."

"Selective sections?"

"No."

"A summary?"

"No."

I pause.

"...You're curious though."

"...Yes," he admits flatly.

I grin wider.

That's a victory.

We turn onto my street, the familiar houses coming into view, and for the first time today everything feels almost normal again.

Almost.