It had been seven days since Aizawa started bringing me to Recovery Girl, and the frustration was getting to both of us. Every morning, he'd scoop me up—whether I wanted to go or not—and carry me to the infirmary. I had hoped, prayed, that each day would bring answers. Instead, it felt like we were stuck in an endless loop of prodding, scanning, and silence.

The first day was tense but hopeful.

"You're going to need to hold still, Midoriya," Recovery Girl said as she examined me for the third time that morning. Her hands were steady, but her eyes betrayed the strain of trying to make sense of my situation.

I sat on the cold metal table, my tail flicking with agitation. I didn't want to be here, but I also didn't want to spend the rest of my life as a cat. So, I stayed put. Barely.

By the end of the day, she had come to the same conclusion she'd reached before: "Nothing about this cat is human. No human DNA, no traces of a transformation quirk. Nothing."

Aizawa had rubbed his face tiredly at that, muttering something under his breath that I was sure wasn't polite.

The second day, she decided to try something new.

"Maybe there's a latent quirk at work here," she mused aloud, prepping me for another round of tests.

I meowed in frustration, pacing on the table. I wanted to tell her to stop wasting time, to look closer, to figure it out already!

"Midoriya, sit still," Aizawa grunted.

I glared at him, but I sat. For a few minutes.

By the third day, my patience was hanging by a thread. Aizawa wasn't faring much better.

"He's just a cat," Recovery Girl said again, exasperated as she looked over her findings.

"Don't say that," Aizawa snapped, his voice sharper than usual. "He's not 'just a cat.' He's one of my students."

I glanced between them, feeling a pang of guilt. This wasn't just hard on me—it was hard on him, too.

The fourth day, I tried to help.

When Recovery Girl stepped out for a moment, I pawed at the notebook she'd left behind, trying to make marks with her pen. If I could just write something, anything—
But my paws weren't made for pens, and all I managed was a messy scribble that looked more like a squashed spider than a letter.

When she returned, she frowned at the mess. "Did you let him play with my notes?"

Aizawa sighed. "No. He's... trying to tell us something."

"Trying," she repeated, unconvinced.

By the fifth day, Aizawa looked like he hadn't slept in a month.

"This isn't working," he muttered as Recovery Girl examined yet another blood sample.

"I'm doing everything I can," she replied, though her tone was weary. "But from a medical standpoint, there's nothing I can do. There's no trace of anything human left in him. If it weren't for his behavior, I'd swear he was always a cat."

That statement hit me like a punch to the gut. I slumped on the table, my ears drooping. Always a cat? Was that what my life had come to?

On the sixth day, I gave up trying to be helpful.

I spent the entire session curled up in the corner of the room, ignoring Recovery Girl's gentle attempts to coax me into cooperating. What was the point?

Aizawa had to carry me back to the dorms that night, his steps heavier than usual.

"Don't give up yet," he said quietly, as if trying to reassure both of us.

The seventh day was the worst.

Recovery Girl ran her final round of tests and then stood in front of us, her expression grim.

"I'm sorry, Aizawa," she said softly. "I've tried everything I can think of. Medically, there's nothing I can do. He's... just a cat."

The words felt like a death sentence.

Aizawa didn't say anything for a long time. He just stood there, staring at me with an unreadable expression. Finally, he reached out, petting the top of my head.

"He's not just a cat," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's Midoriya."

I leaned into his hand, my chest tight with a mix of gratitude and despair.

Recovery Girl reached out, scratching gently behind my ears. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."

I looked up at her, my eyes stinging. It wasn't her fault. She had done everything she could. But that didn't make it hurt any less.

As Aizawa carried me out of the office that evening, I buried my face in his scarf, trying to hide my tears. I didn't want to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

But as we walked through the empty halls, I felt his hand tighten slightly around me, and I knew he understood.