Okay, here's the thing no one tells you about being a cat: it's a nightmare.

You'd think with my brain—quirk analysis, top student, future Symbol of Peace—I'd adapt quickly, right? Nope. The universe, it turns out, has a cruel sense of humor. There's a difference between being smart and being able to cross a street without becoming roadkill.

Currently, I'm stuck on a corner, staring at a busy intersection. Cars whiz by, lights change too fast, and my fluffy paws freeze on the pavement. I could dodge a punch from Kacchan with my eyes closed, but this? This feels like level-one training I never asked for. How do stray cats survive this chaos?

A delivery scooter zooms past, sending a gust of air through my fur, and I yowl in panic. My tail puffs up to three times its normal size. Okay, that was way closer than it looked.

New strategy: follow someone across the street. Smart, simple, foolproof.

I spot an old lady waiting for the crosswalk light to change and slink over to stand by her ankles. She glances down at me and gives me a warm smile. For a second, I let myself relax.

Then the light changes, and I move to follow her—only to freeze as I hear the most terrifying sound known to man and beast alike:

"Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!"

No. Not now. Not today.

Before I can make a run for it, a kid—probably five years old—locks eyes with me. He's clutching an ice cream cone in one hand and reaching toward me with the other, face lit up like he's found treasure.

"Oh no you don't." I hiss, my ears flattening. But of course, it just sounds like a feral little squeak.

The kid squeals with joy. "Mom! Look, it's a kitty!"

I sprint, dodging his sticky little hands, and make a break for it down the street. Behind me, I hear the patter of tiny shoes chasing after me, the kid yelling, "Wait, kitty!"

This is it. This is my life now. Running from children. At this rate, I'll get to UA just in time for graduation.

After a series of mad dashes through alleyways, I manage to lose the kid somewhere behind a convenience store. I huddle in the shadows, catching my breath and glaring at my twitching tail.

I swear it has a mind of its own. It flicks every time I try to sit still, drawing unnecessary attention. I'd like to have a word with whoever designed this feature.

Alright, back to business. Focus, Izuku. One paw in front of the other.

With no better option, I continue through the maze of streets and alleys, relying purely on instinct and dumb luck to guide me. And let me tell you: dumb luck has never been my strongest suit.

Obstacle Two: Birds and Bullies

I'm halfway down a quiet alley when I spot my next challenge. Perched on a nearby dumpster are two pigeons, lazily pecking at some leftover fries.

Now, I don't care about pigeons. Really, I don't. But here's the thing—my new cat instincts? They hate pigeons.

The urge to pounce is overwhelming. It's like every fiber of my tiny, fluffy body is screaming: "Attack! Chase! DESTROY!"

"Don't do it, Midoriya. You're better than this," I mutter under my breath. Except it's just a soft little meow, which somehow makes things worse.

One of the pigeons looks at me, head tilting, taunting me with its stupid beady eyes. The other flaps its wings, sending a fluttery gust in my direction. That's it. That's the final straw.

I leap.

The pigeons explode into the air with loud flaps of panic, fries scattering everywhere. I skid across the pavement, completely missing my target, and slam into a garbage bin with a loud clang. My tail flicks in frustration as the pigeons flap away, victorious.

I sit there for a second, gathering what's left of my dignity. Heroic fail #32.

"Right. No more chasing birds. Stick to the plan."

I dust off my pride (or what's left of it) and get back on the move.

Obstacle Three: Dog Trouble

I'm halfway down another alley, finally feeling like I'm making progress, when I hear it: the ominous rattle of a chain collar.

I turn just in time to see a giant, slobbering dog round the corner—a massive Rottweiler, tongue hanging out, eyes locked on me.

Oh no.

Before I can even think of a plan, the dog lets out a booming bark and takes off after me.

Run, run, RUN!

I bolt down the alley, paws skittering against the pavement. The sound of the dog's panting and heavy footsteps is far too close for comfort.

"Why does everything want to chase me today!?" I yowl as I zig-zag through alleyways, doing my best to avoid becoming a chew toy.

There's a fence up ahead. I push my tiny legs to their limit, leap—and barely manage to scramble to the top. The dog skids to a halt below, barking furiously as I teeter on the narrow ledge.

Panting, I shoot the dog a victorious glare. "Ha! Too slow, buddy."

The dog barks one last time, clearly offended, but eventually gives up and trots off.

I slump down on the fence, trying to catch my breath. This whole cat thing is exhausting.

A Glimmer of Hope

After what feels like hours of dodging kids, dogs, and my own terrible instincts, I finally spot something promising: a bus stop.

I slink closer, ears perked, tail flicking with cautious optimism. If I can sneak onto a bus heading toward UA, I might actually make it to Aizawa-sensei before sunset.

There's a small crowd waiting for the bus, and I spot my opportunity—an old man with a newspaper draped over his lap. Perfect.

The bus pulls up, and as the doors hiss open, I dart forward, slipping past the passengers' feet and hopping onto the vehicle just before the doors close.

I curl up under a seat, hoping no one notices the black Ragdoll cat hitching a ride.

With the bus rumbling beneath me and the city blurring by outside, I finally let myself relax a little.

I'm getting closer.

Now, all I have to do is make it to UA without getting lost—or eaten—and find Aizawa-sensei.

Easy. Totally doable.

Right?