Mailin’s POV

The air around us is tense, the energy of anticipation humming in the atmosphere. This is it—our first practical exercise, and I can feel my nerves buzzing beneath the surface. Today, Class 2-A and 2-B are going head-to-head in a mock battle, and the instructors have made it clear that this isn’t just a drill. This is to simulate real combat situations, and for most of the students, it’s a chance to showcase their offensive skills.

For me? It’s a different kind of test.

As we line up, I glance around at my classmates. The excitement is clear on their faces—everyone eager to jump into action. Quirks designed for battle flare up all around me—sparks, flames, wind gusts, even some strange bone-like weapons from one student.

My quirk, on the other hand, is quiet. Gentle. It’s not the kind of power that tears through enemies or levels buildings. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t important. I remind myself of that as I shift my focus inward, feeling the pull of water in the air, in the earth. I can do this. I don’t need to fight to be useful.

“All right, teams,” the instructor calls out, her voice sharp and commanding. “Your goal is simple: secure the objective while defending your team. Use your quirks wisely.”

The exercise begins, and chaos erupts almost instantly. Students dart forward, their quirks flashing like fireworks. Some are already engaging in combat, locking onto their opponents with fierce determination.

I hang back, scanning the field for anyone who might need help. My role is different—I’m not here to destroy. I’m here to heal, to protect.

As I move through the battlefield, I notice one of my classmates from 2-A, a boy with a fire-based quirk, struggling against a water user from 2-B. He’s overwhelmed, his flames sputtering as water encases his body. I don’t hesitate—I rush forward, using my own control over water to shift the flow away from him, redirecting it harmlessly to the ground.

“Thanks,” he gasps, shooting me a quick, grateful look before diving back into the fight.

I nod, but the interaction leaves me with a pang of unease. Everyone is fighting, proving their strength, and I’m here... helping from the sidelines. It’s what I’m meant to do, but that nagging feeling of being out of place doesn’t disappear. This is a world of combat, of power on full display, and while my classmates are knocking each other down, I’m left wondering if there’s really a place for someone like me.

Suddenly, I catch sight of Aizawa on the other side of the field. He’s facing off against a 2-B student, his movements sharp and precise, but there’s something off about him. His expression is tense, frustration flickering across his face. The opponent is fast, too fast for him to get a clear line of sight to use his quirk, and he’s struggling to keep up.

I watch him for a moment, my own insecurities momentarily forgotten. Aizawa is usually so calm, so collected. Seeing him like this—frustrated, doubting—reminds me that even the strongest of us have our moments of uncertainty. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels out of place here.

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Shota’s POV

The sound of clashing quirks fills the air—explosions, bursts of wind, fire roaring. It’s all a blur of motion and noise, but I’m not paying attention to any of it. My eyes are locked onto my opponent, a student from 2-B who’s moving too fast for me to get a clear lock with my quirk. Every time I blink, he disappears, only to reappear behind me a second later. It’s infuriating.

My heart pounds in my chest, not from exertion, but from frustration. Why can’t I keep up?

This isn’t new. I’ve felt this way before—this nagging doubt that I don’t belong here, that my quirk isn’t enough. Everyone around me is tearing through their opponents with brute force, and here I am, struggling to even keep my opponent in my line of sight. It’s not that my quirk is weak, but it’s limited. If I can’t erase my opponent’s quirk, then what’s the point?

He comes at me again, faster this time. I manage to dodge, but just barely. My frustration builds, hot and sharp in my chest. I need to focus, need to stay calm, but it’s not working. Every failure, every missed opportunity to use my quirk feels like a confirmation of what I’ve been fearing all along.

You’re not cut out for this.

Just as I’m about to make another attempt, something catches my eye—a shift in the crowd. I glance over and see her.

Mailin.

She’s not fighting like the others. Instead, she’s moving through the battlefield with a quiet focus, her water bending and flowing with an effortless grace. I watch as she helps one of our classmates, pulling the water away from his struggling form, and for a brief moment, the frustration inside me cools. She’s not fighting, not overpowering anyone, but she’s doing something. She’s helping.

And she’s calm.

I blink, realizing that in the midst of all this chaos, she’s managed to stay steady, to keep her head when everything else is falling apart. It’s... impressive.

Before I can dwell on it any further, my opponent comes at me again, and this time, I manage to catch him with my quirk, nullifying his speed. He stumbles, and I take the opportunity to knock him down, the frustration still simmering under the surface.

The exercise ends, and I stand there, breathing heavily, my mind spinning with doubt. It doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like I barely made it through.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glance from Mailin. She’s standing a few feet away, watching me with that same quiet presence she always has. There’s no judgment in her eyes, no sense of superiority. Just calm.

It’s a small moment, a brief exchange of glances, but for some reason, it sticks with me. She doesn’t say anything, but her look alone is enough to pull me back from the edge of my frustration.

Maybe I don’t need to have all the answers right now. Maybe it’s okay to not have it all figured out.

As the class begins to disperse, I find myself thinking about her again. About how she managed to stay calm, how she kept helping even when the rest of us were focused on winning. There’s something about her that I can’t quite shake.

And for the first time in a while, I don’t feel completely alone in this.

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Mailin’s POV

As we head back inside, the noise of the exercise fading behind us, I can’t help but glance at Aizawa again. He’s walking a few steps ahead of me, his posture slouched but still tense. I wonder if he felt the same frustration I did during the exercise, the same sense of not quite fitting in.

I don’t say anything as we walk, but I hope—just for a moment—that maybe my glance, my quiet presence, was enough. That maybe, like me, he’s trying to figure out where he belongs in all of this.

And maybe, just maybe, we’re not so different after all.