The following morning arrived with merciless brightness, sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains as Aizawa rapped sharply on your door.

"Get up. We leave in twenty minutes," his voice carried through the wood, lacking the grogginess one might expect at such an early hour.

You emerged from the temporary sanctuary of his guest room to find him nursing a steaming mug of black coffee, his hair pulled back in a messy bun. A second mug waited on the counter—an unexpectedly hospitable gesture.

"There's been a development," he stated without preamble. "Principal Nezu has arranged for your temporary placement in Class 1-A. Under observation."

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. "So I'm officially a student now?"

"Temporarily," Aizawa emphasized, his expression guarded. "Nezu believes keeping you close allows for better monitoring. I disagreed, but was overruled."

A smile tugged at your lips as you sipped the surprisingly good coffee. "You're worried I'll corrupt your precious students?"

"I'm concerned about introducing an unknown variable into an already volatile classroom," he corrected, though the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a hint of amusement. "You'll need to maintain control of your... abilities."

"Understood, sensei," you replied with mock solemnity, earning a disapproving glare that lacked genuine heat.

U.A.'s imposing architecture seemed different in daylight—less intimidating, more purposeful. Students in identical uniforms streamed through its gates, their diverse physical manifestations of quirks creating a living tapestry of evolutionary possibility.

Aizawa led you through administrative procedures with evident impatience before guiding you to Class 1-A's door. "Remember our agreement," he muttered. "No drama."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you assured him with a smile that did nothing to ease his suspicion.

The classroom fell silent as you entered behind him, two dozen pairs of eyes turning to assess the unexpected addition. You recognized them immediately—Uraraka's round-cheeked curiosity, Iida's rigid posture, Todoroki's heterochromatic detachment. And there, slouched in his seat with palpable disdain, sat Katsuki Bakugo.

"We have a temporary addition to our class," Aizawa announced with minimal enthusiasm. "This is Blue. She'll be observing and participating until further notice."

You offered a casual wave, acutely aware of one particular gaze—Midoriya's emerald eyes widened in recognition, his freckled face displaying the same shock as when you'd rescued him during the entrance exam.

Aizawa directed you to an empty seat near the window, then immediately launched into a lesson on heroic regulations with deliberate normality.

The predictability lasted approximately forty-three minutes.

As Aizawa stepped out to retrieve materials for the practical portion of class, several students gravitated toward your desk. Curiosity overcame caution—a universal constant regardless of dimension.

"Hi! I'm Ochaco Uraraka!" the gravity manipulator introduced herself with infectious enthusiasm. "Are you a transfer student?"

Before you could formulate a suitable response, a more aggressive presence shouldered through the gathering. Bakugo loomed over your desk, spiky blonde hair framing crimson eyes that sparked with combative energy. His scrutiny felt like a physical weight as he assessed you with undisguised suspicion.

"Hah! I know who you are," he declared, voice pitched to command attention from the entire room. "You're the one who destroyed that zero-point robot during the entrance exam, aren't you?" His lips curled into a sneer that somehow managed to convey both accusation and reluctant respect.

You leaned back in your chair, meeting his intensity with deliberate casualness. "Maybe I am. What's it to you, Explosion Boy?"

His palms crackled with warning sparks. "The name's Katsuki Bakugo, and you'd better remember it! I saw what you did with those blue flames. That kind of power..." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Where did someone like you come from?"

The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that extended far beyond simple curiosity. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Midoriya's anxious fidgeting and Todoroki's sudden attention.

"Around," you replied with calculated vagueness, a smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. "Sounds like you're worried about the competition."

Bakugo's expression darkened thunderously. "As if! I'm going to be the number one hero, and no mysterious extra with fancy flames is going to—"

"If you've completed terrorizing our new classmate, Bakugo," Iida interrupted with chopping hand gestures, "I believe we should return to our seats before Aizawa-sensei returns."

The explosive blonde scoffed but retreated, though his glare promised this conversation was far from over.

As the others dispersed, Midoriya lingered, his expression a complex mixture of anxiety and fascination. "It really is you," he whispered, just loud enough for you alone. "From the entrance exam. You saved me."

You offered him a ghost of a smile. "Let's keep that between us for now, green bean."

His eyes widened at the nickname before he nodded earnestly and returned to his seat, already scribbling furiously in a notebook—undoubtedly documenting theories about your quirk.

From the doorway, unnoticed by the students, Aizawa observed the interaction with narrowed eyes. His suspicions hadn't lessened—but perhaps Nezu's strategy of keeping you close wasn't entirely misguided after all.

The morning sun beat down on U.A.'s training field as Class 1-A assembled for what Aizawa had ominously described as a "quirk apprehension test." The students shifted nervously in their newly issued gym uniforms, already wary of their homeroom teacher's unorthodox methods after his expulsion threat.

You stood slightly apart from the group, still wearing your street clothes—nobody had thought to provide you with a uniform yet. The boundary between observer and participant remained deliberately unclear, exactly as you preferred it.

Aizawa turned to you, his expression carefully neutral beneath the fringe of dark hair. "You can stay here if you want," he offered quietly, gesturing toward the shaded observation area where faculty typically monitored training exercises. "This is meant to assess the official students."

The unspoken implication hung in the air—you weren't truly one of them. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

You shook your head decisively, meeting his bloodshot eyes with steady determination. "No way. I want to show my skills too, sensei." The honorific rolled off your tongue with a hint of playful insubordination that didn't go unnoticed by the pro hero.

Something flickered across Aizawa's typically impassive features—a momentary softening that might have been mistaken for affection if you didn't know better. He sighed, the sound carrying the weight of a man who recognized a losing battle when he saw one.

To your surprise, he reached out and briefly rested his palm against the crown of your head in a gesture so paternal it made your chest tighten uncomfortably. "Fine," he conceded, withdrawing his hand quickly as though realizing the impropriety of the action. "But don't interfere with the others' assessments. And no excessive quirk usage."

You nodded, fighting the strange urge to lean into that fleeting touch. "Got it. I'll be on my best behavior." The promise was delivered with a grin that clearly communicated your definition of "best behavior" might differ significantly from his.

Several students watched this exchange with undisguised curiosity—particularly Midoriya, whose analytical gaze darted between you and Aizawa as though mentally cataloging the unexpected dynamic.

"Alright," Aizawa announced, addressing the entire class once more. "As I was saying, you'll be evaluated on eight physical tests. The purpose is to establish your baseline capabilities when using your quirks." He held up a specialized smartphone displaying previous class records. "Bakugo, you scored highest on the entrance exam's practical portion. Step up to the circle."

The explosive blonde swaggered forward, cracking his knuckles with theatrical menace.

"How far could you throw a softball in middle school?" Aizawa inquired.

"Sixty-seven meters," Bakugo replied with obvious disdain, as though the very memory of his pre-U.A. capabilities offended him.

Aizawa tossed him a ball identical to those used in standard physical education classes, save for the small sensor embedded within. "Try using your quirk this time. As long as you stay within the circle, anything goes."

A predatory grin spread across Bakugo's face as he positioned himself. With practiced form, he wound up his pitch, then activated his quirk at the precise moment of release.

"DIE!" he roared as the ball left his hand propelled by a massive explosion.

The softball rocketed skyward, leaving a trail of smoke and disturbed air in its wake before eventually dropping somewhere in the far distance. Aizawa held up the device: 705.2 meters.

"It's important to know your upper limits," he explained to the impressed students. "That's the first rational step to figuring out what kind of heroes you'll be."

The class erupted into excited chatter until Aizawa's glare silenced them. One by one, students stepped forward to demonstrate their quirks through various physical challenges: grip strength, standing long jump, repeated side steps, distance run, seated toe-touch, sit-ups, and finally the ball throw.

You observed with analytical precision, mentally cataloging each student's abilities and limitations. Uraraka's infinity score on the ball throw. Iida's blistering speed in the dash. Todoroki's elegant efficiency in every test. And of course, Midoriya's obvious struggle with control—the power within him clearly too vast for his current mastery.

Finally, after Yaoyorozu completed the last of her tests with typically graceful competence, Aizawa's gaze settled on you.

"Blue," he called, just loud enough to be heard across the field. "Your turn."

A hush fell over the students as you stepped forward, acutely aware of twenty pairs of eyes tracking your movement. Bakugo's glare practically burned against your skin, his competitive nature already identifying you as a threat to his dominance.

"Just the ball throw," Aizawa clarified, tossing you the final softball. "Let's see what you can do without burning down my training field."

You caught the ball with a fluid motion, weighing it thoughtfully in your palm as you studied the distant horizon. The circle beneath your feet felt like a stage—one you hadn't asked for but wouldn't waste.

"Any restrictions, sensei?" you inquired, already knowing the answer.

Aizawa's expression remained carefully neutral. "Stay in the circle. Don't incinerate any students. Otherwise, show us what you're capable of."

As you wound up for the throw, you felt the familiar duality stirring within—blue flames licking at your consciousness from one direction, telekinetic potential from another. The temptation to unleash both simultaneously tugged at you, but instinct counseled restraint. This wasn't the time to reveal everything.

Instead, you channeled a focused stream of telekinesis, encasing the ball in an invisible field of energy. Your eyes narrowed in concentration as you performed the throw—an almost negligible physical motion compared to the mental exertion of projecting the telekinetic force.

The softball left your hand silently, no explosion or visible quirk activation to mark its departure. For a split second, it seemed to hover—and then it simply vanished, accelerating faster than the human eye could track.

Seconds stretched into nearly a minute before Aizawa's device registered the landing distance: 1,207.9 meters.

A collective gasp rippled through the assembled students. Even Aizawa's perpetually bored expression cracked slightly, one eyebrow raising a fraction of an inch.

"Whoa! That's insane!" Kaminari exclaimed, breaking the stunned silence.

"And she didn't even use her blue fire quirk," Ashido added, pink skin flushing darker with excitement.

Bakugo's face contorted with barely contained rage, his palms smoking ominously as he processed being so thoroughly outperformed.

You returned to your position beside Aizawa with deliberate nonchalance, though you couldn't entirely suppress the satisfied smile tugging at your lips.

"Showing off isn't rational," he muttered, just quietly enough that only you could hear.

"Neither is holding back," you countered softly. "Isn't that what you're always telling them?"

Something that might have been grudging approval flickered in his eyes before he turned back to address the class, explaining the final rankings and—to everyone's relief—revealing that his expulsion threat had been a "logical ruse" to draw out their full potential.

As the students dispersed toward the changing rooms, Midoriya lingered behind, his analytical gaze fixed on you with undisguised fascination.

"That wasn't just telekinesis, was it?" he asked quietly, his voice pitched low enough that the others couldn't hear. "It was something more specific... like a focused vector control or perhaps spatial manipulation?"

Your eyes widened slightly, impressed by his perceptiveness. "You've got good eyes, green bean," you acknowledged with a hint of genuine respect. "But don't overthink it. Some quirks defy easy categorization."

He nodded earnestly, clutching his notebook—already filled with scribbled observations about his classmates' abilities. "Mine too," he admitted with unexpected candor.

A moment of understanding passed between you—two anomalies in a world that demanded clear classification.

"Midoriya! Blue! Stop lagging behind," Aizawa called from ahead, his tone making it clear that his patience had limits.

As you walked toward the main building, you caught Aizawa studying you with that same unreadable expression—part suspicion, part curiosity, and something else you couldn't quite identify.

Whatever it was, you had the distinct impression your performance had just altered his calculations significantly.

Later that afternoon, you found yourself back in the classroom during a brief recess between lessons. The morning's physical assessment had left your classmates buzzing with excitement, their typical social dynamics temporarily disrupted by your unexpected display of power. You welcomed the momentary solitude as you transferred Aizawa's lecture notes into a borrowed notebook, already adapting to the strange rhythm of academic life.

A sudden weight on your shoulder snapped you from your concentration. Instinct took over before conscious thought could intervene—your body pivoting in defensive readiness, crimson eyes flashing with dangerous luminescence as azure flames threatened to materialize at your fingertips.

Recognition doused the reactive surge of power when you identified Todoroki standing beside your desk. The dual-haired boy had approached with such silent precision that even your enhanced senses hadn't detected his movement until contact.

"Ah, Todoroki," you acknowledged, deliberately relaxing your posture as you suppressed the defensive response. "What can I help you with?"

Shoto Todoroki regarded you with clinically detached interest, his heterochromatic gaze—one turquoise, one steel gray—fixed on your face with unsettling intensity. The scar tissue surrounding his left eye seemed to tighten almost imperceptibly as he studied you, searching for something beyond your carefully constructed facade.

"You have cremation," he stated without preamble, his voice pitched low enough that the scattered clusters of classmates conversing nearby couldn't overhear. Not a question but a declaration—as though he'd identified a fundamental truth you hadn't intended to reveal.

You blinked, the controlled reaction masking the turbulence his simple observation had unleashed within you. "Yes," you confirmed after a calculated pause, watching his expression for any shift that might betray his intentions.

Todoroki's mismatched eyes narrowed fractionally, the temperature around him dropping several degrees as frost crystallized along the fingertips of his right hand. "Blue flames. Like his."

The unspoken name hovered between you—Dabi—a phantom presence neither of you seemed willing to materialize through direct acknowledgment.

"Not exactly the same," you corrected, maintaining eye contact despite the discomfort prickling along your spine. "Mine burn hotter. More controlled."

"Interesting," he murmured, more to himself than to you. His gaze shifted to the window, something ancient and pained flickering across his features before the emotional shutter closed once more. "I thought cremation was unique to... one particular individual."

You set your pen down with deliberate care, weighing your response. The complexity of Todoroki's relationship with his family—especially his connection to a brother whose villainous identity remained unknown to him at this point in the timeline—made this conversation dangerous territory.

"Quirks are rarely truly unique," you offered eventually, your tone gentle despite the tension humming between you. "Even seemingly singular abilities can manifest in different individuals across generations. Convergent evolution, if you will."

Something in your careful explanation caused Todoroki's posture to shift subtly—a microscopic relaxation that would have been imperceptible to anyone without your enhanced perception. His right hand unclenched, the frost receding from his fingertips.

"I see," he replied, his tone neutral once more. "Your control is impressive. During the ball throw, you didn't use the flames at all."

You inclined your head in acknowledgment of the observation. "Different tools for different tasks. The telekinesis was more efficient for distance."

"Efficient," he repeated, testing the word as though searching for hidden meanings. "Not many would describe quirk usage that way."

A small smile curved your lips. "I'm not many people."

"Clearly."

For several heartbeats, silence stretched between you—not entirely uncomfortable but weighted with unspoken questions. Todoroki seemed to be measuring you against some internal metric, his analytical mind processing the implications of your existence.

"If you ever want to..." he began, then paused, evidently reconsidering his approach. "Some quirks require specialized training. Particularly those involving high temperatures."

The subtle offer of assistance—or perhaps an invitation to mutual study—surprised you. Coming from Todoroki, notorious for his self-imposed isolation, this represented a significant deviation from expected behavior.

"I'd appreciate that," you replied with genuine warmth. "Though I suspect we both have techniques the other might find useful."

A ghost of what might have been a smile flickered across his usually stoic features before vanishing, like sunlight briefly penetrating storm clouds. With a barely perceptible nod, he turned and returned to his seat, leaving you to contemplate the unexpected interaction.

From his position at the front of the room, Aizawa observed the exchange with hooded eyes, his expression unreadable as he made a notation in his records. Something about the interaction between you and Endeavor's son had clearly registered as significant, though his thoughts remained inscrutable behind his perpetually exhausted facade.

You returned to your notes, but your mind remained fixed on the conversation. Todoroki had recognized something in your quirk—a familiarity that resonated with his own complicated history. The connection, unexpected as it was, felt somehow predestined.

Another piece in a puzzle you were still attempting to solve.