A week since the hospital, and you're finally back in action—well, mostly. The wings still ache like you've been sleeping on them wrong for a century, and that third eye you sprouted in your full demon queen glory? Yeah, it's being stubborn about opening. Typical. But hey, you're out, you're moving, and there's a whole forest out here just waiting to meet its new apex predator. Spoiler alert: it's you.

The trees part as you move like the night's shadow itself, and let's be honest, the local wildlife doesn't stand a chance. A couple of bears decide they're feeling bold today. Bad decision. They go down faster than your patience at a mortal cocktail party, and you don't even break a sweat. But then, you spot something—a bear limping, blood painting its fur like an unfortunate avant-garde experiment. Its claw? Broken. Its gaze? Desperate.

You tilt your head, a grin creeping up your lips. Oh, this one's not going to make it, and it knows it. With a burst of speed that'd make even the most arrogant vampire jealous, you lunge. Your claws—seriously, someone should make a blade ad about these bad boys—find their mark. A clean slice, neck to neck, and the bear collapses in a symphony of finality. The thud echoes, almost poetic against the forest silence. Blood pools quickly, too quickly, but there's a certain beauty in it. You can't help but admire your work. Efficient. Deadly. Chef's kiss.

You crouch low, your sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. Cubs? Nah, this guy was no parent. Just an old, lonely male, past his prime and unlucky enough to meet you on your recovery stroll. You flick the blood off your claws, half-thinking how it matches your vibe—power, elegance, a sprinkle of chaos. Then you straighten up, ready for whatever unlucky creature dares to cross your path next. The forest has no idea what's coming.

"You are MAD," comes a voice that is equal parts familiar and infuriating, carrying the kind of smugness that could curdle milk. Your head snaps up, pride gleaming in your eyes as you turn to face the intruder—a red-winged hero hawk. Of course. Leaning against the trunk of a birch tree like this is some casual woodland hangout, he's all crossed arms and that trademark smirk, the one that teeters just on the edge of "punchable." His gaze flickers between the bear carcass and the blood painting your front, an amused twinkle in his eyes that makes your claws itch.

"Hawks," you hiss, venom dripping from the single word. "What are you doing here?"

His smile deepens, that insufferable knowing look making your tail flick in annoyance. "Well, I heard some ruckus," he drawls, the lie so bold it might as well be gift-wrapped. "You aren't exactly silent, you know."

Oh, that does it. You step forward, towering over him like the menace you are, the forest itself seeming to dim in the shadow of your rage. "I could kill a hundred men, Hawks, and they'd never hear a thing," you snap, your voice low and edged with dangerous confidence. "Silence is my art, my craft, my symphony. Do not insult me."

His grin doesn't falter, and that only makes you angrier. If anything, it grows, like he enjoys poking the metaphorical (and now literal) bear. "And yet," he says, his tone so casual it borders on treason, "here I am, watching you smear yourself in blood like it's opening night for your one-woman horror show."

Your claws flex, the glint of them catching the faint sunlight that filters through the trees. You could end him right now, wings or not, and he knows it. But you don't. Not because of some misplaced mercy, but because you've danced this dance before. Hawks always shows up, always has some snarky comment, and somehow manages to leave intact. Killing him would be too easy—and frankly, not as satisfying as besting him at his own game.

You tilt your head, letting a slow, dangerous smile creep across your face. "If you've got nothing better to do than stalk me, Hawks," you purr, "then maybe you're the mad one."

His laugh rings out, loud and unrestrained, echoing through the trees like he owns the place. "Touche, demon queen. Touche."

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

After Hawks finally takes his leave, looking far too smug and full of himself for your liking, you decide it's time to head back to U.A. The forest seems quieter now, the shadows stretching longer as if bowing in your wake. The blood on your front is already drying, your claws glinting faintly in the dimming light. It's been a productive stroll, and now you're ready to face something far more challenging: Aizawa's scrutiny.

When you step into the U.A. grounds, the atmosphere shifts. The buzz of students practicing quirks or studying fades as you make your way through, your presence commanding attention even when you're not trying. You push open the doors to the training center, and there he is—Aizawa, standing like the living embodiment of "unimpressed dad energy," arms crossed and his scarf draped lazily over his shoulders.

"Ah, you're back," he says, his tone flat, indifferent. But you know better. His eyes don't miss a thing, and right now, they're busy taking in the details: the blood streaks across your front, the faint metallic sheen on your claws, and—let's be honest—the small smear at the corner of your mouth. His gaze narrows slightly, dark eyes meeting yours like he's already piecing together the story.

"Did you kill something?" he asks, voice calm but laced with that familiar undertone of suspicion and mild exasperation.

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, equal parts pride and defiance. "Yes," you reply smoothly, your tone dripping with nonchalance. "A couple of bears."

Aizawa blinks once, slow and deliberate, as if weighing his next words. Finally, he sighs, dragging a hand down his face like he's aged ten years in the last five seconds. "I don't even want to know," he mutters, though you're pretty sure he absolutely does.

You tilt your head, watching him with amusement. "Good," you say simply, brushing past him toward the showers. The faintest mutter of "Problem child" follows you, but you let it slide. After all, you're his favorite problem child, even if he won't admit it.

You duck your head to pass through the annoyingly human-sized doorway, your wings folding tightly against your back with a practiced grace. Inside, the fluorescent lights hum softly, illuminating a dimly lit hallway. Immediately, your sharp senses pick up the presence of another—his scent carries exhaustion and an undercurrent of curiosity. Your eyes lock onto a man with indigo hair and strikingly tired, purple eyes. His gaze shifts lazily from Aizawa to you, taking in every detail with an unhurried scrutiny.

"Sensei, who's this?" he asks, his voice thick with fatigue, tilting his head like he's too tired to feign politeness.

You straighten your posture, white scales shimmering faintly under the harsh lighting as you regard him coolly. "I'm Onyx," you reply, your tone calm but laced with authority. A slight dip of your head follows—a gesture that's more acknowledgment than submission. His eyes flicker over your form, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Onyx," he echoes, his tone shifting slightly, a hint of amusement seeping through. "As in the wanted criminal by the government? You know they've got a nice little bounty on your head after what you did to the League of Villains." There's no malice in his words, just a lazy curiosity, as though he's commenting on the weather.

You sniff, unimpressed. "Let them try," you say smoothly, your tail flicking once behind you. The memory of that night—the chaos, the fire, the thrill of battle—flares briefly in your mind. If the government wanted a piece of you, they'd have to do better than sending underwhelming grunts.

The man shrugs, his indigo hair falling slightly into his face as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Not that I care," he adds, and his nonchalant tone almost earns a faint smile from you. Almost. You recognize the type—cool, detached, but observant. He's already decided you're not his problem, which, for now, works in your favor.

Aizawa clears his throat, drawing both your attentions. "Onyx is staying under my supervision," he says flatly, his eyes flicking pointedly to you. "That means no unnecessary bloodshed."

You smirk, letting a claw trail lightly over the doorframe as you step farther into the building. "Define 'unnecessary,'" you quip, and while Aizawa groans audibly, the indigo-haired man lets out a soft chuckle, his purple eyes glinting with mild amusement.

A low, amused chuckle escapes your throat as you move closer, your sharp senses catching a whiff of him—cinnamon and vanilla, a surprisingly warm and inviting scent for someone with such a perpetually tired aura. You tilt your head, curiosity flickering in your gaze as you close the distance.

Before he can react, you let your pink, forked tongue drag slowly, deliberately, over his face. It's more playful than predatory—barely—but the reaction is worth it. Shinso freezes, his purple eyes going wide as his brain short-circuits, caught between grimacing and blushing.

You pull back with a smirk, your expression dripping with mischief. "You're nice, Shinso," you purr, your tone smooth as silk, before turning on your heel. Your tail flicks lightly as you pass him, adding a casual nudge to his side. His stunned silence is satisfying, but you don't miss the faint flush that creeps up his neck, a light contrast against his otherwise composed demeanor.

Behind you, you can feel both Shinso's and Aizawa's eyes glued to your retreating form, their expressions varying shades of bemusement. You don't need to look back to know their exhaustion is now tinged with the kind of "what just happened?" confusion that only you can inspire.

As you disappear down the hall, your smirk widens. Cinnamon and vanilla, huh? Not bad at all.