It began with a petition.
MAKE FIELD DIALOGUE MANDATORY FOR ALL LICENSED HEROES, signed by forty thousand citizens in two days. Mothers who wanted apologies. Shopkeepers who wanted receipts. Teenagers who wanted adults to speak like they mean it.
U.A. didn't comment. The Commission did.
"We support adoption," the press release read, "but oppose mandates that turn courtesy into compliance."
The internet did what it does best: argue with hats on fire.
A talk show staged a debate between a widow and a bureaucrat. The widow said, "If they had checked, my husband would be alive." The bureaucrat said nothing that could survive a headline. The show ended with a close-up on grief. Ratings were excellent.
Nezu called an internal forum. He invited no cameras and too many chairs. "We will not outsource our ethics," he said. "But we will not hoard them, either."
Renya sat beside Aizawa, watching the room negotiate itself. Younger teachers favored public reporting. Older ones feared witch hunts. Someone mentioned anonymity; someone else said anonymity is where cruelty hides.
"What if we publish," Aizawa offered, "on our terms? A monthly digest of repair logs—no names, no glory. Lessons only."
"I'll edit," Renya said.
Nezu grinned. "Done. Titles?"
"None," Renya said. "Just the verbs."
The first digest read like a city learning to write to itself:
OWN: Broke a mailbox pulling a child free. Paid for replacement and wrote to the block's group chat. Learned no one liked the mailbox anyway.
CHECK: Assumed a bystander was filming for clout; she was texting a medic husband. Apologized. She laughed. We're friends now.
REPAIR: Cracked a car window to save a dog. Left a note. Owner thanked me for making him change his habits.
No names. No applause. The comments section was closed on purpose. People left flowers on a campus fence instead.
The Commission read it in silence. The director said, "This is good theater."
"It's not theater," Imai said. "It's minutes."
Kurobane pocketed a printed copy. "It's a shield you can't weaponize," he said. "Perfect."
That week, an old hero with a shiny reputation went on air and declared, "Youngsters these days apologize more than they rescue."
He triggered a small avalanche. Veterans split along fault lines. Some confessed decades-late repairs; others defended a school of heroism that didn't know the word sorry. The public watched their idols age in real time. It was messy. It was good.
Overturn, of course, pounced. His next video showed him "repairing" by tossing stolen goods back through broken store windows. "See?" he grinned. "REPAIR!" The comments roasted him; even his fans grew bored. Repair isn't content when you mean it.
Quiet Rooms responded with a thread: The difference between penance and performance, moderated like a gentle traffic cop by Aki. She pinned a line: If you record it, ask who the audience is. If the answer isn't 'the harmed person,' stop recording.
Someone printed it and taped it to a camera.
Students began to use Field Dialogue against their teachers, which was the sign it was working.
In 4B, a second-year raised a hand. "Sensei, yesterday you moved our project deadline without asking. Ask."
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. "Own: I did."
"Repair?" the student asked, deadpan.
"Extensions all around," Aizawa said, deadpan back. The room laughed, then did the work.
Renya pretended not to enjoy this fate. After class, he sighed to Aizawa. "We armed them."
"They were already armed," Aizawa said. "We taught them to holster."
The mandate debate reached the Diet. Cameras loved the phrase Borrowed Authority. One lawmaker proposed fines for heroes who failed to log repairs. Another suggested tax credits for those who logged publicly.
Imai testified, hands folded, voice calm. "If you turn contrition into a badge, people will fake it on schedule. If you tax it, they'll itemize their souls."
The room blinked. The transcript went viral. For once, a sentence didn't need decoration.
The measure stalled. Not defeated—resting.
Kurobane walked her out into a corridor full of marble and impatience. "You looked like you meant that."
"I did," she said.
"Good. Some rooms are immune to anything softer than sincerity."
That evening, Airi found Renya reading the digest by the window. "Am I allowed to file a repair log?" she asked.
"For what?" he said, already half-smiling.
"For eating your leftovers."
He feigned horror. "Repair: buy me gyoza."
"Done," she said, grabbing her coat.
On their way out, they passed a poster someone had taped in the lobby: ASK / LOOK / ACT / CHECK / OWN / REPAIR in block letters, the bottom line scrawled by three different hands: We're trying.
He stared at it longer than necessary. Trying is clarity with room to fail.
They ate gyoza in a shop that didn't care who he was and tasted better for it.