Mandates died quietly. Culture lived loudly.
Without a law to force it, Field Dialogue traveled anyway: firehouses taped the verbs to fridges; police precincts argued over OWN and discovered why the word scared them; neighborhood groups started "repair nights" where people brought confessions and casseroles.
The Commission released Version 1.1 with two additions handwritten by Imai: Ask twice if the first answer is fear. Repair with what is wanted, not what is owed.
Overturn tried new bait. He pulled a stunt at a pedestrian mall, "checking" before rattling a storefront gate and then proclaiming OWN as he ran. His followers yawned. He escalated, as people without patience do, and finally hurt someone. The feed turned. Even his edits couldn't narrate around a broken arm he didn't fix.
Kurobane watched the clip and didn't smile. "Crowds love clarity until it demands discipline."
"Then we teach discipline," Imai said.
"How?"
"By refusing shortcuts even when they're legal."
He nodded. "Put that on a wall."
At U.A., the elective became a mirror that students held up to themselves on purpose. Renya opened with a story about a mistake he'd made years ago—a courtyard, a blade, a door he broke because he believed the person behind it needed saving more than the door needed respecting.
"I never apologized," he said. "So here." He bowed. Not dramatic. Adequate.
The class absorbed the admission like a vitamin they hadn't known they lacked. Bakugo rolled his eyes and then, later, left a small anonymous "repair" envelope at the front desk for an equipment cabinet he'd dented months ago.
A note surfaced on Renya's desk the next morning: Paid. No name. He didn't need one.
Aizawa told him after class, "You just bent a rule without breaking it."
"Which rule?"
"The one where teachers pretend their sins were youthful and cute."
Renya smirked. "Mine weren't."
"Exactly," Aizawa said. "That's the point."
An invitation came from the Diet—not a hearing, a colloquium. Fewer cameras, more chairs. Topic: Voluntary Ethics and Public Expectation. Renya went with Imai and Kurobane. Nezu sent a bento and advice: "When in doubt, ask a question."
A lawmaker opened with good intentions sharpened by election math. "Citizens want to trust. Can we codify apology?"
"No," Imai said.
"Why not?"
"Because apology that can be forced isn't apology," she said. "It's messaging."
Renya added, "Codify access instead—make it easy to file harm, to be heard, to be repaid. The rest is culture."
"Who builds culture?" someone asked, exasperated.
"Everyone with hands," Kurobane said. "Some of us use keyboards."
They left with nothing decided and three aides who asked for the PDF of Version 1.1. Progress.
That evening, the park filled with chairs.
Aki stood, not at the front—there was no front—but in a spot where people could see her if they needed to. The agenda read: Stories / Tea / Repair Jar. The Repair Jar was a literal jar. People put notes in it. Sometimes money. Sometimes coupons for a free haircut from a barber who'd learned that hair can be an apology.
Renya brought Saito from Shiketsu. He sat carefully, like a man unused to circles.
A woman spoke about yelling at her son and apologizing in front of his friends. A nurse spoke about cutting a corner on a form. A teenager confessed to filming a fight and deleting it instead of intervening, then came back with water and sat with the bruised kid. The jar thickened with paper.
Saito leaned over and whispered, "This is a ritual."
"It's maintenance," Renya said.
"What happens when someone abuses it?" Saito asked.
"We repair the ritual," Renya said. "Again."
Saito nodded, then wrote something on a small sheet and slipped it into the jar. No one asked what. That was the point.
Aki closed with a sentence that felt like furniture. "Thank you for bringing a chair," she said. "Thank you for making room."
On his way home, Renya passed a storefront with a poster he hadn't seen before. A child had drawn it: stick figures and six big verbs in crayon. At the bottom, tiny letters: "My dad says this is hard. I'm helping."
He stood longer than necessary. A car splashed by. The poster wrinkled and kept meaning.
He walked on, deciding he could live in a world where clarity bent like this and didn't break.