Morning at U.A. tasted different now.
The air carried the faint sweetness of vending-machine coffee and a quiet nervousness — the kind that seeps into a school right before a curriculum shift no one asked for.Students hurried along the courtyard paths with a new kind of posture: eager, careful, aware. Aizawa blamed Renya for that posture. Renya blamed the world for needing it.
He arrived earlier than usual, the Veil folded in his bag like a misunderstanding he hadn't corrected yet. The sun was barely awake, bleeding soft light across the gym windows. Two students were already waiting outside the training hall.
Hoshi stood straight, hands behind her back, expression carefully blank — a posture she picked up from Aizawa, not Renya.Kai stood next to her, relaxed but sharp-eyed, like someone who had learned vigilance the slow way.
"You called for us?" Hoshi asked.
"I didn't," Renya said. "Nezu did. I'm just the decoy."
Kai smirked. "What did we do this time?"
Before Renya could answer, the intercom crackled to life."Would Mr. Kurotsuki and his apprentices please report to Conference Room Three? Bring an open mind. And maybe tea."Nezu's cheerful tone echoed across the courtyard.
Renya sighed. "You're not my apprentices."
"We know," Hoshi said."We prefer 'assistants of chaos,'" Kai added.
Renya chose not to respond.
Conference Room Three was too bright, too polished, too official — a space meant for policy, not conversation.Nezu sat at the head of the table, sipping something that steamed like ambition.Aizawa rested in a corner chair, scarf coiled around him like a patient predator.Imai from the Commission leaned against the wall, tablet in hand, eyes sharp.
There were also three unfamiliar faces: pro heroes.Ragged Edge — tactical specialist, reputedly humorless.Sundance — rescue type, calm voice, dangerous optimism.Gearspindle — inventor, too many pockets, and a mind that made caffeine look slow.
Renya paused in the doorway. "This looks like a job interview."
"It is," Nezu said."It's not," Aizawa said."It's… complicated," Imai said.
That never meant anything good.
"Sit," Nezu said.
Renya pulled a chair back and sat. Hoshi and Kai took the seats beside him — uninvited, unashamed.
Nezu folded his paws. "You've accidentally built a national training doctrine. The Commission, the Hero Public Safety Bureau, and U.A. have agreed that its creator should… expand his involvement."
"Pass," Renya said instantly.
Aizawa smirked. "We knew you'd say that."
Gearspindle leaned forward. "You misunderstand. This isn't a request for public tours or brand deals. We want you to take a Hero Permit."
Hoshi's eyes widened.Kai blinked.Renya stared.
"No," he said.
Sundance stepped in gently. "You already act in emergencies. You give orders. You stabilize crowds. You intervene. You're effectively functioning as a hero without the legal framework."
"That wasn't intentional," Renya said.
"That doesn't matter," Imai said. "Intent doesn't protect civilians."
Ragged Edge folded his arms. "We're offering legitimacy. And training support. And a team."
"No team," Renya said. "No costume. No patrols. I teach. That's all."
Nezu's whiskers lifted. "We're not asking you to stop teaching. We're asking you to extend it to the field — officially."
Aizawa spoke quietly:"You'll have more protection. More authority. And fewer people trying to sue you for teaching teenagers how to breathe."
Renya let silence settle.Hoshi watched him carefully, as if trying to read a language she was only just learning.Kai avoided eye contact — not out of disrespect, but because he already knew the argument happening behind Renya's eyes.
Finally Renya asked, "What's the real concern?"
Imai tapped her tablet. "Overturn wasn't the last. Movements are forming — splinter cells, counter-philosophies. People are twisting your principles into extremism. Someone needs to represent the original version."
Renya closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't want to be responsible for anyone's doctrine."
"That's the problem," Nezu said gently. "You already are."
He stood. "Give me the day."
The room agreed. Some gladly, some reluctantly.
As Renya left, Aizawa called after him, "Think with your hands."
He nodded.
Hoshi and Kai followed without being asked."Where to?" Kai asked.
"Nowhere structured," Renya said. "We walk."
Their walk took them through the city's edges — not the tourist streets, not the busy plazas, but the thresholds where Musutafu transformed from glass to brick to rusted metal. Areas where people still looked over their shoulders before crossing alleys.
They passed a makeshift Chairline still standing from last week's event — an old man had relocated it to his storefront and refused to take it down.
He waved a bamboo fan at them. "You're the quiet teacher," he said to Renya. "Sit. Tea."
Renya didn't intend to sit.He sat anyway.
The man poured the tea. "City's calmer lately," he said. "Less shouting. More nodding. My daughter says it's you."
"It wasn't me," Renya said. "It was everyone who refused to panic."
The man laughed. "Modest. Rare trait. Keep it."
When they left, Hoshi spoke first. "You should take the license."
"No," Renya said.
"Why not?" Kai asked. "You already do the work."
"That's exactly why. If I formalize it, it becomes a job. Jobs become obligations. Obligations become doctrine."
Hoshi frowned. "But doctrine saved people."
"Doctrine also destroys people when they stop fitting inside it."
Kai kicked a pebble. "Then teach them so they don't need the doctrine."
Renya stopped walking.
"That's the problem," he said. "They already don't need me."
Airi's message pinged: Are you taking the license? Everyone's arguing about it.The Quiet Rooms thread was on fire. Opinions everywhere.Some wanted him legitimized. Others wanted him unbound.Some feared losing him to bureaucracy.Some feared not losing him enough.
He muted his phone.
At sunset, the city glowed like an exhausted lantern.Renya climbed to the U.A. roof to think.Aizawa was already there.
Without looking up, Aizawa asked, "Decision?"
"No."
"Reason?"
"I don't want to be owned."
"You wouldn't be."
"I would feel like I was."
Aizawa sighed. "Listen. People already imitate you. That means danger. If you take the permit, you create a standard. If you don't, someone else will claim your method and twist it."
Renya leaned on the railing. "I didn't ask to be a symbol."
"No one asks," Aizawa said. "Symbols happen to you. The only choice is whether you shape them or they shape you."
Renya stayed silent.
Aizawa continued, "You think the license puts you in chains. It doesn't. It just puts you in the same room as the people who need to hear you."
Renya looked up at the sky — a thin violet wash smeared by clouds."Heroes are supposed to act," he said. "I teach people to pause."
Aizawa shrugged. "Maybe the hero world needs someone who pauses."
Renya said nothing.
When he returned to his apartment, Airi was waiting, arms crossed."You're taking it," she said.
"No, I—"
"You're taking it," she repeated. "Because you're already doing the job. Because people listen. Because I'm safer when you're allowed to intervene instead of improvising legality."
He opened his mouth.
She pointed a finger at him. "And because I want to brag that my brother is a hero."
He closed his mouth.
She softened."You won't lose yourself," she said. "You'll just have paperwork."
"Paperwork is hell," he said.
"Then teach hell to behave."
He almost smiled.
He didn't sleep. Thoughts kept folding themselves, refusing to lie flat.
At 3 a.m. he stepped outside into the cool air and walked to a nearby bridge.The city shimmered below — dozens of tiny Chairlines still scattered like constellations.
People were sitting.Quietly.Kindly.Not for him.Not because of him.But because the idea had finally detached from him.
They didn't need a hero.
Maybe that was exactly why he had to become one.
He whispered, "Fine."
The word disappeared into the night.
He turned back toward U.A., hands in pockets, feeling strangely light and unbearably tired.
Tomorrow he would accept.