By now, Dave had learned that standing out was optional.
The classroom filled the way it always did—unevenly, noisily, without coordination. Chairs scraped. Bags hit the floor. Someone laughed too early at something half-heard.
Dave arrived on time, took the seat by the window, and let the room assemble itself around him.
Morning light spilled across the desks. Dust drifted. Outside, the flag snapped faintly in the wind.
He wrote his name at the top of the page. Small letters. Straight lines.
The teacher began explaining math.
Dave followed along, even though Hive had already solved it. He liked keeping pace with the room. There was a rhythm to it.
A few desks away, Izuku leaned too close to his paper, erasing more than he wrote. His pencil paused often, hovering as if unsure whether to commit.
Dave noticed because motion caught his eye.
Nothing more.
Recess broke the room apart.
Kids poured into the yard in clusters that immediately dissolved and reformed. Someone sprinted. Someone tripped. Someone shouted for no reason at all.
Bakugo was loud without trying.
Small pops cracked from his palms as he talked, sparks snapping with every gesture. A loose crowd gathered around him—not because they had to, but because noise pulled attention like gravity.
Dave stopped near the fence, one foot resting lightly against it. He tilted his head back and watched clouds move slowly overhead.
A ball rolled his way. He stepped on it, redirected it back with a tap.
"Nice," a kid called, already gone.
Dave didn't respond.
Near the center of the yard, kids took turns showing things off. Floating toys. Flickering lights. Tiny bursts of heat. Nothing strong enough to matter.
Izuku stood just outside the circle.
Someone noticed him when there was a pause.
"Hey," a boy said. "You gonna try too?"
Izuku startled slightly. "Ah—no."
"Why not?"
"I don't have a quirk."
The boy blinked. Thought about it.
"Oh."
That was all.
He turned away when someone else made their backpack vibrate and shouted, "Whoa!"
The circle shifted. The moment passed.
Bakugo didn't react at all.
He was already talking again, already louder than necessary, sparks snapping as he emphasized a point no one had asked about.
The yard swallowed everything else.
Dave stayed where he was.
A minute later, Izuku drifted toward the fence too—not intentionally, just pushed there by the way people moved.
They stood side by side without acknowledging it.
Dave didn't look over.
Neither did Izuku.
The bell rang.
Dave turned first and walked back inside.
Lunch was louder than recess.
Dave sat wherever there was room. Sometimes that meant a table with three kids arguing about heroes. Sometimes it meant the end of a bench where no one stayed long.
A girl asked to borrow his eraser.
He slid it across.
"Thanks."
"Mm."
Someone asked if he collected hero cards.
"No."
"Oh."
Conversation ended.
Izuku sat at another table, hands moving as he talked quietly to someone. He knocked over his drink, panicked, apologized too much.
Dave finished eating, folded his trash neatly, and stood up.
He left before the bell.
After school, the gates became a waiting place.
Parents arrived in waves. Some kids lingered. Others ran ahead.
Bakugo was still surrounded, voice sharp and confident, hands popping now and then as he talked over everyone else. The sparks were louder in the open air.
Izuku stood nearby, listening more than speaking, nodding when someone looked his way.
Dave adjusted the strap of his bag and walked past them.
Izuku noticed him only because he was moving away.
Dave didn't stop.
Didn't say anything.
He crossed the street and merged into the flow of people heading home.
Izuku watched him for a moment—just long enough to register that he was gone—then turned back as someone shouted Bakugo's name again.
The noise reclaimed the space.
Dave walked home at his own pace.
Hive tracked the day automatically: voices, movements, patterns. Dave didn't ask it to stop.
He didn't ask it to do anything either.
Nothing today required intervention.
That was fine.
Tomorrow would come on its own.
And Dave would meet it the same way he met everything else—present, unremarkable, and entirely his own.