Chapter 15

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄.
⤷ pick your hero identities.

WHEN CONSCIOUSNESS FINALLY dragged Oda back into the world, it wasn’t gentle, nor was it abrupt—it came in slow waves. Pressure pulsed behind his eyes, his ribs ached with every muted breath, and his body felt like something heavy had settled inside of it, weighing him down from the inside out. The sterile smell of antiseptic stung faintly at his nose, and even before he fully opened his eyes, he knew exactly where he was: Recovery Girl’s infirmary. Judging from how stiff his limbs were and how the sheets felt bunched under him, he’d been here for a while.

A soft tapping reached him—the faint rhythmic sound of someone impatiently flicking something against something solid. He forced his eyelids open, vision swimming for a moment before it cleared enough to see the person beside him.

Ranpo Edogawa sat in the chair next to his bed, tilted back slightly with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, tapping the heel of his shoe against the chair leg. His mint-green eyes were unusually sharp, even for him, watching Oda with a penetrating calm. Ranpo didn’t look happy. But he didn’t look angry either. He looked… thoughtful. 

Oda let out a groan—the only sound he could muster—and Ranpo straightened. Just a small adjustment, but enough to show he’d been waiting for this exact moment and resisting the urge to hover.

“Well,” Ranpo said after a stretch of silence, voice mild but edged like a paper cut, “good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Or, technically, good afternoon. On the second day.” He gestured lazily at the clock on the wall. “You’ve been out for forty-three hours. Did you enjoy your coma? Comfortable, I hope?”

Oda blinked, sluggish, feeling the dryness in his throat like sandpaper. “Two days?” His voice cracked terribly, almost painful. He swallowed, grimacing. “I… missed the ceremony?”

Ranpo’s eyebrows shot up as if offended by the sheer stupidity of the question. “Did you miss the ceremony? Odasaku. You didn’t just miss the ceremony. They held the entire damn award event without you because you were too busy hemorrhaging internally to stand upright. They put your medal next to your empty podium spot.” He lifted a hand and made a vague circling motion. “Very dramatic of them.”

Oda winced, not because Ranpo was exaggerating but because the memories started sliding back into place. The fight with Bakugo. The pressure inside his torso ballooning beyond what he could contain. The blood. The fall. Everything after that was just flashes of noise and motion, alarms and shouts and concrete rising to brace him.

He lifted a hand weakly and rubbed at his forehead, surprised to find an IV taped into his arm. “How bad was it?” he rasped.

“Bad enough,” Ranpo replied, but his tone softened. “Your organs were collapsing under the gravitational load, and since Recovery Girl’s quirk only accelerates existing healing, all she could do was keep your body from crashing while they called in a cellular rewinder.” He leaned forward slightly, the light catching in his glasses. “They rebuilt parts of your liver, your pancreas, and half your lower lung lining. If they’d waited another ten minutes, you’d be a neat, tragic headline instead of a very annoying patient.”

Oda felt a cold chill lace through his spine. Not because he feared death—he was almost frighteningly familiar with the concept—but because Ranpo rarely spoke so plainly about consequences.

He forced himself a little more upright, though the effort made his ribs protest sharply. “Is there gonna be any… lasting damage?”

Ranpo’s lips thinned. “Yes and no. The specialist says your body will recover, but it’s fragile right now. Flare your quirk again in the next week, even a little, and you’ll undo all the work they just did and probably put yourself back under. If not worse.” He paused just long enough for Oda to understand. “Your quirk isn’t the problem. Your control is. And your tolerance. You pushed too far.”

“Well, that’s not new,” Oda muttered bitterly, trying to shift but abandoning the motion when pain bit deep into his side. 

“That’s not the comfort you think it is,” Ranpo said dryly. “And speaking of comfort, I’ll have you know I’ve been sitting here the entire time. I didn’t even leave to eat. Do you know who brought me snacks? Midnight. She almost cried on me, which was its own harrowing near-death experience.”

Oda actually blinked at that. “Miss Midnight… came here?”

“Multiple times. She’s very emotional. And she kept calling you ‘that poor sweet boy.'” Ranpo shuddered. “Please never be unconscious around weepy heroes again. It’s stressful.”

Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the dread curling in his stomach when he remembered Ango’s phone call—Oda found himself letting out a faint, disbelieving laugh. It hurt. God, it hurt. But it felt real.

Ranpo watched him quietly for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, in a much softer voice than before, he said, “You scared me, you know.” He didn’t qualify it. When they carried you off the field, you weren’t breathing right. You were limp. For about thirty seconds, I thought…” He exhaled, slow and thin. “Well. It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Oda looked down at his hands, the tape along his wrist where another IV must have been earlier. His voice came out quiet. “Sorry.”

Ranpo reclined back in the chair with a dramatic huff, crossing his arms. “Don’t apologize, you idiot. Just don’t do it again.”

Oda frowned, confused. “Don’t… win?”

Ranpo’s expression sharpened into incredulous offense. “No. Don’t almost die. Though I suppose the first is also something Ango would prefer.” His mouth twisted in irritation. “He’s furious, by the way. Pacing-holes-in-his-floor furious.”

Oda swallowed, dread returning like a cold hand closing around his ribs. “He wanted me to throw it.”

“Of course he did,” Ranpo said, rolling his eyes. “Because in his mind, the less attention you draw, the easier his little secrets stay hidden. But guess what? You didn’t listen. And the world didn’t end. And the sky didn’t fall. And you’re still here.” He flicked Oda’s forehead lightly—gently, but enough to make a point. “You won. You were spectacular. And he can sulk about it all he wants.”

“Yeah,” Oda murmured, though the weight of that victory didn’t feel clean. “He’ll still make my life hell.”

“Absolutely,” Ranpo agreed cheerfully. “But he was going to do that anyway, so why not enjoy the part where you obliterated every student in your year first?”

A long silence settled, but not a tense one. Not anymore. Oda lay back, exhausted but awake, and Ranpo watched him with a stillness that was rare for him. At some point, Oda realized, Ranpo’s coat was draped over the back of the chair—not hung, but thrown—as if Ranpo had tossed it carelessly the moment he’d sat down. A half-eaten bag of snacks lay at his feet.

Ranpo had stayed, had waited, had worried.

Oda closed his eyes for a moment, letting that settle where it mattered.

When he opened them again, Ranpo was smirking faintly. “Well,” the detective said, leaning back with exaggerated nonchalance, “now that you’re alive, I can finally say it: congratulations on winning the entire damn festival. You dramatic asshole.”

Oda let out a small breath—something close to a laugh.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Ranpo only smiled wider.

The first indication that something was happening outside Oda’s room came in the form of a voice—Present Mic’s unmistakably overcaffeinated shout—echoing faintly from the television mounted in the corner. Ranpo, who had finally stopped tapping his shoe and had been quietly scrolling on his phone, glanced up at the sudden burst of noise. Then, without asking, he snagged the remote from Oda’s bedside table and turned up the volume.

A sweeping shot of the stadium appeared on-screen—the crowd still roaring, confetti drifting down in silver and gold ribbons. Except something about it was off. The energy felt mismatched. Not triumphant. Not celebratory. Something… unsettled.

And then the feed cut to the podium.

Oda felt his stomach sink almost instantly.

Three platforms stood under the glaring lights. Third place stood proudly—Shoto Todoroki, looking stiff and vaguely uncomfortable with a medal looping around his neck. Second place: Katsuki Bakugo, arms forced back by metal cuffs, face twisted in sheer volcanic rage, teeth bared as he struggled against the bindings and yelled something that the camera thankfully muted.

And the center podium—the highest one—that was supposed to hold him…

It was empty.

A single gold medal lay draped over the stand, untouched, its ribbon curled neatly like a placeholder. A faceless reminder of the person who should have been there but wasn’t.

The footage zoomed in, perhaps unintentionally, perhaps directed by someone who thought drama overrode tact. The medal glinted under the sunlight, the plate engraved with his name: Odasaku Edogawa – First Place.

Oda swallowed hard. He didn’t know why it hit him the way it did. Maybe because the silence from the crowd at that moment—caught on camera as confusion rippled through the stands. Maybe because seeing his absence displayed so brazenly made the whole ordeal real in a way being unconscious never could. 

Ranpo leaned back, watching the screen with unimpressed detachment. “Very tasteful,” he muttered. “Truly. Nothing says ‘Congratulations’ like broadcasting your hospital bed vacancy on national television.”

Oda didn’t respond. His throat felt too tight.

After a moment, Present Mic’s strained voice filled the lull. “UNFORTUNATELY, OUR FIRST-PLACE WINNER COULDN’T JOIN US DUE TO MEDICAL COMPLICATIONS! BUT LET’S GIVE HIM A HUGE ROUND OF APPLAUSE!”

The applause was loud. Deafening, even through the speakers. But on-screen, Bakugo thrashed, Todoroki looked away, Endeavor scowled down from the VIP section, and All Might—standing awkwardly off to the side—still grinned.

He dragged his eyes away from the screen… only to find Aizawa standing in the doorway.

The homeroom teacher looked as though he hadn’t slept either, though Oda doubted that was unusual. His capture weapon draped loosely around his shoulders, and his eyes—usually half-lidded and bored—were sharper than Oda had ever seen them. Ranpo straightened only slightly, giving a small nod of acknowledgment, then went back to pretending he wasn’t invested in this conversation at all.

Aizawa stepped inside. He didn’t speak immediately, which was somehow worse.

Finally, he exhaled. “So. You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Oda muttered, “Sorry.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “You’re apologizing for waking up?”

“For… collapsing,” Oda clarified, though it came out smaller than he intended. “I messed up the end of the event.”

Aizawa sighed and dragged a hand across his face. When he crossed the room to stand beside the bed,”Edogawa, this isn’t about the ceremony. They’re going to recycle footage and use dramatic narration. They’ll survive.”

Oda blinked, caught off guard. “Then… what is it about?”

Aizawa looked him dead in the eyes. “It’s about the fact that you nearly died because you lost control of your quirk.”

The bluntness hit harder than the bruises lacing Oda’s ribs. He lowered his gaze, staring down at the blankets bunched over his lap.

“Your quirk has a physical toll. You know that better than anyone. But I’m not sure you understand just how close you came.” Aizawa’s voice didn’t waver, concern, wrapped tightly beneath discipline. “You pushed past your threshold and kept going. That was recklessness.”

Oda stiffened. “I had to fight.”

“No,” Aizawa corrected, immediate and firm. “You chose to. And choices come with responsibility.” He leaned slightly against the side of the bed, arms crossing. “You didn’t enter a villain battle. You weren’t protecting civilians. You were in a controlled school event, overseen by pros ready to intervene. But you treated it like a battlefield.”

Oda’s jaw tightened. His mother’s memory flickered again in the back of his mind—her arms around him, her voice asking What if someone tried to take me away from you? A different kind of battlefield entirely.

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” Oda said quietly, even though he wasn’t sure it was true.

Aizawa didn’t accept it. “Then explain why you kept escalating even after your body showed signs of strain.”

Oda hesitated. He didn’t want to lie. He didn’t want to tell the truth. He settled for something in between. “Because Bakugo wouldn’t stop unless I did.”

“You’re not in charge of Bakugo’s decisions,” Aizawa countered. “You’re in charge of yours.” He paused, letting the words settle. “And you’re in charge of knowing your limits. You ignored them. You endangered yourself, and whether you realize it or not, you scared your classmates.” He jerked his chin toward Ranpo without looking. “And apparently your guardian.”

Ranpo scoffed dramatically from his chair. “I wasn’t scared. I was merely… inconvenienced by the concept of your premature death.”

Aizawa didn’t dignify that with a reaction.

He returned his attention to Oda. “This is your warning, Edogawa. You have a dangerous quirk. And that means you don’t get the luxury of pushing yourself blindly.” He leaned in just enough that Oda had to meet his eyes. “If you continue using your quirk the way you did in that final match, you will not graduate this course. I won’t have it.”

Oda felt the truth of it like a cold stone in his gut. He hadn’t needed a doctor to tell him that. He’d felt it the moment the blood hit his tongue.

“Anyway, that’s all.” Aizawa straightened. He reached for the remote, lowering the volume as Present Mic rambled on the screen. “Get your rest. You look like you need it.”

The erasure hero pushed off the bedframe and started toward the door. Just before stepping out, he paused without turning back.

“And Edogawa?”

Oda lifted his eyes. “Yeah?”

Aizawa’s voice softened, barely noticeable. “You did well.”

Oda didn’t know what to say to that. Luckily, Aizawa didn’t wait for a response. He slipped through the doorway, leaving the room quieter than before.

Ranpo finally sighed and turned the TV off. “Well,” he said, stretching his legs out with a groan, “that was educational. And depressing. Mostly depressing.”

Oda lay back on the pillow, staring at the blank screen, feeling the lingering echo of Aizawa’s words settle heavy but steady inside him.

𓏵

THE CLASSROOM LIGHTS hummed faintly overhead. The minute Odasaku stepped into 1-A’s homeroom, he felt every bruise and every stitch in his torso complain at once. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Breathing hurt. But none of that mattered when he saw the stack of untouched worksheets in his desk. 

Missing even one day meant missing three subjects’ worth of material, and Oda already felt like he was jogging miles behind the others academically. Falling further back wasn’t an option—not when he’d spent half his childhood completely uneducated, and the other half desperately trying to catch up.

So he sat stiffly, metal taste still lingering at the back of his throat, arms folded carefully over his aching ribs, pretending the simple act of staying upright didn’t feel like someone was wringing out his organs.

Aizawa’s entry was quieter than usual, but the scar by his eye seemed to drag the entire class into silence before he even spoke.

“We have a big class today,” Aizawa announced, rubbing the corner of his injured eye with two fingers. “On hero informatics. You need codenames. Time to pick your hero identities.”

The reaction was immediate. An explosion of excitement rippled from desk to desk: chairs scraped, whispers sprinted around the room, Mina nearly levitated out of her seat with joy, and Kaminari thumped his hand against his desk like he’d been waiting for this day his whole life.

Then Aizawa glared—a dry, irritated, sleep-deprived glare—and it was as if someone slammed the mute button on a remote. The noise died with a painful abruptness.

“This is related to the pro-hero draft picks that I mentioned last time we were in class together,” Aizawa continued. “Normally, students don’t need to think about the drafts until their second or third years, actually. But your class is… different.”

The word different came with the weight of a resigned sigh. Oda could practically hear the ellipsis behind it. Different because half the class had nearly died at the USJ. Different because the Festival had turned into a broadcasted arms race. Different because powerful quirks made powerful headlines.

“In fact,” Aizawa added, “by extending offers to first-years like you, pros are essentially investing in your potential. Any offers can be rescinded if interest dies down before graduation.”

“Stupid, selfish adults,” Mineta muttered.

“So what you’re saying is that we’ll still have to prove ourselves after we’ve gotten recruited,” Hagakure commented.

“Correct,” Aizawa answered flatly. “Now. Here are the offers for those of you who got any.”

He clicked the remote.

The projector flickered, then flooded the wall with names and numbers so large even Oda’s tired eyes couldn’t miss them.

Class A — Number of Draft Offers Received:

Todoroki — 4,123
Edogawa — 3,975
Bakugo — 3,556
Tokoyami — 360

Iida — 192
…
…
…

A collective gasp rippled through the room. 

“Gah! That’s no fair!” Kaminari exclaimed behind Oda, clutching his hair.

“Todoroki got the highest above Edogawa and Bakugo?” Jiro said, one eyebrow raised.

“They both placed higher than him though,” Kirishima pointed out, leaning forward in his chair with an earnest frown.

“I’m sure they weren’t excited about working with the guy who had to be chained up at the end,” Sero chimed in, too casually. 

Bakugo snapped around so fast his chair screeched across the floor. “If I scared a pro, they’re just weak! Don’t try to spin it!”

His red eyes slid from Sero… to the scoreboard… to Oda.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “And don’t think you’re better than me just ’cause you won, short-stack,” Bakugo barked, pointing sharply enough that Oda half-expected an explosion to spark off his fingertip. “I’ll beat you next time!”

The class braced for Oda’s reaction.

Oda blinked slowly.

That was it. No flinch. No defensive posture. No attempt to snap back.

“Despite these results,” Aizawa continued, voice drifting into a deadpan monotone, “you’ll all be working with pros. Even those who didn’t get any offers.”

“Oh, so, we’re all interning?” Midoriya asked, surprised but hopeful.

“Yes.” Aizawa replied. “You already got to experience real combat with villains during the attack on the USJ facility, but it’ll still be helpful to see pros at work. Up close and personal, in the field, first hand.”

Sato perked up. “And for that we need hero names!”

“Things are suddenly starting to get a lot more fun!” Uraraka agreed.

“These hero names will likely be temporary, but take them seriously or—”

The classroom door slammed open with theatrical force.

“You’ll have hell to pay later!” boomed a voice rich enough to fill a stadium. Midnight swept in, whip curling at her hip, her perfume hitting the front row in a wave.

Aizawa sighed. “Midnight is going to have final approval over your names. It’s not my forte. The name you give yourself is important. It helps reinforce your image and show what kind of hero you want to be in the future. A code name tells people what you represent. Take All Might for example.”

And then—because he had obviously reached his limit—Aizawa sat down in his sleeping bag and immediately pulled it over his head to go to sleep.

Oda stared at him for a moment, deeply envious.

He looked back at his whiteboard. At the blankness waiting to be filled.

At a decision only he could make.

His stomach twisted painfully—not from the lingering damage, but from something closer to dread.

The name you give yourself.

He had never chosen anything for himself. Not where he lived. Not what he wore. Not whether he trained. Not whether he fought. Not whether he lived.

His name—Odasaku Edogawa—wasn’t even fully his. He had never minded that much, but this—choosing a hero identity—felt like letting light shine into a place he’d spent years keeping locked.

He turned the whiteboard in his hands, watching the reflection of overhead lights ripple across its surface. What kind of hero do you want to be?

He didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure what kind of person he was allowed to be.

A cold knot tightened under his ribs.

Behind him, Kaminari was already scribbling something, grinning. Jiro glared at her board but looked thoughtful. Bakugo wrote with violent, gouging strokes. Midoriya was muttering a string to himself.

Everyone seemed to know who they wanted to be.

“Now students,” Midnight trilled, her voice pitched to a game-show host,”Who among you wants to share with the class?”

Five minutes had evaporated into a blur of frantic scribbling, suppressed groans. Most of the class had already settled on names with the confidence of people who had been dreaming of this moment since conception. Oda had not. Oda was still staring at the ink inside his marker cap.

Aoyama stood first, tossing his hair back with operatic flourish. “Can’t Stop Twinkling!” he declared, gesturing like he expected the room to burst into applause.

No one did, but Midnight approved it, so that was that.

“Okie-dokie! I’ll got next.” Mina marched up next. “My code name: Alien Queen!”

“Hold on, like that horrible monster with the acidic blood?” Midnight asked, lightly mortified, “I don’t think so.”

“Dang it” Mina complained, deflating as she trudged back to her desk to sulk.

Then Tsu, calm, collected and unbothered, stepped forward. “I’ve had this name in mind since grade school. Rainy Season Hero: Froppy.”

Midnight clutched her heart. “That’s delightful. It makes you sound approachable. What a great example of a name everyone will love!”

Finally, a normal one.

Kirishima shot up next, beaming, chest puffed out. “I’ve got mine too. The Sturdy Hero: Red Riot!”

“‘Red riot?’ Interesting. You’re playing homage to the Chivalrous Hero Crimson Riot, yes?” Midnight asked. 

“That right. He may be kinda old school but someday, I wanna be just like he was.” Kirishima said nervously. “Crimson is my idol.” 

“Hmm.” Midnight smiled. “If you’re bearing the name of someone you admire, you have that much more to live up to.” 

“I accept the challenge.”

Jiro followed with “Earphone Jack,” delivered without fanfare, Midnight nodding immediately. Shoji’s “Tentacole” earned a positive hum; Sero’s “Cellophane” got a thumbs up. Then Ojiro stepped forward: “Tailman.”

Accepted.

Sato: “Sugarman.”

Accepted.

Mina, repentant, now armed with humility: “Pinky!”

Approved on the spot.

Kaminari swaggered up with “Chargebolt.” Hakgure’s “Invisible Girl” was approved. Momo said “Creati” with polite confidence; Midnight practically swooned over it.

Then Todoroki.

He stood. He did not blink and said: “Shoto.”

A pause.

Midnight put her hands on her hips. “Just your name? Is that it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Tokoyami stepped forward and declared, “Tsukuyomi.”

Approved.

Mineta: “Grape Juice.”

Midnight visibly tried not to sigh but approved it anyway.

Koda: “Anima.”

Another nod.

Then Bakugo rose, shoulders squared like a soldier, jaw set like a guillotine. He inhaled. “King Explosion Murder.”

“I’m gonna say that one’s a little too violent.” Midnight rejected.

Uraraka went next, bright and determined. “Uravity!”

Midnight lit up. “All about it!”

Then—

It was Oda’s turn.

The whole class shifted just enough to signal that yes, everyone knew exactly how many people had seen him win the Sports Festival, exactly how many agencies had scouted him, exactly how high the bar was now set above his head.

He forced himself to stand. His legs felt heavy, like gravity was misbehaving inside him again—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him of the limits he’d brushed too close to. The whiteboard felt slick in his fingers, palms clammy despite how steady he kept his face.

He stepped forward, eyes fixed not on the class, not on Midnight, but on the scuffed floor near the platform.

“The Gravity Hero: Ground Zero.”

The words left him surprisingly smoothly, even though everything in him had resisted forming them. He didn’t want to see anyone’s reaction—not admiration or confusion or expectation. He just wanted to say it and walk away before anyone could see how unsure he was.

But Midnight beamed at him, “‘Gravity’ suits your quirk and ‘Ground Zero’ also fits—well done!”

Oda nodded as quickly as he could manage without looking rude, and he returned to his seat feeling eyes on him from every direction—curious, impressed, relieved, envious, awed. He didn’t know which was worse.

He barely had time to exhale before Kaminari jabbed him in the shoulder with a grin. “Man, why you gotta be so cool all the time?”

Oda blinked once. “I’m not.”

“Bro.” Kaminari leaned close. “You literally walked up like ‘yes, hello, I am the final boss of this class.'”

“He literally won,” Jiro scowled at Kaminari.

“He’s gonna graduate before us, I swear to god,” Sero whispered.

Oda slouched in his chair, wishing gravity could pull him through the floor panel and out of the room.

“To be honest, choosing names is going faster than I thought it would,” Midnight said, clasping her hands together with theatrical satisfaction. “All we have left is young Bakugo, who needs to rethink his, and Iida. Oh yes—” she scanned the room until her eyes landed on the stiff-backed boy who seemed determined to become one with his desk, “—and Midoriya too.”

Iida stood like a wind-up toy soldier who had been activated, and strode to the front. He held his whiteboard with both hands, posture rigid, expression unreadable. When he turned it around, the single word written there made the entire room blink.

Tenya.

He didn’t say a single word. Didn’t explain. Didn’t gesture. He simply set the board down.

Midnight stared at the board for a beat, eyebrows raised. “You’re using your real name too?” she asked, her voice tipped with surprise.

Iida didn’t answer. Didn’t even pause. Just sat and folded his hands in his lap, his jaw locked. There was something off about him today—sharper around the edges, quieter in a way that wasn’t normal for him. Even Oda glanced sideways, wondering what had soured Iida’s mood so thoroughly.

Midnight cleared her throat—one performer recovering from a missed line—and turned her attention toward the green-haired boy already sweating bullets beside his desk.

“Midoriya,” she said, “you’re up next. Let’s give Bakugo a moment to… cool off.”

Midoriya swallowed, stood, and shuffled forward. When he turned his whiteboard, the word hit the air like a pebble dropped into still water:

Deku.

A ripple of gasps followed.

“Really, Midoriya?” Mineta blurted, squinting like he thought this was some kind of prank.

Kaminari leaned forward over his desk. “Yeah, man, remember that could be your name forever.”

Kirishima chimed in, “For real! You sure? It’s like—kinda insulting?”

Oda didn’t say anything, but he felt his chest tighten anyway. He remembered the way Bakugo had first spat that name. And he remembered the way Uraraka had said it back, turning it soft, reshaping it with her own meaning. Watching Midoriya now, Oda had a strange feeling—an echo of himself, of claiming something he wasn’t sure he had the right to claim.

Midoriya’s hands trembled, but his voice didn’t when he answered.

“Right. I used to hate it,” he admitted, eyes flicking toward Bakugo just once before turning toward the class. “But then… something changed. I guess someone taught me that it could have a different meaning. And that had a huge impact on how I felt. So…” He inhaled, steadied himself. “Now I really like it. Deku. That has to be my code name.”

Bakugo, arms crossed, radiated barely-contained irritation—but there was something else too. A flash in his eyes. A grudging acknowledgment that Midoriya, of all people, had taken the insult he’d weaponized and turned it into armor.

Uraraka grinned so brightly it was a miracle the room didn’t reflect it.

Midoriya returned to his seat, cheeks hot but proud, and Midnight clapped like a delighted aunt at a piano recital.

“A bold reclaiming! I approve!”

Then her gaze cut to Bakugo. “Alright, Bakugo,” she said, entirely too cheerful. “Let’s hear your revised option.”

Bakugo rose from his chair and stalked to the front, whiteboard gripped so tightly it creaked in protest. He spun it to face them.

“Lord Explosion Murder!” he yelled, as if volume alone might force her to accept it.

A long silence followed.

“Bakugo,” Midnight said at last, pinching the bridge of her nose, “that’s basically the same thing.”

“I changed ‘King’ to ‘Lord!'” he barked.

“No.”

“WHY NOT?!”

“Because this is a school, not a villain convention,” she replied sweetly. “Try again.”

The room collectively braced for detonation. And then—

The bell rang.

author’s note-

before anyone goes: “Hey! Ground Zero was Bakugo’s fannon hero name forever-” I KNOW. but the name has a important meaning to Oda personally as the story goes on so i’m. not. listening. i genuinely forgot where i even got the name from until a little while ago so whoops i guess. either way, Bakugo has an official hero name now so the name’s up for sale and i’m using it for this fic. 

kay, anyway, bye-bye.