Chapter 16

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍.
⤷ hey, i got a question.

HE LEFT CLASS THE SAME way he always did: quietly, with his hands in his pockets, head angled down as though the fluorescent lights were too bright for him. Lunch period was a battlefield of noise he never felt prepared for, so he usually slipped toward the cafeteria like a shadow skimming along a wall.

But Kaminari had apparently decided shadow-skimming wasn’t allowed.

“Hey—hey! Edogawa! Yo, wait up!”

There came the unmistakable sound of sneakers slapping too fast against tile—Kaminari’s default setting. Oda didn’t stop walking, but he did slow half a step, which for him was practically waving someone over.

Kaminari caught up with a grin so sunny it nearly warmed the air. “Goin’ to lunch?”

“Isn’t everyone?” Oda deadpanned.

Kaminari took that as victory and fell into step beside him, just slightly too close.

They entered the cafeteria, where sound washed over them like a physical force—chairs scraping, laughter echoing. Oda felt his ribs tighten in that odd, familiar way: too many people, too bright, too loud. His body hadn’t recovered enough for this.

Kaminari noticed.

“Hey,” he said more quietly, nudging Oda with an elbow. “C’mon, let’s get food before the good stuff’s gone.”

Oda blinked. “You think there’s good stuff?”

“I live in hope,” Kaminari replied solemnly.

They grabbed trays. Kaminari loaded his with enough carbs to power a small generator; Oda picked at whatever seemed least likely to upset his still-tender insides. When he hesitated—too long—Kaminari leaned in.

“Dude. You okay?”

“Fine,” Oda lied flatly.

Kaminari didn’t push, just nodded and tossed a carton of milk onto Oda’s tray. “Recovery Girl says calcium is, uh—super legit for, like… organs and bones and stuff, right?”

“That’s not… how biology works.”

“Okay, but I was trying to be helpful, so maybe don’t roast me alive.”

Oda huffed something dangerously close to a laugh and followed Kaminari to a quieter table in the far corner. It was tucked beside a window, half-shielded from the cafeteria chaos—a spot someone like Oda would’ve chosen deliberately.

Kaminari slid into the seat across from him.

They ate in relative silence at first. Kaminari tapped his foot absently under the table. Oda nudged food around his plate with slow, methodical efficiency.

“So,” Kaminari said eventually, mouth half full, “what’s it like being the new champion of the entire school?”

Oda shrugged. “I woke up in the infirmary. Pretty pathetic champion.”

“What? Come on, dude,” Kaminari leaned forward. “People were chanting your name, man. Edogawa this, Edogawa that. Did you hear the third years? They were straight up like, ‘who the hell is this gravity guy?’ You’re gonna be hella popular.”

“I don’t want to be popular,” Oda muttered.

“Well, too late. You kinda drop-kicked Bakugo into a wall. That stuff goes viral.”

Oda poked at his rice. “I didn’t drop-kick him.”

“You gravity-threw-his-ass,” Kaminari supplied helpfully.

Oda sighed. 

For a moment, sunlight filtered through the cafeteria window, catching the red markings faintly visible on Oda’s wrists beneath his sleeves. Kaminari’s eyes flicked toward them.

“You feeling okay? Like… for real?” He asked.

Oda hesitated. His chest throbbed with dull ache, the ghost of pain from organs that had nearly given out. He could still hear Ango’s voice like poison along the edges of his memory.

“…I’m fine enough.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Oda finally looked up at him. Kaminari wasn’t stupid—not about people, anyway. His face held no mockery, no pity. Just concern wrapped in bright yellow hair and bad posture.

“I’ll live,” Oda said at last.

Kaminari nodded once. “Cool. Then let’s make sure you don’t, like, explode next time. I can’t lose my lunch buddy.”

Oda blinked. “Lunch buddy?”

“Yeah, man. You sat with me twice. That’s legally binding.”

“That’s not—”

“Legally. Binding.”

Oda stared at him, bewildered. Kaminari grinned, warm and idiotic. Something loosened under Oda’s ribs. Something small. Something almost like safety.

“…Fine,” Oda murmured, looking back down at his tray so Kaminari wouldn’t see the way his expression softened. “Lunch buddy.”

Kaminari lit up like he’d won a lottery. “Hell yeah.”

𓏵

BACK IN CLASS, the hum of lunchtime conversation had burned itself out and been replaced by pencils scratching and desks shifting as everyone tried, with varying degrees of success, to return to academic mode. Oda sat stiffly, posture guarded, his jacket tugged across his ribs. He could feel the dull ache of his organs every time he twisted even slightly, but he forced his focus onto the chalkboard because falling behind wasn’t an option.

They made it through to the last thirty minutes of class before Aizawa slid the door open again. He strode in with a stack of papers tucked under one bandaged arm, his expression the usual exhausted neutrality.

“Now that everyone’s decided on their names,” Aizawa began, voice low and even, “we can go back to talking about your upcoming internships.”

The class perked up. The words internships and pro heroes carried weight and every person in the room leaned just a bit forward.

“They’ll last for a week,” Aizawa continued, lifting one sheet from his stack. “As for who you’ll be working with, those of you who were on the board will choose from among your offers. Everyone else will have a different list.” He held up the paper slightly so the light caught the print.

Oda felt Kaminari poked him lightly in the shoulder from behind, muttering, “And you’ve got, like, three thousand more offers than me.”

The black haired boy didn’t look at him, tugging at the thin chain that sat around his own neck. 

“You have a lot to think about,” Aizawa went on. “There are around forty agencies across the country who’ve agreed to take on interns from your class. Each agency has a different specialty that its heroes focus on. Keep that in mind.”

“Imagine you’re Thirteen,” Midnight chimed in brightly, stepping up beside him. “You’d want to choose a place that focuses on rescuing people, not fighting villains. Understand?”

“That means don’t just chase the flashiest name,” Aizawa reiterated, the corner of his mouth twitching downward. “Think carefully before you choose.”

“Yes, sir,” the class chorused.

The end-of-day bell shrieked through the room, startling several of them into jumping in their seats. Chairs scraped back. Books snapped shut. The noise of a classroom full of teenagers being freed from academic captivity rose instantly.

“I wanna fight crime and bad guys in a big city,” Kirishima announced proudly as he helped pass papers back, chest puffed.

“I just hope I can intern someplace where there’s a lot of flooding,” Asui added thoughtfully, hands folded neatly on her desk. “Or a lake.”

“Turn in your choices before the weekend,” Aizawa instructed, already walking toward the door.

“We’ve only got two days?” Sero asked, horrified.

“Yeah, so you should start now.” Aizawa said it with all the warmth of a cinder block. “You’re dismissed.” He and Midnight disappeared down the hall.

But most of the class remained. The atmosphere loosened, filling with casual chatter as students swiveled in their seats or clustered in small groups. 

Ashido bounced onto the balls of her feet. “So guys, have you decided what pro agency you wanna go for?”

“Mount Lady’s my top choice,” Mineta declared instantly.

Asui didn’t even blink. “Mineta, are you thinking something perverted?”

“Possibly.”

Several groans echoed around the room.

Kaminari was half-lounging sideways in his chair, one leg hooked around the metal rung, when he nudged Oda again. “Picked from your offers yet?”

Oda blinked once, slow and flat, and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I already know where I’m interning. I don’t really have to think about it.”

Kirishima twisted around in his seat so fast his pencil flew off his desk. “Really? Where?”

“You’ve probably never heard of it.” Oda replied, tone maddeningly neutral. “It’s a private detective agency in Yokohama.”

That actually made Yaoyorozu stop walking. She’d been heading toward the door with her books in her arms, but she froze, pivoted, and stepped back toward them with lifted brows.

“Oh—yes, I’ve wanted to ask you this,” she said, brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Your last name is Edogawa. Any relation to the private detective Ranpo Edogawa?”

Oda almost flinched. Almost. The instinct snapped up, but he pinned it down with practiced force. His expression didn’t move—just the smallest flex of his jaw.

“Kinda,” he breathed.

“You know him?” Jiro asked Yaoyorozu, leaning forward over her desk.

“My parents know him pretty well. He’s a big deal in law enforcement. The man with the intuition quirk, right?” Yaoyorozu continued with genuine academic curiosity.

“That’d be him,” Oda mumbled, eyes dropping to the scratched surface of his desk. “And he doesn’t have a quirk. He’s just that annoyingly smart. Technically he’s my legal guardian.”

“Really?” Yaoyorozu gasped.

A ripple of surprise moved around the group. Oda hated how even that reaction made him feel exposed.

“What happened to your parents?” Kaminari blurted out.

Jiro slapped his arm so hard he yelped. “You can’t just ask him that, idiot.”

“They’re uh…” Oda paused, searching for the version of the truth that wouldn’t unravel him. “Not in the picture.”

Kirishima’s face softened instantly. “I’m sorry, that’s gotta suck.”

“It’s fine.” Oda turned his gaze toward the window, voice going flat in a way that warned anyone paying attention that this was a place he didn’t want them stepping into. 

“That’s curious,” Yaoyorozu murmured, clearly thinking aloud and not meaning harm. “Detective Edogawa doesn’t seem like the type to adopt—”

“Cause he’s pretty irresponsible and childish?” Oda finished for her dryly. “Yeah. It shows. He just knew my parents, is all.”

The teenagers absorbed that in a beat of quiet understanding.

“So you’re interning with him? That’s pretty lucky,” Jiro said, tapping her earjacks against her desk as she mulled it over.

Oda shrugged again, the motion stiff because his ribs still hurt. “I’ll be working with him and the pro hero Weretiger. I’m more interested in what Atsushi has to teach me in the field than what Ranpo does in investigations. I already have a pretty good idea of that anyway.”

Kaminari nudged him with his elbow, grinning wide. “Look at you. Connections and everything.”

“I’m telling you, he’ll be out of here early,” Sero chimed in from the next desk over, and there was no malice in it. Just awe. Just the simple observation that Oda seemed built for bigger stages.

Bakugo—who had been simmering in silence across the room—stood up so abruptly his chair rattled. He stalked past them with a scowl carved into his face, shoving the door open so hard it bounced off the stopper.

As Bakugo stormed out, leaving behind the echo of his irritation, a new shadow fell across the threshold. Aizawa’s tired face appeared around the frame. His eyes swept across the room, picked out one student, and locked in.

“Edogawa. A word?”

The remaining students all turned their heads toward Oda at once. Oda felt like ten sets of eyes stick to him like weights. Every instinct told him to melt into his chair, slide under the tile, and vanish into some crack in the foundation. No such escape presented itself.

“Sure,” he muttered, pushing himself upright and gathering his bag with stiff movements. His ribs throbbed just from the effort of standing, and he had to brace a hand against the desk to steady himself before following Aizawa into the hallway.

The corridor was quiet—echoingly so. Afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows, forming long beams that dust drifted through. Aizawa didn’t turn around until they were a few steps away from the classroom door, far enough that whatever little was said wouldn’t be overheard.

“I know my word may not do much to sway you,” Aizawa began, tone as dry as ever, “but I’d at least like to advise you to branch out.”

Oda blinked. That… was not the lecture he’d been expecting. He leaned back against the cool wall, letting it support some of his weight. His insides felt like someone had taken a mallet to them and left the dents behind.

“I know Detective Edogawa’s expecting you at his agency,” Aizawa continued. “And I know you’re already primed to stick with what you know. But it’d be a good learning experience if you maybe branched out a bit more.”

Oda let out a breath through his nose, the exhale uneven. Leaning against the wall helped a little, but even breathing felt like an inconvenience. He glanced at the internship form he’d already filled out. Ranpo’s agency name stared back at him.

“Yeah, I know.” He nudged the floor with the toe of his shoe, “But… honestly, I’ll probably end up there anyway, since they’re government-run, so… I guess I just don’t really see the point.”

Aizawa’s eyes flicked to the paper. He didn’t comment on the fact that Oda had clearly already made up his mind.

“I figured,” Aizawa sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, at least for my sake, go through your offers and put another name down. If it’s something you really want to do, then circle it. If not, I’ll sign and put you down for the agency.”

Oda huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t dragged across the pain in his ribs. “You’re begging to get me in trouble.”

He said it lightly, but the ache beneath the joke was real. Choosing anything other than Ranpo’s agency felt dangerously close to rebellion, and rebellion came with consequences he didn’t have the energy to face.

A sudden sharp sting seized his side, and he reflexively brought a hand up to brace his ribs. The motion was too quick, too telling. Aizawa’s gaze flickered down, just observant in the way that made Oda feel like he couldn’t hide behind anything.

“Then I’ll take the heat for it,” Aizawa replied simply, with a shrug so casual it nearly startled Oda. “Branching out now, while you have the time for it, will be the best for you in the long run. Exploit it while you can.”

The advice was simple. The implication behind it wasn’t.

Oda kept his eyes down, tracing the pattern of cracks in the tile. Choosing anything on his own felt monumental, dangerous, like trying to step into sunlight after too long in the dark.

But still… he nodded.

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.” Aizawa turned. As he took a few steps away, he didn’t look back—but his voice came, “Now go get some rest.”

And then he disappeared down the hallway.

𓏵

HE WALKED DOWN THE long first–floor corridor with the slow, tight-shouldered gait. The end-of-day rush had mostly cleared out, leaving the space between classrooms quiet except for the faint hum of the ventilation system and the occasional echo of voices drifting from somewhere far down another hall. 

Small lockers lined the wall, each one painted that same unremarkable UA gray, and Oda’s hand skimmed along them for balance as he approached his own.

He was already mentally planning the simplest route ‘home’ when the door to the boys’ restroom swung open with a sharp metallic clack. Oda’s eyes flicked up in time to see a familiar blond storming out, the look on his face equal parts rage, frustration, and leftover humiliation from a fight he’d thought he was going to win. 

Bakugo stopped dead the moment he saw Oda, body going unnervingly still except for the twitch in his jaw.

Oda didn’t break stride. He didn’t have the energy. He didn’t even lift his head properly—just cut his eyes sideways long enough to acknowledge Bakugo’s existence and kept walking toward his locker. He crouched without bending, kicking his school shoes off the backs of his heels, because if he leaned forward any further than a few degrees his organs might mutiny and exit through his throat. Pain pulsed under his ribs in a thick, rhythmic throb, but he forced his face to remain blank.

Bakugo hadn’t moved an inch. He just stood there, arms tense, staring at him.

Then, abruptly—

“Hey, I got a question.”

Oda didn’t even flinch. Just pulled his outside shoes from the cramped locker and muttered a flat, “What?”

The other boy’s voice stayed sharp, “In the cavalry battles you caught me out of midair and redirected my fall every time. But you didn’t pull that bullshit move even once during any of the one-on-ones. Why?”

Oda paused with one shoe in hand. “Why do you wanna know?”

That hit a nerve.

Bakugo stomped forward, hands balled into fists. “Because I told you fight me with everything you had, you bastard! And instead you just threw rocks the entire time. If you’re not even gonna try to use that overpowered quirk of yours to its fullest then the hell are you even here?!”

Oda looked down at the floor, bangs slipping over his eyes. His voice came out low and cutting.

“Are you stupid or what?”

Bakugo’s whole body jerked like someone had set him on fire. “The fuck did you just say you little—”

“I told you,” Oda snapped—sharp enough that it momentarily overrode the pain pulsing in his ribs—”during the cavalry battles that using my quirk on other people isn’t always the safest option. Did you want me to turn you into a smear on the concrete, is that what you were after?”

That stopped Bakugo short. Not fully, but enough that his snarl froze halfway through forming.

“Because if you wanna die,” Oda continued, “there are easier ways to do it. Being crushed by gravity isn’t fun, believe me.”

He dropped one outside shoe to the floor. When he lifted his leg to slide his foot in, white-hot agony tore up his side, and his hand flew to his ribs without permission. His voice stayed steady, but the way he braced himself against the lockers made the pain obvious.

Bakugo noticed.

“So why use it in the cavalry round?” he demanded, voice lowered but tense.

“Because I wasn’t exhausted yet.” Oda hissed as he shoved his heel down. The movement nearly made him retch. “Obviously I can do it when I’m not fighting organ failure, you stupid bitch, god.”

He wrestled his foot all the way into the shoe with a frustrated scrape against the tile.

“You were the one going on about how quirks are physical abilities,” Oda went on, breath trembling with irritation and pain. “Obviously I can’t change a fundamental law of physics without there being strain. It’s not like you or Todoroki are fireproof.”

“I’m stupid?” Bakugo barked. “You used up your most useful power in the second game!”

“You’re the one who picked me for it!” Oda’s voice climbed sharply, “You clearly understood that I was your biggest threat once we got to the one-on-ones and you still put me on your team. You wanted me to advance because you wanted to take down me or Todoroki in the finals. Don’t be pissy with me because you lost, when you’re literally the one who told me to fight with my full strength.”

He lifted his head just enough for his hair to part, revealing the cold, exhausted glare beneath.

“I did. It’s not my fault you weren’t strong enough to beat me without me even using my quirk directly on you.”

Oda finally managed to shove his second shoe on. Turning toward Bakugo nearly folded him in half with pain, and his hand flew to his side again. The world went slightly white around the edges, but he forced his feet to stay planted.

“Your pride got the better of you and now we’re both paying for it,” he said, voice quieter but sharper for it. “Cry about it to someone else.”

He tried to bend for his school shoes on the floor and his entire torso rebelled. A fierce burn shot through him like a warning—bend any further and something inside you will tear. With a tired, defeated exhale, he abandoned the attempt entirely and straightened slowly, keeping a hand braced against the lockers.

Bakugo stared, wide-eyed—not in fury, but in stunned silence, as if several of Oda’s comments were only now landing in sequence.

“You didn’t even need that power to beat me…?”

Oda paused at the doorway, glancing back just enough for the dim hallway light to catch his eyes.

“No. Maybe next time, don’t ensure that your greatest threat is gonna end up facing off against you.”

Then he pushed the glass door open with his shoulder and stepped out into the evening air, leaving Bakugo standing alone among the lockers, fists slack, expression uncharacteristically shaken.

And Oda didn’t look back.

Katsuki didn’t move for a long moment after the glass door swung shut behind Edogawa, leaving the entryway filled with nothing but the echo of Edogawa’s fading footsteps and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to unclench it. His hands weren’t even in fists anymore—they just hung at his sides, fingers flexing faintly, almost unsure of what to do with themselves.

He stared at the doorway, like that black-haired bastard might come walking back through it to take another shot at him. But the hallway remained empty. Completely still.

The thing Katsuki despised most was losing. Not the pain, not the bruises, not the shame—losing. And yet… this loss didn’t taste like the others.

No—this one landed somewhere in the gut, the ribs, the spine. Somewhere that made him think, and he hated that even more.

He’d been humbled. Thoroughly. Brutally. And not by Todoroki, whose overwhelming dual-quirk power he may have actually been able to beat. Not by Deku, who had suddenly grown a quirk out his ass.

No. It was Edogawa. Quiet, plain-faced, unassuming Edogawa, the guy Katsuki had barely given the time of day to during the first weeks of class—because why the hell would he?

But Edogawa had been ahead of them since day one. Physically. Technically. Strategically. The cavalry battle had been the first hint, watching Edogawa juggle the weight of Katsuki’s entire weight like it was nothing. Katsuki hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it then.

But the final match…

Katsuki let out a slow breath through his nose.

If Edogawa had fought him fresh—if Edogawa had used even a fraction more of that terrifying, crushing, suffocating gravity quirk—Katsuki wouldn’t have lost in literal seconds. He had known, somewhere deep down, during the fight itself. But hearing Edogawa calmly confirm it—

“It’s not my fault you weren’t strong enough to beat me without me even using my quirk directly on you.”

That line replayed in his head like a punch he couldn’t dodge.

He looked down.

At the pair of shoes Edogawa had left behind.

Abandoned not because Edogawa didn’t care—but because he couldn’t bend down without his damn organs threatening to spill out. The idiot had pushed himself past the breaking point—literally—just to fight Katsuki on Katsuki’s terms. He had taken his hands out of his pockets. He had forced his body past its limits. He had flared his quirk until it nearly shredded him from the inside out.

Just because Katsuki demanded a real fight.

And that was what Katsuki couldn’t get out of his head.

Odasaku Edogawa had nearly killed himself… to honor Katsuki’s pride.

And Katsuki had still lost.

Completely. And utterly.

He had told everyone he was going to win. He had yelled it. Declared it. Owned it.

He had exploded his way through round after round with sheer force of will and raw power. And yet— He was nowhere close. Not to where he wanted to be. Not number one.

His chest tightened, something furious and hot and determined curling inside him, but not the usual flavor of anger. A realization he didn’t like but couldn’t deny:

If he wanted to be the best, he was going to have to work a hell of a lot harder.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, annoyed. Not at Edogawa—though he’d sooner blow himself up than say that out loud—but at this inconvenient moment of introspection. He bent down to snag the shoes off the floor, ready to toss them somewhere just to be done with it, but his hand hesitated mid-motion.

Why? Why the hell was he doing this? Why bother?

He didn’t have an answer, and that pissed him off more than anything, but his body moved anyway—sliding the shoes into Edogawa’s empty locker with rough efficiency, like slamming a door shut before the wind could catch it.

A favor, maybe.

Whatever.

Who knows.

Katsuki slammed the locker door shut and stood upright, glaring at the metal, then shoved his hands in his pockets and stormed off down the hall.