"Some children are born to be heroes. Some are trained to be soldiers.
Murasaki was never given a choice."
In a world where quirks define your worth, Mahou Murasaki vanished from the radar before she even had the chance to exist. Stolen from her fam...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Murasaki slammed her alarm clock with a grunt and buried herself deeper into the blankets. October's chill leaked through the corners of the dorm window, and between the new routine of extra classes, training drills, and never-ending eyes on her, getting up felt like losing a battle she hadn't agreed to fight.
Eventually, she dragged herself out of bed, pulling on a loose hoodie and trudging to the kitchen. The smell of coffee—thankfully still hot—was the only incentive strong enough to keep her from crawling right back under the covers.
She leaned against the counter, sipping slowly as the warmth spread through her chest. It dulled the edge of fatigue but did nothing to quiet the restlessness underneath. Today was her first real combat exercise with Class 1-A. A "joint training session," they called it. She called it another opportunity to be sized up.
As she took another sip, footsteps behind her made her stiffen—too heavy to be anyone but—
"...Nervous, huh?" Bakugo's voice came out of nowhere, low and sharp. Murasaki nearly spilt her drink.
She turned to find him already glaring. His expression wasn't exactly mocking, but not sympathetic either. Just... observing.
Before she could reply, his tone twisted, and there it was—the switch. "Tch. Not that it matters. You're weak anyway. Why even bother thinking about it?"
Her grip on the mug tightened.
There it is.
She didn't flinch, just narrowed her eyes. "Overconfident much?"
Bakugo's scowl deepened, tiny sparks crackling around his palms. "Who the hell are you calling overconfident? You wanna go right now!?"
Her voice stayed flat. "You started it."
They locked eyes, tension hanging heavy between them like a tripwire. She didn't move. Neither did he.
"Knock it off, you two!" Kirishima's voice cut in, stepping into the kitchen with an easy grin. "Save that energy for training!"
Bakugo clicked his tongue but finally stepped back. His glare lingered, though, like he still had more to say.
"I hate people like you," he muttered. "Acting like you're better than everyone."
Murasaki raised an eyebrow, caught off guard—not by the insult, but by the bitterness behind it.
"What?"
"You act like you don't care," he snapped. "Like none of this matters. Like this place, this training—it's beneath you."
Her face didn't change, but something in her posture shifted. "I don't think I'm better. I just don't need to shout every five seconds to prove myself."
