On a bustling street in Hosu, Katsuki Bakugo was on patrol with Best Jeanist. The young man’s expression was a mix of deadly boredom and contained fury. His hero costume had been subtly modified by his mentor—now more form-fitting—and his hair was styled. Parted to the side, fixed with enough hairspray to stop a low-caliber bullet.

“A hero isn’t the one who hits the hardest, Bakugo,” Best Jeanist said, his voice as smooth and controlled as the threads he manipulated. “It’s the one who inspires calm. We project an image of unshakable control, a tranquility that tells the common citizen, ‘Everything is all right, because I am here.’ Your body language screams ‘trouble.’ Relax your shoulders.”

“I project an image of ‘get out of my way or I’ll disintegrate you,’” Bakugo grumbled under his breath. “It’s more efficient.”

“Efficiency without elegance is simple brutality,” Best Jeanist replied without flinching. “And brutality scares off clients… and sponsors. Your temper is a loose thread in a flawless tapestry. You have to learn to weave it into the pattern, not let it unravel the whole thing.”

Just then, a group of passing youths stopped in their tracks. One of them pointed at Bakugo.

“Hey, it’s the sludge guy! The one who got caught and cried on TV!”

Bakugo froze. The veins on his forehead began to bulge.

“Yeah, look at him! He’s gonna cry again!” another one from the group mocked. “Did your mommy have to clean up your snot?”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY, YOU DAMN FUCKING EXTRA?!” Bakugo exploded, spinning toward them with small sparks crackling in his palms. “I’LL DISINTEGRATE YOU!”

Before he could take a step, he felt a violent tug on his pants. Best Jeanist's threads made him stumble awkwardly, nearly falling on his face.

“Control, Bakugo. Control,” the hero said without even looking at him as he continued walking. “Or your pride will be the noose that hangs you and ruins your potential.”

Bakugo clenched his fists, the sparks slowly dying out. His face was burning, not from shame, but from the rage of not being able to respond as he wanted. Best Jeanist continued speaking, his tone unperturbed.

“A hero doesn't react to provocations. He ignores them or redirects them. Those kids aren’t villains; they’re civilians. Insulting them doesn’t make you stronger; it makes you look weak. You want to be a real hero? Learn to endure mockery without losing your composure.”

Bakugo grunted but didn’t reply. He kept walking, each step an effort to contain the explosion roaring inside him. He knew Best Jeanist was right, even if he hated to admit it. His pride and his fury had always been his engine, but also his chain. If he wanted to be number one, he needed to learn to handle both.



In an old-school gym in another part of the city, hell smelled of sweat and broken dreams. Minoru Mineta’s dreams.

“LET’S GO, MINETA-BOY!” roared his mentor, the “Sweaty Hero: Backdraft,” as he lifted a weight the size of a small car. “HYDRATION IS THE KEY TO MUSCLE GROWTH! MY WATER BOTTLE ISN’T GOING TO REFILL ITSELF! FASTER!”

This is hell, Mineta thought, scrambling with a dozen water bottles in his small arms. There are no girls. Just… hairy men. It smells like sweat and testosterone. My dreams… Why couldn’t I do my internship with Midnight? Or Mt. Lady? Even the snake girl would have been better! This is torture! My life is a tragedy! An opera of despair and armpit odor!

“EXCELLENT WORK WITH THE WATER, MINETA-BOY!” Backdraft bellowed, dropping the weight with a crash that shook the floor. “NOW, PHASE TWO OF MUSCLE RECOVERY! THE WEIGHTS AREN’T GOING TO DRY THEMSELVES! EVERY DROP OF SWEAT TELLS A STORY OF EFFORT! WIPE THEM WITH RESPECT!”

Wipe his sweat? His heroic, manly sweat? I want to die! Mineta thought, running toward the weight rack with a cloth.

“AND AFTER THIS, YOU NEED TO RUB MY BACK WITH LINIMENT!” Backdraft bellowed. “I’VE GOT KNOTS THAT COULD STOP A TRAIN!”

Mineta let out a small, silent sob as he ran for a towel. But then, something changed. As he wiped down the weights, he noticed a group of civilians watching from the gym window. Some were kids, others adults, all with bright, admiring eyes. Not for him, of course, but for Backdraft. The sweaty hero was signing autographs with a smile, his presence filling the space with an energy Mineta hadn’t noticed before.

“Is that your mentor?” a kid asked, pointing at Backdraft as Mineta passed with the cloth.

“Uh… yeah,” Mineta mumbled, surprised.

“He’s awesome! He saved my cousin from a fire last year!” the kid said, his eyes shining. “You must be super cool if you’re training with him!”

Mineta blinked. Cool? Him? For a moment, the stench of the gym seemed to fade. Maybe… maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe being a hero wasn’t just about girls and glamour. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn something here.

“MINETA-BOY! THE LINIMENT ISN'T GOING TO APPLY ITSELF!” Backdraft roared, pulling him from his thoughts.

Mineta sighed and ran toward his mentor. It would definitely be way better to wipe the sweat off a pretty girl.



Elsewhere, the reality of heroism took different forms.

“More spirit, boys! A hero must shine, even when he’s cleaning!” Fourth Kind exclaimed, as Eijiro Kirishima and Tetsutetsu competed fiercely to see who could get the agency windows more spotless.

“My window reflects more manliness than yours, Tetsutetsu!” Kirishima yelled.

“Impossible! My reflection is pure steel!” the other retorted.

The competition between them was fierce but friendly. Fourth Kind watched with a mixture of amusement and approval. He knew his job wasn’t just to teach them how to fight, but how to work as a team. As the two boys cleaned, he threw little challenges at them: “The next window in under a minute!” or “Make my reflection look like a god’s!” Every task was a disguised lesson.



During a real rescue operation in a collapsed building, Death Arms's voice was a tense whisper in Kyoka Jiro’s ear.

“Forget the noise from the machines. Listen to the silence between the rubble. You hear that?”

Jiro, her jacks connected to a steel beam, nodded.

“The victim’s heartbeat. She’s three meters northwest. We’re getting her out.”

Jiro focused, her quirk amplifying the faintest sounds. Every beat was a reminder of the life that depended on her. When they finally found the woman trapped under a beam, Jiro felt a wave of relief. But there was no time for celebrations. Death Arms was already giving orders, coordinating with the rescue team.

“Good work, Jiro,” he said, as he carefully lifted the beam. “Your quirk saved a life today. But don’t rest on your laurels. Next time, I want you to do it faster.”

Jiro nodded, her face serious. She knew it wasn’t an empty compliment, but an expectation. And she was determined to meet it.



Far from the city, on the deck of the Oki Mariner, the salty air was a refreshing breeze.

“It’s not as glamorous as they make it out to be on TV, is it?” said Sirius, Selkie’s sidekick, as she watched Tsuyu Asui clean the deck with methodical efficiency. “Lots of cleaning and not much action.”

“I suppose so, kero,” Tsuyu replied without stopping. “But it feels… real.”

“Selkie taught me that the truly important part of being a hero isn’t the battles.”

“Then what is it?”

Sirius smiled, her gaze lost on the blue horizon.

“That, Asui-chan, is something you have to figure out for yourself.”

Tsuyu nodded, her hands moving rhythmically as she scrubbed the deck. The simplicity of the work gave her time to think. The ocean was vast, unpredictable, but also calm in its immensity. Being a hero, she thought, maybe it’s like the sea: it’s not always about the big waves, but about the constancy, about being there when it matters.



Back at the hospital, the room had become a sanctuary of relief and planning. A doctor had just confirmed the news.

“It’s a miracle, frankly,” the doctor said, reviewing the charts on his tablet. “His regenerative ability is extraordinary. The wound is closing at a rate that defies our biological models. With one more day of observation, he can be discharged.”

As soon as the doctor left, the room erupted in silent cheers. Ochako and Toru hugged a smiling Izuku, while Momo clapped softly, a smile of immense relief on her face. Yu, who had been watching from the doorway, walked in with a bottle of water. Gran Torino, who hadn't moved from his chair, stood up.

“Not so fast. Just because the kid is healed doesn't mean he's trained. In fact, after what I saw, you’re all painfully green. I’ve made a decision.”

The celebration stopped. All eyes were on him.

“Huh?” was all Izuku could manage.

“Toshinori asked me to supervise you, and what I see requires direct intervention. I won’t interfere with her internship; that woman has her own methods. But Thursdays… Thursdays are mine. I will personally handle your combat training.”

“Gran Torino-san, that’s not necessary!” Izuku exclaimed, surprised. “You don’t have to do that for us!”

“Nonsense!” the old man cut him off, sizing them up one by one. “Kid, your versatility makes you dangerously fast, but you don’t know how to throw a decent punch. Your fighting style is a series of glorified panic spasms. The invisible girl,” he glanced at Toru, “relies too much on her stealth and is a sitting duck if they corner her. The other two,” he looked at Momo and Ochako, “are vulnerable in close quarters. A rocket engine in a glass chassis. And I’ll be reinforcing that chassis.”

Momo, ever practical, intervened.

“It would be an incalculable honor to be trained by you, sir. But the cost… your time is incredibly valuable.”

“Exactly!” Izuku added. “We don’t know how we could possibly pay you…”

Gran Torino smirked.

“Don’t worry about that. You’re right, my time isn’t free. In fact, my hourly rate would make a multinational corporation weep.” His gaze fixed on Yu Takeyama. “But I’ve already found a sponsor. All your training expenses will be covered by the giant girl.”

Yu, who had been drinking quietly, did a spit-take, spraying water all over a startled Izuku’s face.

“WHAT?!” she exclaimed, coughing and pointing at herself indignantly. “WHY THE HELL WOULD I HAVE TO DO THAT?!”

Gran Torino’s smile didn’t waver.

“It’s the least you can do after the kid saved your ass. Consider it his bonus for saving your life. A payment-in-kind for heroic services rendered. Totally tax-deductible, probably.”

Yu opened and closed her mouth, searching for a logical argument that didn’t exist.

“Hold on! I’m a Top 30 hero, not a bank account for grumpy old men!” she protested.

“And he’s the kid who kept your cover-girl face from being smeared on the alley pavement,” Gran Torino replied coolly. “The market value of that is… considerable. Besides, it’s an excellent PR investment. ‘Mt. Lady, mentor and sponsor of the next generation of heroes.’ Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Sell it to the media.”

“This is… this is blackmail!” Yu finally muttered.

“I call it ‘karmic debt restructuring,’” Gran Torino retorted.

Ochako and Toru desperately tried to hide their laughter. Momo covered her mouth with a hand, a discreet, amused smile on her face. Izuku, meanwhile, wiped his face with a towel she instantly created for him, too stunned to process the situation.



Meanwhile, in another part of Hosu, Shoto Todoroki patrolled under the tutelage of his father, Endeavor. The air between them was thick, charged with a tension that needed no words.

“A hero does not hesitate, Shoto,” Endeavor said without turning. “Every second of hesitation is an opportunity for chaos to take hold. Your quirk is perfect, but your mind… it’s still divided.”

Shoto didn’t answer. The flames on his left side flickered weakly, as if responding to his contained anger. He knew Endeavor wasn’t just talking about heroism; it was a criticism of his refusal to become an extension of his father's ambition.

“Today, we will face a real situation,” Endeavor continued. “A group of low-level villains has been spotted in the industrial district. We will neutralize them. Fast. Efficient. No mistakes.”

Shoto nodded, unfazed. He had no answers, but he knew that, for now, he had to move forward. Not for Endeavor, but for himself.



At Hawks’s agency headquarters, Tenya Iida found himself in a completely different situation.

“Look, Iida, being a hero is a balancing act,” Hawks said, tossing a rubber ball against the wall. “You have to be fast, yeah, but also smart. You can’t solve everything by running at top speed. Sometimes, you have to stop and think.”

Iida, in his gleaming armor, nodded rigidly. He had requested to change his internship after the events in Hosu. He needed a mentor who would push him beyond pure speed.

“Your brother was good at that,” Hawks continued, catching the ball. “He knew when to accelerate and when to brake. You made a good call coming here. Shows you’re starting to get it.”

The mention of Tensei still hurt, but Hawks’s words grounded him in his purpose. He wanted to honor his brother’s legacy, not the blind vengeance that almost consumed him.

“Today, we’re infiltrating an undercover operation,” Hawks said, standing up. “No heroic sprints. I need you to use your head, not just your legs. Got it?”

“Understood, sir,” Iida replied, his voice firm and filled with a new determination.



Back at the hospital, Yu had reluctantly given in.

“Fine, old man,” she finally said, crossing her arms. “But if I’m paying for this, I want results. I want these kids to be fighting machines when you’re done with them.”

“Oh, they will be,” Gran Torino replied with a sly grin. “And you’ll be proud you invested in them.”

He said his goodbyes and left the room, leaving the young heroes alone.

“Looks like we’re going to be busy on Thursdays, huh, Deku?” Ochako said with a gentle nudge.

“Y-yeah,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

“You’re not,” Gran Torino’s sharp voice cut in from the hallway. “But you will be. Now get some rest.”

Izuku stared at the ceiling, his mind spinning. Internships, training, expectations… it all felt like a whirlwind. But deep down, he knew that every step was bringing him closer to his dream.

On the street, Bakugo followed Best Jeanist, his fury now contained in a stubborn silence. In the gym, Mineta cleaned, dreaming of less sweaty internships. On the ship, Tsuyu watched the horizon, searching for her own definition of heroism. And in every corner of the city, the young heroes learned, stumbled, and grew, each in their own way, on divergent paths that would one day converge.