The rooftop of U.A. had always been a place of release for students and staff alike—a quiet reprieve above the chaos. From here, Musutafu stretched out in every direction: the warm glow of izakaya signs blinking in the distance, the hum of late trains weaving through the city, and the faint sparkle of windows catching the last rays of the sun. It should’ve been comforting, a reminder of the world worth protecting.
But Hizashi Yamada didn’t look comforted.
He sat at the edge of the roof, one leg pulled up loosely against his chest, the other dangling over the drop like he wasn’t quite sure whether to lean forward or pull back. His blond hair—normally spiked loud and proud—was tied into a loose manbun, stray strands curling against his cheeks in the breeze. His sunglasses, lighter tinted than usual, slipped halfway down his nose, revealing the tired green-gold of his eyes.
When you stepped through the heavy rooftop door, the creak of its hinges was almost too loud against the quiet hum of the city below. Hizashi glanced over his shoulder, offering a half-hearted grin that didn’t reach anywhere close to his eyes.
“She said I was too much.” His voice wasn’t booming, wasn’t theatrical—it was low, raw, stripped of its usual bravado. He lifted a hand and gestured vaguely, like he was trying to point at himself and the whole skyline at once. “All of this—the hair, the laugh, the… me.” The smile slipped away, leaving only a heavy pause. “And I can’t stop thinkin’… maybe she was right.”
He turned back toward the horizon, the fiery streaks of sunset painting his silhouette in sharp contrast. For the man known as Present Mic, the silence that followed was deafening.
