“So, let me see if I’ve understood this correctly, Mr. Midoriya.”

Director Nezu’s voice was soft, almost a melodic whisper infused with a politeness so pristine it bordered on unsettling. The delicate clink of porcelain was audible as he set his teacup on its saucer. It was the only sound that broke the silence in the vast office.

Outside the panoramic window, which took up an entire wall, the city of Musutafu stretched out like a vast network of concrete and glass, bathed in the golden light of a Saturday afternoon. The air inside the room was a subtle mix of high-end black tea and the expensive wax used to polish the mahogany furniture. Every detail, from the gleam of the floor to the impeccable order of the desk, communicated power, control, and meticulous order.

Izuku Midoriya, sitting in a leather chair that likely cost more than his apartment’s rent for an entire year, didn’t seem to notice any of it. His attention was fixed, with unshakable calm, on the small, formidable creature before him.

Nezu steepled the tips of his small white paws on the desk, his black eyes, small and deeply brilliant, fixed on the boy.

“I received your email this morning. At three-fourteen, to be exact. A rather unusual hour to send professional correspondence, wouldn’t you say?”

“My apologies, Mr. Director,” Izuku replied without a hint of nervousness. “The idea came to me at that moment, and I felt it couldn’t wait. I wanted it to be the first thing you saw in your inbox.”

“Oh, it certainly was,” Nezu admitted with a nod. “But let’s return to the contents.”

Nezu paused, like a professor about to question a student.

“In it, you request a meeting. And in that meeting, you present me with a proposal. You are, according to the records I’ve been able to access in the last five minutes—and believe me, they are exhaustive—a civilian,” Nezu began, listing the facts with an analytical tone. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. Completely,” Izuku affirmed.

“Good. Point number one established. Point number two: you do not possess a teaching license of any kind. Not provincial, not national, not even a volunteer certificate from a community center. I even checked the Boy Scout records. Nothing.”

“That is also correct.” Izuku’s back remained straight, his hands resting calmly on his knees. He showed not the slightest sign of intimidation.

“Excellent. We’re making progress,” Nezu continued, pouring himself a bit more tea with a fluid motion. “Nor do you possess—and this is quite relevant given where we are—a professional hero license. Not even a provisional one.”

“Correct again, Mr. Director.”

“And, if your youthful appearance and the explicit mention of Aldera Junior High in your curious nocturnal correspondence are any indication, you are, in fact, a student. A middle schooler, to be precise. About to graduate, but a student nonetheless.”

He paused, taking a sip of tea. The silence stretched on, heavy and expectant. Izuku didn’t break it. He simply waited.

“However,” Nezu went on, with the same unwavering calm, “despite this… lack of conventional credentials, you desire a position. And I quote your proposal, because I found the terminology fascinating: ‘Temporary Instructor of Quirk Optimization and Support Tactics.’ A position that, I must point out, does not currently exist in our staff structure.”

He set the cup down carefully.

“And you are applying for this nonexistent position here, at U.A. The most prestigious, and without a doubt the best-funded, hero educational institution in all of Japan. Have I omitted any crucial details in my summary?”

Izuku, who had listened with devout attention, simply nodded. “No, Mr. Director. That summarizes it perfectly.”

Nezu let out a small sigh, a sound not of exasperation, but of pure, genuine curiosity. “Fascinating. Truly fascinating. Most young people your age who harbor a desire to enter these gates tend to opt for more… traditional methods. The entrance exam, for instance. It’s a rather robust system we’ve refined over decades. We rarely receive employment applications from prospective students. In fact, I’d say this is an absolute first.”

He leaned forward slightly, his black eyes scrutinizing Izuku.

“Tell me, Mr. Midoriya, and please, be as specific as possible. What makes you think, in the first place, that you are qualified for a position you’ve just invented?”

Izuku took a moment. It wasn’t the pause of someone searching for the right words, but of someone organizing a truth that had completely rearranged his perspective.

“You see, Director, until less than a week ago, I myself believed I was qualified for nothing,” he began, his voice calm but firm, devoid of self-pity. “My Quirk, as it appears in my official record, is ‘Animal Empathy.’ A useful skill for calming Mrs. Tanaka’s pets when the mail carriers approach, but little else in the grand scheme of things.”

“An admirable skill, no doubt,” Nezu murmured, a playful glint in his eyes. “Peace between citizens and the postal service is a fundamental component of a functional society.”

“But something… unexpected happened,” Izuku continued. “There was an… incident. With a professional heroine in distress. She was in a complicated situation.”

“Incidents with heroes in distress often are,” Nezu commented dryly.

“Yes. And, well, due to a series of very specific, very chaotic, and frankly, very improbable circumstances, my face ended up in a very… soft and supportive place. On her rear end, to be exact.”

Nezu raised an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. He put down his cup and steepled his paws again. “Really? Please, continue. The details, if they aren’t too… delicate.”

“They’re not. They’re strange,” Izuku corrected. “And in that moment of anatomical contact, I had a revelation. An epiphany. I understood the true nature of my Quirk instantly and overwhelmingly.”

Izuku leaned forward, the passion of his discovery making his green eyes shine with a new, uncharacteristic intensity. He had forgotten his surroundings, the opulence of the office, the importance of the being before him. Only his truth existed.

“I discovered that my Quirk’s name is a misinterpretation. A colossal error. It isn’t ‘Animal Empathy.’ It isn’t for ‘training dogs.’ It’s for ‘Training.’ Period. Its fundamental purpose isn’t to give commands. It’s to identify the latent potential in a living being and awaken it, optimize it. To force it out.”

“How?” Nezu asked, his voice now devoid of irony. It was the question of a scientist.

“Through a direct application of energy. My energy,” Izuku explained. “The dogs, the cats, the hamsters… they were my unconscious training ground. The fundamentals. I learned with them without even realizing it. But the true potential… I’ve discovered I can increase the strength, speed, endurance, and efficiency of a Quirk in a human being. And if I can do that…”

His voice filled with an absolute conviction.

“…then my place isn’t walking poodles in the park. It’s here. Where the next generation of heroes is forged. Where my ability can have the greatest possible impact.”

Director Nezu observed him in silence for a long moment. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t dismiss him. He didn’t treat him like a teenager with delusions of grandeur. Instead, he rose from his chair, walked with deliberate little steps to a small service cart, and poured another cup of tea. With the same ceremony, he offered it to Izuku.

“A gluteal epiphany, so to speak,” Nezu said, his tone now tinged with a genuine amusement that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Fascinating. Truly fascinating. You postulate, then, that your Quirk is not a communication or control ability, but a sort of biological enhancer. An exogenous improvement agent.”

“I hadn’t thought of it in those words, but yes. That sounds incredibly good,” Izuku replied, accepting the cup with a mumbled thank you. The warmth of the porcelain was comforting.

“But this theory presents a puzzle,” Nezu continued, returning to his chair and resuming his thoughtful pose. “Our students’ Quirks are incredibly diverse. Some emit energy. Others alter matter. Some, like my own, simply affect the intellect. How could your ‘application of energy,’ as you call it, affect such fundamentally disparate Quirks? A strength enhancer is one thing, conceptually simple. But how would you optimize a student whose Quirk is, for example, talking to insects?”

Izuku didn’t hesitate. He had spent every second since his “epiphany” thinking about these very questions.

“I’m not sure of the exact details on a cellular or energetic level,” he admitted with refreshing honesty. “It’s a completely new field for me. I don’t have the lab equipment to test it. But my instinct, the feeling I got, tells me it’s not about enhancing the Quirk itself, but the user.”

He took a sip of tea. The flavor was complex and delicious, but he barely noticed it.

“I believe my ability strengthens the connection between the person and their power. It removes the barriers that limit access to that power, whether they are physical blocks from lack of training, or mental ones from fear, doubt, or trauma. I don’t make the Quirk bigger; I allow the user to access it more purely and efficiently.”

Then, Izuku looked directly at Nezu, a sudden idea forming on his face, a spark of audacity.

“With all due respect, Mr. Director, you are an animal. An exceptionally intelligent one with an incredible Quirk, no doubt, but your physiology is fundamentally animal. My Quirk works on animals. And, as I’ve recently discovered, it works wonderfully on humans. You represent the perfect bridge between both fields of study.”

Nezu froze, the teacup halfway to his lips. The amused expression was replaced by one of absolute stupefaction.

“If you would permit me a brief demonstration,” Izuku continued, with deadly seriousness, oblivious to the risk his proposal entailed. “Not on your Quirk, of course. I wouldn’t dare. But on a simple motor action. I bet I could increase your… efficiency in pouring tea, by at least fifteen percent. We could measure the fluidity of the pour, the stability of the hand, the absence of any residual dripping. A perfect movement.”

The silence that followed was dense and absolute. Yu Takeyama, the heroine on whose rear end Izuku had his revelation, would have died of embarrassment on the spot. But Izuku simply waited, his proposal hanging in the air like the most reasonable and scientific of offers.

Suddenly, the tension broke. Nezu lowered the cup and a sharp, genuine, and shrill laugh erupted from him. He leaned back in his chair, his small body shaking with pure joy.

“You are magnificent, Mr. Midoriya!” he exclaimed between laughs, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye with the back of his paw. “Absolutely magnificent! The audacity! The unadorned sincerity! It has been years, years, since I’ve been this entertained in a meeting!”

Izuku blinked, confused by the reaction, but immensely relieved that it seemed positive.

When Nezu’s laughter finally subsided, his expression turned more serious, though the playful glint never quite left his eyes. “Your proposal is, without a doubt, the most irregular I have ever received in my tenure. And believe me, I have received some very, very strange proposals. One man once wanted to install a giant slide from my office to the main entrance. Another suggested that combat classes be held entirely on trampolines. Your idea, however, surpasses them all in sheer originality.”

“Originality isn’t my goal,” Izuku said, seeing his opening. “Results are.”

“Ah, results,” Nezu repeated. “The foundation of any enterprise. I see you’ve earned, if not my trust, at least my complete and utter attention. Continue, press your advantage. I’m eager to see how you attempt to close this deal.”

Izuku’s tone became more serious, if that was possible. He prepared to present his final argument.

“I’m not asking you to believe me based on my word alone, Director. That would be illogical and poor management on your part. I’m asking for a trial. A practical, controlled, and supervised demonstration.”

He leaned forward, his hands now clasped on the polished surface of the desk.

“Give me your most troubled student. Not necessarily the weakest, but the one with the biggest gap between potential and performance. The one with the most promising Quirk but the worst control. The one with a mental block that your best teachers, your psychologists, and your trainers haven’t been able to overcome. Someone you consider a difficult case, perhaps even a lost cause.”

His gaze was intense, direct, and completely devoid of arrogance. It was the gaze of an absolute believer in his newly discovered ability.

“Give me one week with that person. Just one week of my… tutoring. Seven days. If, at the end of that week, you and the faculty you designate do not see a measurable, tangible, and significant improvement in that student’s performance, I will walk out of here and you will never hear from me again. You will forget my name and my ridiculous proposal. You have absolutely nothing to lose, beyond a few hours of a student’s time. And, potentially, you have a completely new training method to gain for U.A.”

Nezu leaned back in his chair, his small black eyes looking at the ceiling, his paws drumming softly on the leather armrest. The amusement on his face had been replaced by an expression of intense, rapid calculation. The offer was absurd. It was a security risk. It was a logistical, legal, and bureaucratic nightmare. It involved parental consent forms, liability waivers, and the potential wrath of the Ministry of Education.

And yet… it was the most fascinating educational proposal he had encountered in his entire career.

His Quirk, High Spec, allowed him to process information at a superhuman speed. In those few seconds, he was weighing thousands of possible outcomes, analyzing legal variables, ethical implications, and the potential for both positive and negative public relations. The chance of a humiliating failure was high. Extremely high. But the chance of a revolutionary success, however infinitesimal… was irresistible. For a mind like Nezu’s, curiosity was a more powerful force than caution.

“Your method of ‘energy application’…” Nezu said slowly, still looking at the ceiling. “From your description of the ‘incident,’ I gather it is tactile in nature, correct? It requires physical contact.”

“Yes,” Izuku confirmed, his face growing a bit warmer as he recalled the exact circumstance. “Physical contact seems to be the most effective method. The delivery system.”

A small smile, this time full of playful malice, appeared on Nezu’s face.

“Of course, that presents a small public relations dilemma, don’t you think?” he said, finally lowering his gaze to meet Izuku’s. His tone was light, but the question was sharp. “I can see the headlines now: ‘U.A. Hires Unlicensed Teen to Manhandle Students in the Name of Pedagogical Science.’ The headline is catchy, to be sure, but perhaps not the kind of publicity we’re actively seeking.”

Izuku’s face filled with conviction.

“It’s not manhandling!” he protested, his voice rising a few tones. “It’s… a purposeful energy transfer! It’s about the intent and the objective! It’s a completely professional and focused process.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Nezu said, waving a paw dismissively, clearly enjoying the boy’s fluster. “I’m aware of the difference between intent and action. But public perception rarely concerns itself with such nuances. It’s a variable to consider. A risk that…”

He was about to continue, to give some sort of verdict, to tip the scales toward conditional acceptance or polite refusal. The tension in the room was palpable. Izuku’s future, and perhaps a new and strange chapter for U.A., was at a critical point.

It was then that two soft but firm knocks sounded at the office door.

Nezu frowned, a micro-expression of genuine annoyance at the interruption at such an absolutely crucial moment.

“Enter,” he said, his voice instantly regaining its smooth, courteous tone.

The door opened and Nemuri Kayama walked in. She was in her hero costume, though without her mask, and her professional smile was firmly in place as she held a data tablet. Her stride was confident and efficient, that of a professional in her element.

“Director, I’m sorry for the interruption,” she began, her melodic voice, accustomed to command, filling the office. “But I have the patrol reports for sector seven that you asked for, and there’s an anomaly in the residual energy levels I thought you’d want to see right away…”

Her voice trailed off mid-sentence. Her eyes, which had been adjusting to the dimmer light of the office, finally landed on the second figure in the room. On the boy with messy green hair, sitting calmly across from the director’s desk as if he were negotiating an international treaty.

Nemuri’s professional smile froze. Then, it vanished. Her eyes widened, not just with surprise, but with a confusion so deep and pure it was almost comical.

In her mind, two images collided violently, creating an impossible conflict. On one hand, there was the image from the file she had reviewed the night before: Izuku Midoriya, student at Aldera, mediocre academic record, no notable incidents, and a Quirk officially registered as “Animal Empathy,” rated as low-impact and useless in the hero field.

On the other hand, there was the image before her: the same boy, sitting with a posture of quiet confidence, having tea with the most intelligent, powerful, and inaccessible being in Japan. The two realities were so incompatible that her brain struggled to process them.

A silence heavy with unasked questions filled the room. Nezu observed the interaction, a new and delightful layer of chaos added to his already interesting afternoon. He glanced from Nemuri’s dumbfounded face to Izuku’s now slightly uncomfortable expression, and a small smile formed on his face. This was much better than trampolines.

Nemuri finally regained the ability to speak, though her voice sounded a bit strained, as if she were forcing it through a throat that had slammed shut.

“Director… Midoriya-kun,” she said, her gaze shifting from one to the other as if watching an impossible tennis match. “What an… unexpected coincidence.”

The tension in the room didn’t dissipate. On the contrary, it became electric.

“Kayama-san,” Nezu greeted with a cheerfulness that didn’t fit the situation. “Just in time. Allow me to formally introduce you. This is Izuku Midoriya. Mr. Midoriya, this is Nemuri Kayama, also known as the hero Midnight. She is one of our most esteemed teachers and head of the Heroic Art History department.”

Izuku stood and gave a respectful bow. “It’s an honor to meet you, Kayama-sensei.”

Nemuri barely registered the gesture. Her mind was still struggling to process the situation. “Yes… I know. I mean, I’ve heard his name,” she stammered, trying to regain her composure. She directed her gaze to Nezu, searching for an explanation, a clue, anything that would make sense of this surreal scene. “Is there a problem? Is this about his application to the school?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Nezu said, his smile widening. “Mr. Midoriya is not here as a prospective student. He’s here as a prospective colleague. He was just presenting me with a very… innovative job proposal.”

Nemuri felt such a wave of disbelief she could barely speak. “Job? Here?”

“Precisely,” Nezu confirmed, savoring every second. “In fact, your arrival is quite timely. We were just discussing the viability of his teaching method, which is, let’s say, very hands-on. As an experienced teacher, perhaps you could offer us your perspective.”

Nemuri looked at Izuku, then at Nezu, and back to Izuku. The confusion on her face transformed into an expression of pure incredulity. The boy who barely had a recordable Quirk was proposing a teaching method to Nezu? The afternoon had officially become the strangest of her career.

“My… perspective,” she repeated slowly, as if the word were foreign. The patrol report in her hand suddenly felt heavy and irrelevant.

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