The stadium lights glared down as All Might's booming voice faded into the continuous roar of the crowd. Confetti drifted down around us like technicolor snow, sticking to my sweat-dampened hair and shoulders.
I needed a shower. I needed my bed. I needed to hug my mom.
None of those things appeared immediately forthcoming as the ceremony concluded and we were ushered off the podium. The moment we cleared the stage area, a wall of reporters materialized as if summoned by some media-based quirk.
"Midoriya! How does it feel to win the first-year championship?"
"What was your strategy against Bakugo?"
"Can you comment on rumors about a special training regimen?"
Microphones thrust toward my face like spears, camera lenses tracking my every movement. I caught glimpses of my classmates being similarly mobbed—Yaoyorozu handling it with grace, Todoroki giving clipped one-word answers, Bakugo looking ready to detonate the entire press corps.
This was the price of success. The cost of becoming a top hero.
I straightened my shoulders and summoned a smile that didn't betray how badly my ribs still ached. "It feels incredible to win," I said, voice projecting clearly despite my exhaustion. "UA's Sports Festival represents the best of the next generation, so standing at the top is both an honor and a responsibility."
The reporters ate it up, scribbling frantically or nodding to their floating camera drones. With Midnight, I'd studied how top pros handled the media—All Might's bombastic enthusiasm, Endeavor's stern confidence, Hawks' casual charm—and crafted my own approach: thoughtful, articulate, with a dash of my personality to be memorable.
"Your final exchange with Bakugo looked potentially lethal," one reporter said, shoving his microphone closer. "Were you concerned about serious injury?"
"Any match between heroes-in-training carries risk," I replied, maintaining eye contact with the camera behind him rather than his overeager face. "But UA's safety protocols and supervision ensure we can push our limits without crossing into true danger. That's how we grow."
A woman in a sharp business suit muscled her way to the front, her press badge identifying her as being from the Hero Network. "Midoriya, your performance today showed remarkable martial arts prowess. Can you elaborate on your training background?"
"I've been fortunate to study under an exceptional mentor," I said, thinking of Bang's weathered face and infinite patience. "Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist forms the foundation of my style, though I've adapted it to suit my personal approach."
The questions continued, each more probing than the last. I navigated them with careful consideration—revealing enough to satisfy curiosity without exposing too much.
A man with rectangular glasses and a sleek tablet computer squeezed through the crowd. Unlike the frantic energy of the reporters, he carried himself with poise.
"Takeshi Tanaka, First Strike analysis program," he introduced himself, adjusting his glasses. "Our metrics show your reaction time is in the 98th percentile for pro heroes. Would you consider appearing on a future to discuss your performance data?"
First Strike—the popular hero analysis show known for its heated debates between statistics-focused Takeshi "Hot Take" Tanaka and his more emotionally-driven counterpart, Matsuda "The Mad Dog" Kenji. Their breakdowns of hero performance metrics drew massive viewership.
"I'd be honored," I said, recognizing the opportunity. Media appearances built public support—an essential currency in the hero world. "Though I suspect Kenji might have some colorful commentary about my style."
Tanaka's mouth quirked upward. "He's already called your final counter against Bakugo 'heroic insanity that defies statistical explanation.' I look forward to analyzing it more thoroughly with you."
As he retreated into the press scrum, another figure approached—a young woman who couldn't have been much older than twenty. She moved with deliberate grace, each step precisely measured. Her pristine white business suit contrasted sharply with her striking purple eyes and snow-white hair styled in an elegant updo.
"Miyabi Kenzo," she introduced herself, extending a manicured hand. "CEO of Kenzo Limited."
I recognized the name immediately—one of Japan's fastest-growing fashion and support equipment companies, known for blending style with practical hero applications. Their equipment adorned at least three top heroes.
"A pleasure," I said, shaking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her skin cool to the touch.
"The pleasure is mine," she replied, voice melodic yet commanding. "Your performance today was nothing short of art, Midoriya. The control, the precision—beautiful violence executed with perfect form." Her eyes gleamed with something I couldn't quite place. "I'd like to discuss a potential partnership. Kenzo Limited is launching a new line for a younger audience."
She produced a business card seemingly from nowhere—thick black cardstock with silver embossing. "My personal number is on the back. I think we could create something exceptional together."
Before I could respond, she melted back into the crowd with the same fluid grace with which she'd appeared. I tucked the card into my pocket, making a mental note to research her company more thoroughly later.
The questions resumed, an endless barrage that blurred together as my post-fight exhaustion deepened. I maintained my composure, but found myself increasingly scanning the crowd for an escape route.
"How does it feel to know you've inspired so many children watching today?"
"Every child deserves to dream, regardless of their circumstances," I said diplomatically. "If my performance today inspired anyone to work harder toward their goals, that's more meaningful than any medal."
A commotion rippled through the press crowd, reporters suddenly parting like the Red Sea. A diminutive figure bounded through the opening—quite literally bounded, leaping over the head of one startled cameraman to land directly in front of me.
White hair with distinctive tufts resembling rabbit ears. Caramel skin. A voluptuous and muscular build emphasized by a form-fitting hero costume. Red eyes that burned with intensity.
The Rabbit Hero: Mirko. Currently ranked number seven among all professional heroes and the second-youngest modern pro to crack the top ten after Hawks.
She stood barely above five feet tall, but her presence filled the space as if she were my height. Without warning, she leaned forward, nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air around me—once, twice, three times. Her red eyes narrowed, pupils dilating slightly.
"You smell nice." she declared.
"…Thank you?"
She circled me once, reminiscent of a predator sizing up potential prey—or perhaps a worthy opponent. The press corps had gone silent, sensing the potential for something newsworthy unfolding before them.
Mirko completed her circuit and stopped directly in front of me again, chin tilted up to meet my eyes. Her lips curved into a sharp smile that revealed slightly elongated teeth.
"Izuku Midoriya," she announced, voice carrying across the now-hushed crowd, "I want you for the internships." She jabbed a finger against my chest, directly over the gold medal. "You're mine."
The statement hung in the air for a heartbeat before the press erupted, questions flying from every direction. Mirko ignored them entirely, her attention fixed solely on me, awaiting my response.
A top-ten hero—known for never taking interns—had just publicly staked her claim. The implications weren't lost on me. Mirko specialized in solo operations, her fighting style emphasizing overwhelming physical power and speed. Her interest in a first-year student who'd just won the Sports Festival would generate headlines regardless, but her interest specifically in me...
"I'm honored by your interest," I said carefully, aware of the dozens of cameras capturing every word and expression. "Your combat prowess is legendary."
"Damn right it is." She grinned wider, completely unapologetic. "I've never taken an intern before. Never found one worth my time." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Until today. That last counter against explosion-boy? Pure instinct. Can't teach that."
From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Bakugo's scowling face in the crowd. He'd definitely heard that.
"I'd welcome the opportunity to discuss training with you," I said, neither accepting nor rejecting her offer outright.
"Not much to discuss." Mirko shrugged, the motion emphasizing the defined muscles of her shoulders. "You show up. I teach you to fight better than you already do. You leave stronger. Simple."
Her directness was refreshing after the carefully measured words of the press and industry representatives. I found myself smiling genuinely for the first time since the ceremony ended.
"I look forward to learning more about your approach," I said.
She nodded once, apparently satisfied, then turned to face the press with hands planted firmly on her hips. "Show's over, vultures. Kid just fought his way through an entire tournament. Give him some space."
"Mirko! Is this an official internship offer?"
"Why Midoriya specifically? What caught your attention?"
The rabbit hero rolled her eyes dramatically. "Official? Sure, whatever. Paperwork's boring." She folded her arms across her chest. "And I picked him because he fights like he means it." She jerked a thumb toward me, standing close enough that I caught her scent. "Most play at being heroes. This one's already got the instinct."
Before the questioning could continue, she grabbed my wrist. "We're done here," she announced to no one in particular, then pulled me through the crowd.
The reporters scrambled after us, but Mirko moved quickly, her powerful legs eating up distance that forced them to either run awkwardly with their equipment or fall behind. We rounded a corner into a service corridor, where she finally released my arm, though she didn't step back to restore my personal space.
"Media vultures." She shook her head, white tufts swaying. "Necessary evil in this business, but doesn't mean you gotta let them pick you clean."
I rubbed my wrist where she'd gripped it, the skin still warm from her touch. "Thanks for the rescue."
"Not a rescue. Just efficient." She leaned against the wall, studying me with unnerving intensity. Her red eyes tracked down my body, lingering on my shoulders, chest, hands. Not the clinical assessment of a doctor or the strategic evaluation of a combat instructor—something hungrier. "Meant what I said out there. You've got something rare. Raw talent, sure, but plenty of heroes have that. You've got killer instinct without the bloodlust. Hard balance to strike."
"I've had good teachers," I said, finding myself mirroring her posture against the opposite wall, our bodies forming parallel lines in the narrow corridor.
"Hmm." She tilted her head, taking a step closer, invading my space again. "Internship offers will flood in after today. Pros love latching onto festival winners—good publicity. Most will want to parade you around for the cameras, maybe teach you a signature move for your highlight reel." She scoffed. "That's not what I'm offering."
"What are you offering?" My voice came out lower.
Her lips curved. "Real training. Hard training. The kind that breaks you down and rebuilds you stronger." Her red eyes locked with mine, pupils dilating slightly. "Just you and me, pushing limits."
She reached out, fingers hovering just above my forearm without touching, tracing the invisible outline of muscle beneath my uniform. "You've got so much potential. Be a shame to waste it on someone who wouldn't know what to do with it."
The offer was undeniably tempting, and not just for the obvious professional advantages. Mirko's combat skills were legendary—her quirk enhanced her physical abilities, but her technique and strategic mind had earned her top-ten status. Training under her would be invaluable.
"I'll definitely consider it."
"Do that. My assistant will send the official paperwork Monday." She started to walk away, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. The hallway lights caught the curve of her hips, the powerful lines of her thighs.
"Oh, one more thing."
"What's th-?"
Before I could fully respond, she closed the distance between us again, moving with that preternatural quickness that had made her famous. She reached up—way up, given our height difference—and gripped my jaw between her thumb and forefinger.
"One week, Midoriya. Give me one week of your internship, and if you're not satisfied..." The sentence hung unfinished, her confident smile suggesting she couldn't even imagine that possibility. Her thumb brushed once across my lower lip, so quickly I might have imagined it. "Think about it."
She released me and turned, walking away with the distinctive sway in her step that had earned her the Rabbit Hero name. The corridor suddenly felt colder without her presence.
What the fuck just happened?