The mail slot clicked. The soft thud of envelopes against the floor echoed faintly through the modest Midoriya apartment. It was an ordinary sound, the kind that usually went unnoticed.
Not today.
Riku was already waiting by the door.
"Timing's perfect," he murmured, crouching to retrieve the letters. As his fingers brushed against the thick, official-looking envelope marked U.A. High School – Hero Department, a subtle chill ran through him. He stood slowly, examining the pristine envelope. Heavy paper. Sealed in gold foil. It looked more like a contract than an acceptance letter.
Izuku rushed into the hallway moments later, breathless, green curls wild as ever.
"Is it here? Did they—?"
Riku lifted the envelope.
"I hope you're not expecting a dramatic monologue," he said dryly. "Because I'm not giving one until coffee."
They opened them together.
For Izuku, it was a surreal moment. The flash of All Might's prerecorded video message. The announcement of his acceptance. The clips from the entrance exam. The blurry smile forming on his face.
But for Riku, it was silence.
He didn't need to watch his own video. His enhanced memory had recorded the entire entrance exam in exacting detail: 32 villains neutralized, 6 rescues, and one moment where he'd slowed a collapsing tower long enough for instructors to evacuate the entire east wing.
Chronovision: Widefield Activation – Eight Targets (Simultaneous). Duration: 4.6 seconds.
The nosebleed had lasted almost a minute. His heart rate had spiked. His vision blurred.
But everyone had survived.
His acceptance video didn't show the worst of it — just praise, statistics, and an instructor's comment: "Cognitive capability far exceeds standard metrics. Potential battlefield commander."
Riku had closed the laptop before it ended.
Izuku was still blinking in disbelief. "We both got in…"
Riku clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Of course we did."
"I mean, I knew you would — obviously, Chronovision is incredible — but me?" He laughed nervously. "I barely made it through the exam! I was still figuring out One For All, and—"
"And you moved like a damn freight train once you found your footing," Riku said. "I was watching. You don't give yourself enough credit."
Izuku's smile faltered slightly, but he nodded.
"Thanks… You always know what to say."
"No, I don't," Riku replied. "But I say it anyway."
Later that evening, the apartment was buzzing — metaphorically and literally. Inko Midoriya had nearly dropped an entire tray of tea when Izuku burst in with the news. She had cried. Then cried again when Riku told her too, though his delivery had been far more composed.
Still, even he cracked a smile when she hugged them both in the kitchen.
"My two boys… I'm so proud," she sniffled, wiping her cheeks. "I know you're going to be amazing heroes."
Izuku turned bright red. "M-Mom!"
Riku, leaning against the fridge with arms crossed, simply said, "We'll try not to burn the school down."
"Oh, hush!" Inko scolded, slapping his arm affectionately.
Despite the light mood, Riku felt it: the tightening coil in his chest. The invisible countdown.
Three days.
Three days until everything changed.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Riku stood alone in the shared bedroom, staring at his reflection. His UA uniform hung on the back of the door. His glasses sat on the desk beside a diagram of his Quirk usage metrics — hand-drawn, annotated, calculated down to the tenth of a second.
He was exhausted.
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the gloves he'd designed — reinforced carbon-threaded mesh, with sensor tips linked to his HUD system. Tools made for precision. Efficiency. Survival.
His enhanced memory recalled every injury, every tactical mistake from the exam. Every moment he could've done better.
Chronovision didn't stop time. It just slowed it — bent it. Manipulated the perception of it. The brain wasn't made to handle it for long.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his hands.
"Three seconds too long," he whispered. "I shouldn't have tried for the eighth target."
A soft beep pinged from his tablet. A diagnostic alert. Elevated neural activity detected — residual effect of Quirk strain.
Riku sighed, then opened a locked folder titled: "Chronovision Anomalies – Private Notes".
Inside were graphs. Heat maps. Notes scribbled in quick, increasingly messy handwriting.
Incident Log – Entrance Exam (Timestamp 10:14 AM):
• Eight simultaneous slowdowns. Widefield vision strain.
• Result: Migraine, blurred color recognition, short-term auditory hallucinations (23 seconds).
• New Symptom: Aftereffect – delayed time perception even post-deactivation.
Conclusion: Possible evolution? Or overload? Further use could be dangerous. But what choice is there?
He closed the tablet and rubbed his temples.
Faster than the world, he thought. But at what cost?
Two Days LaterMusutafu, 1:30 PM
"Hey! Midoriya!"
Riku turned, catching the voice just before he slipped his tactical lenses over his eyes. A girl was jogging up the street toward him, her face flushed from the cold air. Short brown hair bounced around her face, and her smile was warm and easy.
"Izuku's friend," he said, recognizing her immediately. "Ochako Uraraka, right?"
"Yup!" she said, a bit breathless. "Sorry — just saw you on the street. You're his brother, right?"
"Twin, technically."
She tilted her head. "You don't look much alike."
Riku smirked. "He got the curls. I got the criminal mastermind aesthetic."
She laughed. "And modest, too."
They walked together in companionable silence. Then:
"I saw what you did during the exam," she said. "You slowed time, right? That's your Quirk?"
"Chronovision," Riku confirmed.
"It's… kind of amazing. You made the tower stop falling."
"Not stop," Riku corrected. "Just slowed it enough to give people time to react. That's all it takes sometimes. A few extra seconds."
"I think that's incredible."
Riku looked at her, and for a moment — just a blink — time slowed on its own. No Quirk. Just a feeling.
Maybe, he thought, this world isn't entirely out of sync after all.