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Mineta lingered near the entrance to the girls’ locker room, heart thudding so fast it felt like it might give him away. The hallway was empty, thankfully. He pressed a hand against the cool metal door, glancing around nervously, imagining his father’s disapproving glare if he were caught.
He told himself it wasn’t perverse. It wasn’t like that. He just… needed to understand. He told himself that a thousand times. He just… wanted to learn. The bras, the clothes, the little things, the lace trim, the soft fabrics, the way everything seemed to fit just right. The things that made someone look and feel feminine. He didn’t even know what to call it properly yet.
His own chest was changing subtly, curves he’d started noticing for the first time, and it made him hyper-aware of every girl he passed.
Momo’s neatly arranged locker always caught his eye. The careful way she kept her things… it was so alien, so controlled, and he craved that knowledge.
If he could just see, even briefly, he could figure out the details himself. He couldn’t ask his father, he’d never be allowed into a store alone. Looking online was impossible; his father monitored every search, ready to snatch away even a hint of curiosity.
He peeked through the slightly ajar door, willing the hinges not to squeak. Inside, rows of lockers gleamed, and the faint scent of shampoo and laundry detergent hung in the air. He kept his gaze focused on the textures, the shapes, the subtle things that made clothes feel feminine.
It wasn’t about anyone in particular—just that they had to be a girl, and own bras, not crop tops. He sighed softly. He just wanted to learn how to be himself. To understand why his body felt wrong in a boy’s clothes, and how it might feel right in the ones he’d never been allowed to touch.
A creak of a floorboard nearly made him jump out of his skin. He cursed under his breath, retreating a step, heart hammering. It was a risk, a tiny rebellion, but for once, it felt like his choice. And maybe, just maybe, it would help him finally start figuring out who he really was.
,
Elsewhere in the locker room, Momo hummed to herself, unaware of the domino about to fall.
The locker room smelled faintly of soap and fabric softener, and the rows of lockers gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Momo adjusted her hair as she slid open the changeroom door, humming quietly to herself.
A movement near the edge of her vision made her freeze. Mineta. Here? In the girls’ locker room? Her eyes narrowed. The memories of every time he’d pulled his usual antics flashed in her mind. Her hand instinctively clenched. “Not again,” she muttered.
Mineta’s small figure crept closer to her locker. Momo braced herself to shout or worse, physically chase him out. But instead, he paused, pulled on a pair of clean gloves, and carefully took out a bra from her locker. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it like it was some alien artifact.
She clenched her fists, ready to shout, but something about the way he handled the bra, so gently, so reverently, made her hesitate. Just for a second. Then he held it, poking and prodding, not roughly, but still, it was her bra. Her personal space. Her things.
Momo’s stomach twisted. Of course… the little perv… he’s just looking to steal something! Her patience snapped. “Hey!” she barked.
Startled, Mineta whipped his head around. His eyes widened, guilt and mild fear flashing across his face. He froze, still holding the bra.
That look, so small, so panicked, Momo took as full confession. The image of him sneaking around, combined with his guilty expression, ignited her anger. “I knew it!” she shouted, charging toward him.
Mineta’s instincts kicked in. He darted toward the door, bra clutched tightly, slipping away faster than Momo could catch him. She skidded to a stop, realizing with frustration that she hadn’t even tried to grab the bra before chasing him out.
“Damn it!” she muttered, slamming her locker shut. Her eyes narrowed at the disappearing figure around the corner. “Next time… next time, you’re not getting away with this!”
,
Mineta’s heart hammered in his chest as he slipped into the locker room. The familiar scent of detergent and fabric hung in the air, making him both nervous and strangely focused. He crept toward Momo’s locker, gloves in hand. He didn’t want to risk dirtying anything. Carefully, he extracted a bra and turned it over, studying the straps, the tiny hooks on the back, the loops that presumably kept it in place. Every detail fascinated him.
His mind raced with questions. How did these work? How did someone wear this? He didn’t want to ask anyone. He couldn’t, his father monitored every search, every curiosity. This was the only way to learn, the only way to understand what it meant to be feminine.
He was so absorbed, he didn’t feel the presence of another until a voice cut through the quiet: “Hey.”
His head whipped around. Heart in his throat, dread washing over him. Panic sharpened his features as his eyes met Momo’s. Relief flickered—she wasn’t his father, wasn’t screaming at him for breaking some strict rule about gender, about behaviour, about curiosity. But that relief was tiny, almost meaningless, drowned out by the disgust in her eyes.
He remembered the first time his father had caught him curious years ago, in his mother’s room. The door had been unlocked, the dresses and makeup calling to him, fascinating him. He hadn’t known then who he really was, hadn’t known what he really was. But when his father found him, rage had erupted, he’d been dragged out, locked in his room, and his mother scolded. That memory had never left him.
Now, Momo’s expression mirrored all the judgment and disgust he had come to fear, not his father, but a peer. She must think he was doing something pervy, something wrong. And yet… he knew the truth. He was a girl pretending to be a boy. Forced, yes, but still a lie. Still not him.
Before he could explain, or even think, she lunged, chasing him out. Panic surged as he ran, every step echoing with fear and shame. He dove into a vent. The cold metal pressed against his skin, the tight space wrapping around him like a punishment. His breath came in shallow bursts, echoing off the steel walls like a secret he couldn’t bury. Only then did he realize—with a flash of horror—that he still had her bra clutched in his hands.
Mineta’s mind raced, heart pounding, not from thrill, but from fear. He hadn’t intended to steal anything. He just wanted to see, to learn, to understand. But now? He had no choice but to flee, bra in hand, hoping his secret curiosity wouldn’t get him in even deeper trouble.
.
Mineta slipped back into his room, heart still pounding from the encounter in the locker room. He clutched the bra tightly. A guilty flutter of panic stirred in his chest. Once inside, he quietly closed the door and crept over to the closet.
Inside the cramped space, he clicked on a small flashlight, the beam trembling slightly in his hands. Slowly, carefully, he unbound his chest. His fingers trembled as he worked—the tight fabric of the binder pressing into his skin one last time before he could feel himself without it.
He stared at the bra in his hands, puzzling over how it was supposed to work. The cups were huge—clearly way too big for him—but the mechanics… he thought back to the bikinis he had seen on billboards, the way the models wore them. Slowly, piece by piece, he figured it out: you put it on backwards, hook the loops, twist the whole thing around, pull it over the chest, then slide your arms through the straps over the shoulders.
It took him a while, fumbling awkwardly, but finally he managed it. He stood in front of the mirror in the wardrobe, flashlight flickering, and studied her reflection. It wasn’t perfect—the cups drowned his frame—but it felt like a promise. Like one day, she might grow into it. Grow into herself. For a fleeting moment, it felt like a glimpse of who he wasn't supposed to be…but who she could be. There was an ember of hope in his eyes—one his father had long tried to douse with his own will and words. But now it was back.
A pang of longing hit him. He wished it were his size, his own, something that felt truly made for him. But even with that sadness, he couldn’t help the tiny thrill of satisfaction, the pride in having figured it out on his own.
Gently, he removed the bra and folded it with care. He buried it deep in the back of the closet, under layers of old clothes, tucking it away as carefully as he tucked away his hopes of ever being accepted as a girl.
For a moment, the closet felt like the only place where he could exist as himself, even if it was just in secret.
,
Mineta had re-bound his chest quickly, then quietly made his way downstairs for a late dinner. Thankfully, Momo wasn’t around. Mina, however, gave him a disappointed glance as he passed, and a cold knot of dread formed in his stomach. Momo must have told her… he realized, and suddenly his appetite wavered. He needed to eat, though—he couldn’t let himself get weak.
He opened the fridge, only to find that all his food, the items he always kept on the lower shelves for his small stature, had been moved to the top. He could see them through the glass shelf, tantalizingly out of reach. A soft sigh escaped him, and he closed the door.
As he turned to head back upstairs, he caught the satisfied glint in Mina’s eyes. It hit him: she must have been the one to move his food. She wasn’t helping him. Or maybe she thought she was. Either way, it stung. It was probably punishment—Momo must have told her about the locker room incident. Mineta felt a hollow sting, realizing that simply being a girl, or wanting to be one, could make him a target for such small but cutting indignities. Even if it was his methods of exploration that got him in this situation.
If only he had been born a boy—then maybe his father would love him. Maybe he wouldn’t have to hide. The thought came bitterly and unbidden. At least if he were a boy, his father would be pleased with his son, and wouldn’t restrict him so much, he wouldn’t have to sneak or hide. But that would never happen.
,
Mineta trudged back upstairs and entered his room, grateful for the lowered doorknob that accommodated his height. Once inside, he changed clothes and removed his binder, knowing from experience it wasn’t good to sleep in it.
He laid down on the futon on the floor, curling up tightly, letting the day weigh on him. He thought about the locker room, the bra he had finally tried—even if it wasn’t the right size—and Mina’s disappointed glance. He thought about the food on the top shelf. Even with a step ladder, he still wouldn’t have been able to reach it safely, and trying to climb the shelves would only invite disaster: cold fingers, toppled items, crushed hopes.
Finally, he turned over, determined to clear his mind. He knew that if he kept thinking, sleep would not come. Gradually, he pushed the thoughts away, letting the tension slip from his body. For the first time that night, Mineta closed his eyes, and finally, he slept. For in sleep, at least, he didn’t have to hide.
.
Mineta woke before his alarm.
Not out of eagerness—just the pit in his stomach refusing to let him rest.
He got up, pulled on his binder, then lay back down, staring at the ceiling. His dorm room was quiet—too quiet—and for a long moment, he just lay there mindlessly staring, feeling the faint pulse of his heartbeat through the restriction around his chest.
It was too tight again.
He exhaled slowly, sliding a hand over his chest, wincing as the fabric bit into his ribs. He hadn’t worn it very tightly yesterday, but now after the locker room incident—after Yaoyorozu caught him holding her bra like an idiot— and the guilt still made him want to sink into the floor. The binder bit deep, a cruel reminder of Mina’s silent punishment—moving his food out of reach. As if the binder itself punished him too, for daring to be curious about bras.
He hadn’t meant for it to happen that way.
He just… wanted to understand.
Sitting up, Mineta rubbed his face and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The mirror by his desk reflected a face half-asleep—and half wrong. The short hair, the square shoulders—none of it fit. He tugged at his shirt, trying to make it hang differently, and whispered to his reflection, “You’re fine. You’re fine. Just be normal today.”
The words felt hollow.
He went through the motions: brushed his teeth, pulled on his uniform, and tightened his binder again until it felt like his ribs would crack. The pain was familiar, almost comforting. It kept everything else at bay.
By the time he stepped into the dorm kitchen, the other students were already gathering for breakfast. Kaminari waved at him from the counter. “Morning, short stuff! You ready for the trip?”
Mineta forced a grin. “Yeah. Totally.”
Kaminari laughed. “Man, you look like you haven’t slept.”
“Just… excited,” Mineta said quickly, grabbing a juice box and pretending that was breakfast, because his food was still on the top shelf, just out of reach—right where Mina had left it. “Yay! Field trip, right”
Kaminari raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. The chatter continued—about the training plans, the bus, the snacks Bakugo had confiscated from Kaminari. Everything felt normal on the outside.
On the inside, Mineta was replaying the locker room incident over and over.
The look on Yaoyorozu’s face when she caught him. The heat of shame that followed. The way he’d wanted to cry but couldn’t—not here, not in front of them.
He kept his head down and slipped into the back corner of the bus. It was his favorite spot—quiet, tucked away, easy to disappear in.
The engine rumbled to life, and conversation filled the air. Jirō was laughing at something Kaminari said, while Bakugo grumbled under his breath about “damn field trip waste of time.”
Mineta stared out the window. The trees flashed by like brushstrokes, blurring together in the morning light. He could almost imagine being someone else—someone free, someone who didn’t have to wear layers of lies just to feel safe.
He rested his head against the glass and thought, Maybe today will be normal.
That was when the first explosion shook the ground.
The bus lurched, screams filled the air, and smoke poured in through the broken window. Aizawa’s voice crackled through the radio from the escort vehicle ahead—
“Villain attack! Everyone stay calm—get out and take cover!”
Mineta’s heart slammed against his chest. His instincts screamed at him to run, but before he could move, Bakugo was already shouting orders, Todoroki forming ice barriers, and Momo was creating defensive shields out of metal plates.
He stumbled after them, clutching one of his sticky balls in his palm like a talisman.
The last thing he saw before the smoke swallowed everything was a flash of purple light—
and then nothing.
,
The world felt sharp and loud, pain lanced through Mineta’s side as the villain’s quirk hit him. He curled up on the ground, trying to make himself small, trying to disappear. The sticky ball he had wanted to throw to protect Momo lay forgotten beside him.
“Mineta! Behind me!” Momo’s voice cut through the haze of pain and panic. Before he could respond, strong hands grabbed him and pulled him into the shadow of a wall. They were hidden, shielded from sight. His chest heaved; he felt… weird. Wrong.
His clothes strained, then tore, as his body began to shift. It was subtle at first—his height stretching, his frame elongating—but soon it was impossible to ignore. Panic surged. He turned slightly away, hoping Momo wouldn’t see, though he didn’t know why he even cared.
When he dared to look, the reflection in a broken piece of debris from the wall revealed a new reality. He was taller. Much taller—at least five foot six now. His legs were long, subtly muscled, strong. His hips had widened, waist slimmed. His chest—full, round, unmistakably feminine—rose and fell with each panicked breath.
Momo’s eyes met his, wide and startled. “…Does the villain’s quirk change gender too?” she asked aloud.
Mineta swallowed, still stunned by the transformation. “I… I don’t know,” he whispered. His voice sounded different—lighter, softer—but it was his own. Trembling, he asked, “Could you… make me some clothes?”
Momo nodded quickly. In moments, she handed him a small pile: a bra, a shirt, underwear, and pants. Hands shaking, Mineta hurriedly dressed. The bra fit perfectly—too big for him before, but now… snug. Relief and a strange thrill bubbled up, and he couldn’t stop a quiet giggle. Momo looked at him strangely, but he didn’t notice, too busy exploring his new form.
His legs felt strong beneath him, hips subtly swaying as he adjusted. His arms were muscled in a soft, understated way, just enough to feel capable. He raised a hand to his face—delicate cheekbones, wide eyes, soft lips. This was him. This was… right.
Then something brushed his lower back. A yelp escaped him, heart leaping. Hands darted to his hair, and he froze. Three rows of rounded shapes trailed down his back, the middle row largest, forming a strange, natural cascade like a ponytail. The other two rows flanked it, smaller, running from his hairline to the base of his skull and then trailing alongside the first, down his back. He blinked, touched them, trying to process this surreal addition.
“Uh… what…” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. His chest still heaved, his mind spinning. Every inch of him felt new, different, and… alive.
Despite the shock, despite the weirdness, a spark of joy warmed him. He was still Mineta—still himherself—but now he could explore this side of herself freely, safely, at least for the moment.
And for the first time in a long time, hiding behind torn clothes and fear, she felt… something like possibility.
,
Another explosion rattled the walls, sending a vibration through the space behind them. Jiro flinched, instinctively turning toward the sound even as she dove behind a wall for cover. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene before her: a beautiful woman sitting next to Momo, calm amidst the chaos.
Her brain did a double take. Who is she? A civilian? she wondered, scanning for any hint that this could be someone else entirely. Another explosion echoed, louder this time, and the woman’s head turned toward the noise, her expression alert but composed.
Jiro’s gaze flicked to Momo, silently asking for answers. Momo followed her glance and gestured toward the woman, speaking softly. “She… is Mineta. He was hit by one of the villains’ quirks.”
Jiro blinked, startled. Mineta? The small, sticky-ball-throwing classmate she knew? She turned back to the woman, really looking this time. The soft jawline, the familiar mischievous glint in her eyes, the subtle gestures—it’s definitely him.
Her mind scrambled to reconcile the two images—the Mineta she knew, and this taller, elegant figure beside Momo. But there was no denying it. Mineta had changed—and she could see it clearly now.
,
Finally, the chaos beyond the shelter began to calm. Explosions faded into distant echoes, and over the radio, Aizawa’s voice came through: All clear. Regroup at the designated area.
Jiro helped herself up alongside Momo and Mineta. They stepped out, careful but steady, making their way toward the rest of Class 1A. From a distance, the others stared at the “lady” with Momo, confusion written across their faces. Jiro understood; she had been confused herself at first to.
“Who is… she?” one of the classmates asked, eyes darting toward Mineta.
Momo explained patiently, “This is Mineta. He was hit by one of the villains’ quirks.”
Jiro glanced at Mineta again. He—or she?—was still absorbed in observing the new reflection of their body, fingers tracing the subtle curves and muscular lines. The transformation was complete, deliberate, and undeniably striking.
Mina leaned forward, a mischievous grin on her face. “So, how does it feel?” Mina asked, her grin sharp. “Want us to treat you like you treated us?” Jiro’s stomach sank. Aizawa, standing nearby, stiffened. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
Mina shrugged but explained anyway, and the rest of the class—some of whom had already witnessed parts of Mineta’s previous antics—reacted with shock and anger. Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward Mineta, glaring. He froze mid-inspection, startled by the intensity of their collective glare.
He looked at their glares, then at Mina. “You always moved my food so I couldn’t reach it. That doesn’t excuse what I did—but you got your revenge.”
Aizawa’s voice cut through sharply. “Mineta will be punished, yes. But Mina…” He turned to her. “Moving his things so he couldn’t reach them—causing him to go hungry—was unacceptable. And all of you—why didn’t you come to me instead of resorting to revenge?”
The girls looked down, ashamed.
Mineta spoke quietly but firmly, “If you didn’t like what I was doing, you could have talked to me. Moving my stuff so I couldn’t reach it… that hurt. That wasn’t fair.”
Mina scoffed. “And you think we’ll believe you after taking Momo’s bra?”
Mineta met her gaze, silent, acknowledging the accusation without arguing.
Aizawa sighed, clearly fed up. “Enough. Everyone, get on the bus. Back to UA. Now.”
As the class began moving toward the bus, Mineta’s ponytail of sticky balls shot forward, doubling in length. Those closest to the bus were yanked back just in time. Mina yelled, “He’s at it again!” as one of the sticky balls caught her just above the stomach, pulling her down along with the others.
A sudden, deafening explosion rocked the area—the bus. Mineta’s quick reflexes had saved them all from the blast.
Minori was the first to rise—elegant, feminine, and now radiating authority., she threw three sticky balls per second at a shadow attempting to flee. It collapsed instantly under the precision of her attack.
Jiro couldn’t help but notice the transformation in demeanour. The same small, playful classmate was now an angry, commanding figure. Minori’s delicate features—soft cheekbones, wide eyes—had sharpened into something fierce. Protective. Maternal. She glared down at the person responsible, every ounce of her presence demanding accountability.
,
The dust from the explosion settled slowly, bits of debris drifting through the air like ash. Aizawa blinked grit out of his eyes as his capture weapon unfurled around him, ready for a counterattack—but there was no need. The threat was already neutralized.
Mineta—or rather, the woman standing where he once had been—was standing over the subdued attacker, her expression sharp enough to cut through steel. Her voice, though still carrying Mineta’s distinctive tone, though it had taken on a weight that Aizawa hadn’t heard before.
“What made you think attacking kids was a good idea?” she snapped, crouching beside the villain. “Was it the thrill? The chaos? Or did someone promise you something that made it seem worth it?”
The villain tried to look away, but Mineta, Aizawa realized—was relentless.
“Because here’s the thing,” she continued, her tone cooling into something cold and measured. “People like you make choices that ruin lives. You think it’s easy? You think it’s just another day’s work? Try living with it. Try living with knowing you almost killed a bus full of kids.”
Her words hit harder than any physical attack could have. The villain trembled, actually trembling, under her gaze.
Aizawa watched in silence, letting her speak. It wasn’t his interrogation, not yet. This was… something else. Something Mineta needed.
When she was done, she straightened up, taking a deep breath. The wind caught strands of her hair—those strange, spherical locks cascading down her back like a comet’s tail. For the first time since the chaos started, Aizawa saw a kind of peace on her face.
He approached slowly. “Mineta,” he began.
She turned to him, hesitating just slightly. “It’s… Minori,” she said quietly but firmly. “Please.”
It was the first time she’d said it aloud. The name felt strange on her tongue—but right. Like something she’d been waiting to claim.
Aizawa nodded once. “Minori, then.” He glanced over at the rest of the class, who were standing in uneasy silence, processing everything they’d just witnessed—the explosion, the transformation, the save, the scolding. “You did well. You saved lives.”
Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, unsure.
Jiro looked down, thoughtful.
Even Bakugo didn’t speak again.
Minori looked down at her hands, flexing them as if they still felt foreign. “I didn’t think,” she murmured. “I just… reacted. It felt… right.”
Bakugo snorted from the side, crossing his arms. “Tch. Guess even the grape got guts when she’s taller.”
Aizawa gave him a warning glare that shut him up instantly. Then, to Minori, he said, “We’ll have Recovery Girl check you over when we return. Until then, stay close.”
The class began to regroup, but the air was different now—quieter, more respectful. Even Mina, who had earlier been so proud of her revenge, kept her head low.
Minori walked among them, her posture no longer defensive or small. She didn’t shrink, didn’t mumble. She looked at each of her classmates, one by one.
“I know what I did before wasn’t right,” she said. “I can’t take it back. But I’m not that person anymore.” She paused, meeting Momo’s gaze in particular. “Thank you—for helping me. Even when you didn’t understand.”
Momo nodded softly, guilt and understanding flickering in her expression.
Aizawa watched it all quietly—the strange, unexpected maturity settling over Minori, the shift in her classmates’ eyes, the fragile balance between regret and new beginnings.
He finally said, “Alright, everyone. Enough staring. Let’s move out.”
As they began walking back toward the rendezvous point, Aizawa walked a few steps behind Minori. For once, she wasn’t lagging at the back of the group. She walked in the middle—steady, sure, and taller than she’d ever let herself be.
And for the first time since she’d enrolled, Aizawa thought… maybe this kid was finally starting to find herself.
.
By the time they returned to U.A., the adrenaline had burned off, leaving only exhaustion behind. Fatigue had set in, and the quiet hum of the dorms felt like a mercy after the chaos of the field trip. Aizawa stayed near the entrance, watching as the students filed in one by one.
Minori trailed behind them, still in the spare clothes Momo had created for her. She looked out of place in her own skin—and yet, oddly at ease. Like someone who’d spent years swimming upstream, only to finally, accidentally, find the current moving with her.
Aizawa didn’t follow her right away, but he noticed when she slipped into the common kitchen. She moved with a sort of lightness he hadn’t seen before—not quite joy, but the cautious, testing steps of someone discovering new ground.
Aizawa leaned against the wall near the doorway, half in shadow, as Minori opened the fridge. A delighted sound—half laugh, half sigh—escaped her as she reached up to grab something from the top shelf with no effort at all.
“Finally,” she murmured to herself, then began rummaging through the cabinets, collecting ingredients. The sound of chopping and the rich, savory smell of something cooking began to fill the room.
A few of the students who’d been lingering in the lounge turned their heads. Even Bakugo sniffed once and raised an eyebrow, though he said nothing.
Momo stepped closer, curiosity softening her usual composure. “When did you learn to cook?” she asked.
Minori glanced up, distractedly smiling as she stirred the pan. “I’ve… always watched you guys,” she said absently. “But I was too short to reach the bench to help.” She gave a small laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Not that Bakugo would ever let me in his kitchen. Or that my father would ever let me do something he called a ‘woman’s job.’”
Her stirring slowed. “But I like cooking. And—” she looked down at herself, at her hands, her reflection faint in the metal of the pot lid. “—I’m a girl. So who cares what he thinks? Too bad when I’m home, I’m his son. Never his daughter.”
Aizawa’s eyes narrowed slightly. Father.
He’d suspected from the way Mineta—Minori—spoke and acted that there was more going on beneath the surface. He’d seen the defensive posturing, the attention-seeking behaviour, the desperate need for acknowledgment. Now it clicked—like puzzle pieces that had always been there, waiting for him to see the full picture.
Around the kitchen, the class had gone quiet. Mina shifted uncomfortably. Momo looked troubled. Even Bakugo, for once, didn’t have anything biting to say.
Aizawa stepped forward, breaking the silence. “Minori,” he said, his tone even, careful.
She glanced over her shoulder, startled, then relaxed when she saw it was him. “Yeah, Sensei?”
“You’re not at home here,” he said. “You’re at U.A. That means this is your space too. You don’t need permission to cook, or reach, or be who you are.”
Minori blinked at him, then smiled—small, fragile, but real. “Thanks, Sensei.”
He nodded once, then turned toward the others. “And the rest of you,” he added, “you’ll remember that. We don’t repeat what happened before. This dorm is for everyone. Respect is not optional.”
Several heads dipped, guilt and understanding settling into the group like a new rule written into the air.
Aizawa turned back toward the doorway, listening as the sizzling in the pan resumed. The smell of food—warm, familiar—rose through the air, gently pushing back the last traces of smoke and fear.
For the first time in a long time, Aizawa allowed himself the faintest smile.
Maybe this was what real growth looked like. Not quirks or battles—but a kid, finally, getting to just be.
,
By the time the meal was finished, the kitchen smelled rich and warm—like something from a home none of them had ever been to. Minori set down the spoon and turned toward the others, hands fidgeting nervously against her apron.
“Um…” she began softly, eyes darting between them. “I made enough for everyone, if you want some?”
The class exchanged uncertain glances, but one by one, they nodded. Kirishima stepped forward first, offering a small grin. “Smells great, dude—uh, sorry, Minori.”
Her lips curved into a shy smile. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
They gathered at the long table, filling plates as Minori hummed quietly to herself. It was soft, almost unnoticeable at first—a tune without words, but gentle and strangely wistful. Aizawa realized he’d never heard her hum before. It didn’t sound like nervous fidgeting. It sounded… peaceful.
,
Then Momo spoke. “Minet—Minori,” she corrected quickly, “what did you mean earlier? About your father… only wanting a son?”
The question froze Minori mid-motion. Her hand lingered on the ladle before she slowly resumed serving the next plate.
“My father wanted a son,” she said simply, almost mechanically. “I… I’m not a boy. Never was. But I was raised like one.”
She placed another dish down, then stared into the pot as if searching for words. “I only figured it out when I got my period. I freaked out—thought I was dying. Looked it up to see what was wrong.”
The quiet hum of the dorm faded completely. Even Bakugo stayed silent.
“A few clicks later, I was down a rabbit hole,” she said. “That’s when Father stormed in. Slapped me. Told me I was a boy, and that bleeding was nothing.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she kept going. “In his eyes, I’m his son. In mine…” she gave a soft, bitter laugh, “I’m his fake son and real daughter. But he won’t accept a girl. He checks my search history. If I look up anything ‘feminine,’ he deletes it, lectures me, sometimes worse.”
Her humming returned then—quieter, almost mournful. The melody shook faintly, like her voice wanted to break but wouldn’t.
“The villain’s quirk… it made me older, but being a girl, that was always me. And it’s strange,” she said, looking down at herself. “Nice, in a way, because this is who I am. But scary, too. Because he’d hate this. He’d hate me.”
She swallowed hard. “I think he did something. Stunted my growth somehow, made sure I wouldn’t hit puberty properly. Said it was for my ‘own good.’”
There was a long pause. Even Aizawa found his hands curling slightly at his sides. He forced them to relax.
“Mother wasn’t around,” Minori went on softly. “She worked a lot. I think… to avoid him. So I learned to do things myself. Even if they were ‘a woman’s job.’” She let out a faint, humorless chuckle. “I think he even considered… surgery, once. I overheard him shouting at a surgeon who refused to operate on me. Said I was healthy, and too young to know what I wanted. Father didn’t take that well.”
Her voice faded, and for a long moment, nobody said a word.
Aizawa’s throat felt tight, though his face stayed unreadable. He’d known parents like that existed. He’d met them—strict, controlling, determined to mould their children into something they weren’t. But hearing it in her voice, so matter-of-fact, made his chest ache.
Momo was staring down at her plate, shame flickering across her expression. Mina’s earlier smugness was gone, replaced by something heavy and uncertain. Even Bakugo looked uneasy, staring off toward the window instead of at her.
Aizawa finally spoke, voice low but steady. “Minori,” he said.
She looked up, blinking at him.
“You’re safe here.”
Those three words carried more weight than most of his lectures. The class seemed to understand it, too.
Minori blinked, as if the words took a moment to land. Safe. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard that before—not like this. Not enough to believed it.
Minori’s eyes softened, then shimmered faintly, her voice small when she replied. “Thanks, Sensei.”
Aizawa gave a single nod. “Eat. Rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
The meal continued in silence—a fragile truce, but one that felt real. Minori’s humming returned, quieter this time, but now… the others listened.
Minori’s humming returned, quieter now, but steadier. And this time, the others didn’t just hear it. They listened.
.
The dorm hall was quiet—eerily so, after the chaos of the day. Momo hesitated outside Minori’s room, her hand raised to knock but frozen halfway there. She wasn’t sure why she was nervous. Maybe it was the way Aizawa-sensei had looked at Minori earlier—half concerned, half unreadable. Or maybe it was the quiet sadness behind Minori’s smile at dinner, the kind that made Momo’s chest ache without knowing why.
Finally, she knocked.
The door opened a crack, and Minori peeked through, hair messy from fiddling with it. Her tone was gentle but wary.
“Yaoyorozu? It’s late. What’s up?”
Momo swallowed, clutching her hands together. “I just… wanted to talk. May I come in?”
Minori blinked, then nodded, stepping aside. The room was small but neat—neater than she expected. A futon was neatly folded against one wall, a single lamp flickering beside it. Momo frowned slightly. There used to be a bed here…
“You… changed your setup?” she asked softly.
Minori hummed, a quiet sound that was almost a sigh. “Father’s punishment,” she said simply. “When he found out I wanted a bra. Said beds are for girls who think they’re princesses, not for boys who forget what they are. So—” she gestured to the futon with a dry smile, “—I adjusted.”
Momo’s throat tightened. “That’s… awful.”
Minori just shrugged, as if used to it. “He bought me a binder instead. Said it’d make me ‘remember’ I’m his son. I refused at first. He threatened to pull me out of U.A.” She gave a soft, brittle laugh. “So I wore it. Every day. Even when it hurt.”
Momo hesitated, the words coming before she could stop them. “Then… that day, in the locker room…”
Minori blinked, looking away. “I wasn’t peeping,” she said quickly, but her voice trembled slightly. “I just… I needed to see how a real bra looked. I didn’t know where else to look. My father tracks my location—he’d know if I ever went into a lingerie store.”
She laughed again, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “So I watched. I wore gloves because I didn’t want to dirty anything. Then you walked in, and I panicked. I didn’t even realize I still had your bra until I was far away and hiding.”
Momo’s face burned—not with anger, but something quieter. Shame, maybe. Or regret. “You… kept it?”
Minori nodded. “I ended up trying it on. Took me a while to figure it out.” She looked down, fingers brushing her arm self-consciously. “That’s why I knew how to put one on today. On the battlefield. I guess I owe you a thank-you for the lesson—and an apology for the theft”
There was silence for a moment—soft, heavy, fragile. Momo felt tears sting her eyes before she even knew why.
“You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone,” she whispered.
Minori smiled faintly, eyes glistening. “No one should. But… it’s okay now. I finally get to be me, even if it took a villain attack and someone else's quirk to show everyone.”
Momo sat beside her, voice trembling. “You’re brave, Minori. Truly.”
Minori shook her head. “Not brave. Just tired of pretending.”
Momo didn’t argue. Instead, she reached over and gently took Minori’s hand. It was cold—but when Minori squeezed back, there was a quiet warmth that felt like understanding.
,
Aizawa had been passing the dorm hall, checking on the students, when a faint, hesitant voice reached him. He paused, leaning against the wall in the shadows, listening without moving.
It was Minori—soft, almost trembling, speaking to someone else. And then Momo’s gentle voice replied.
The words filtered through the thin door: about binders, stolen freedom, punishment, the monitoring, the fear. About being raised as someone she wasn’t. Aizawa felt a tightness in his chest he rarely allowed himself.
All this time, he thought. She’s been carrying it alone.
Every detail Minori shared—about her father’s rigid control, the suppression of her identity, the invasive tracking, the threats, the coercion into wearing the binder—hit him in quiet succession. The small, sticky-ball-throwing student he’d known wasn’t just mischievous. She’d been hiding layers of fear, anger, and longing—carefully, painfully—for years.
By the time Minori’s humming softened into silence, Aizawa’s face remained unreadable, but his mind raced. The school had protected her physically, yes, but emotionally? They had made adjustments, but nothing could undo the years of control and fear imposed at home.
A soft creak signaled the door opening. Momo stepped out, a bit startled to see him lingering in the hall.
“Sensei?” she asked quietly.
He gestured for her to come closer. She obeyed, stepping a few paces forward.
“She told you all of that,” he said evenly, his tone low but carrying weight.
Momo nodded. “Yeah… I didn’t realize it was this bad.”
Aizawa studied her expression for a moment, then spoke. “It’s worse than most of us see. The controlling environment, the punishments, the constant monitoring—it affects everything. Confidence. Identity. Emotional development.”
Momo’s brow furrowed. “I… I knew she struggled, but I didn’t know how much, or I guess in what way”
“Neither did I, until today, and even more so just now,” Aizawa admitted softly. “We can’t change the past. But we can control what happens here. U.A. is her space. She doesn’t have to hide who she is, not anymore. Not while she’s under our roof.”
Momo looked down at her feet, then back up at him. “So… what do we do? How do we make it better?”
Aizawa’s eyes softened just slightly, a rare crack in his usual stoicism. “Listen. Watch. Protect. Step in when needed—but never make her feel small. And give her choices. She’s been denied them for too long. Let her explore who she is, safely, and on her own terms.”
Momo nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of his words.
“Understood, Sensei,” she said.
Aizawa gave a single, brief nod. “Good. Now get some rest. She’s sleeping now. Let her.”
As Momo turned to leave, Aizawa remained in the hall a moment longer, leaning against the wall, watching the door. Minori’s quiet, steady breathing reached him even here. He let himself reflect, as he rarely did, on the resilience of the student before him.
Years of control and fear had shaped her—but here, at U.A., she could finally begin to shape herself. Not into what someone else demanded. But into who she truly was.
And he would make sure she had the space to do it.
.
The morning sun filtered softly through the dorm windows. Aizawa had already been up for hours, walking the quiet halls, checking on the students. The chaos of yesterday felt distant now, but he knew the events had left ripples—especially for Minori.
From down the hall came the faint clatter of pans and a soft hum. He paused, recognizing the tune—it was Minori, humming as she worked in the kitchen again. He allowed himself to lean against the doorway, unseen, and watch.
She moved with a kind of ease he hadn’t seen before. Her posture was relaxed, confident even, as if the weight of yesterday had lifted slightly. A small smile played across her lips, and her eyes sparkled as she flipped pancakes in a pan that was now at a comfortable height for her, still older frame.
She’s really… herself, he thought, quietly noting the subtle shift in her presence. No pretense, no hiding.
One by one, sleepy students trickled into the kitchen, drawn by the smell. Minori glanced up, smiled warmly, and offered plates. “I made enough for everyone, if you want some,” she said softly.
The class, groggy and grateful, accepted. There was no hesitation in their taking the food—just quiet acknowledgment of her presence. Even Bakugo, grumbling but polite, accepted a plate.
Minori sat down and began eating, occasionally offering a piece to those nearby. When Aizawa finally entered, she straightened slightly, but there was no nervousness in her posture. She held out a plate. “Some pancakes, Sensei?”
He raised an eyebrow but took a few. “Thank you,” he said, eating silently for a moment. The class watched, quiet but attentive, as their teacher and Minori shared the simplest of interactions—a meal.
When he finished, he stood and turned toward her. “Minori, come with me. Recovery Girl, Hound Dog, and the principal and I want to talk about yesterday. You’re not in trouble, but there are things we need to discuss. Most certainly.”
Minori nodded, finishing her bite and standing carefully. She looked toward Momo, who had lingered in the background. Momo’s smile was small but full of support, a quiet acknowledgment of what Minori had overcome and what lay ahead.
Minori returned the smile, a little shy, a little proud. Then, with Aizawa leading the way, she followed out of the kitchen.
From the doorway, Aizawa watched her go, noting the confidence in her steps, the subtle bounce in her stride. It was a small thing, but significant. For the first time, she was moving through her world on her own terms, fully recognized as Minori.
And he would make sure she could keep doing that.
.
Aizawa walked silently beside Minori as she followed him through the halls, her steps steady but her hands fidgeting slightly with the hem of her shirt. The classroom corridors felt familiar, yet the situation was anything but. The events of the previous day, combined with Minori’s sudden physical and emotional shift, had created a delicate situation that needed careful handling.
They entered Recovery Girl’s office first. The nurse looked up from her clipboard, eyebrows rising at the sight of Minori. “Ah… Mineta—or, Minori,” she corrected herself, voice gentle but firm. “I see.”
Minori straightened, a little self-conscious but no longer hiding. “It’s Minori now,” she said softly.
Recovery Girl nodded, giving her a reassuring smile. “Very well. Let’s begin an assessment.”
Aizawa stayed to the side, observing quietly. Minori moved through the check-ups with surprising ease—her posture, breathing, and expressions all indicating that, while nervous, she was comfortable with her autonomy. Recovery Girl examined her vitals, muscle tone, and physical health, noting the changes caused by the villain’s quirk. Hound Dog asked her questions during the assessment and wrote quite a few things down to add to the information they already knew.
“Her body appears fully developed for her current age of 25 now,” Recovery Girl explained as she finished jotting her own notes. “Cardiovascular function is normal, muscle mass consistent. There may be some residual trauma from prior malnourishment and stress, but physically she’s healthy.”
“Emotionally, how is she?” Aizawa asked quietly.
Recovery Girl shook her head reading from the file Hound Dog handed her. “She’s alert and aware, and her confidence has improved since the incident. But she has a history of suppression and fear of her father’s control. That needs careful guidance.”
After a short discussion, Aizawa led Minori to the principal’s office. Principal Nezu observed the interaction closely, tilting his head in his usual analytical way. “I understand there’s a matter of parental involvement,” he said, voice calm but precise.
“Yes,” Aizawa replied. “We need to ensure that Minori’s home environment supports her identity and safety. Her mother has not been engaged, and her father has been controlling to the point of affecting her emotional and physical development.”
Nezu nodded. “We should contact her mother, then, and invite her to the school for a discussion.”
Recovery Girl assisted with the call. Within the hour, Minori’s mother agreed to come to U.A. Aizawa watched as Minori shifted slightly in her seat, hands folded in her lap, a mixture of apprehension and quiet hope in her eyes.
When her mother arrived, she was led into a private conference room. Aizawa, Recovery Girl, and Principal Nezu explained everything—the years of suppression, the father’s control, the consequences of monitoring and punishment, and finally, the sudden transformation caused by the villain’s quirk.
The mother’s face grew pale as she listened. Tears welled in her eyes, but her voice was steady when she finally spoke. “I… I didn’t realize how much he—how much they were affected. I thought working so much would help, that providing financially and keeping the household together was enough. I never wanted to leave them alone with him, but I see now I should have been here… I should have supported my child.”
Aizawa remained silent, letting her speak. He noted the subtle shift in Minori’s posture as well—she was listening, visibly measuring her mother’s reaction, gauging authenticity.
Recovery Girl added gently, “Now that we know the full picture, we can coordinate a support plan. Emotional guidance, counseling, autonomy in her daily life, and careful oversight to ensure her father’s control does not continue to impact her well-being.”
The mother nodded, trembling slightly. “I want to do whatever it takes. I will support Minori. I will be present this time, and I will help her be who she truly is.”
Aizawa allowed himself a small nod—rare as it was. The situation was far from fully resolved, but the groundwork for proper support was being laid.
Minori exhaled quietly, a faint smile crossing her face as she looked at her mother. For the first time, she felt seen, not as a “fake son” or a controlled child, but as the person she had fought so hard to be.
Aizawa remained in the background, eyes sharp as always, watching the reunion. He noted every subtle reaction, every flicker of emotion, making mental notes of how to best continue support—not only for Minori but for the class as they adjusted to these revelations.
For now, he thought, the most important thing was that she had allies here. And for Minori, that meant a chance to finally begin truly living on her own terms.
.
The next morning back at UA, Minori woke with a sense of clarity she had never felt before. Sunlight streamed through the dorm window, falling across her neatly arranged futon. For a moment, she froze, staring at herself in the mirror.
It’s real. I’m really me.
The reflection staring back—taller, more mature, fully herself—brought a rush of relief, pride, and a tiny flutter of excitement. Gone were the bindings and restrictions of her father’s control; she was free to move, to exist as she truly was.
She dressed quickly in clothes Momo had helped her pick out, comfortable and fitting her new frame. Downstairs, the smell of syrup and butter filled the kitchen before anyone else even entered. Minori hummed as she flipped pancakes, the rhythm soothing, confident.
When the first sleepy students wandered in, she offered them plates with a bright, genuine smile. “I made enough for everyone again if you want some,” she said, and they accepted, some still half-asleep, others just watching her quietly.
She felt her chest swell—not just from the cooking, but from the simple pleasure of being accepted. Even Aizawa gave her a small nod of approval.
Momo sidled up to her quietly, voice gentle. “It’s… good to see you like this. So happy.”
Minori laughed softly, a little shyly. “It feels… normal. Comfortable. And I like it.”
Throughout the week, she began asserting herself more in class. She raised her hand without hesitation, shared ideas confidently during group exercises, and even demonstrated combat techniques with subtle elegance and precision. She used her sticky ball quirk creatively, showing others that her abilities were hers to wield, not just tools for jokes or pranks.
Her classmates adapted quickly. Those who had once teased or doubted her treated her with respect. Momo and Mina often partnered with her, guiding when necessary but letting her lead when she wanted.
Aizawa observed quietly from the edges of the room, noting every interaction, every confident gesture. He didn’t need to intervene; Minori’s presence was commanding enough, but he ensured there was a safety net if needed.
By the end of the week, she felt an unfamiliar sense of belonging—a confidence rooted not in hiding or compliance, but in being herself fully.
.
After Minori’s mother returned home, she immediately began gathering evidence of her husband’s controlling behavior: financial records, communication logs, proof of abuse, and even manipulations regarding Minori’s medical care. The collection was extensive, enough to expose years of psychological and emotional abuse.
,
Her father eventually discovered what had been happening and stormed into U.A., rage written across his face.
“Mineta! You will—” he started, his voice cracking with fury.
Minori stepped forward, now fully in her own power and form. “No,” she shouted, the confidence in her voice carrying across the courtyard. “I’m Minori! And I will not be hidden, silenced, or controlled by you anymore!”
The courtyard was tense. Her father’s anger radiated toward her, hands raised as if to strike. Minori’s sticky-ball ponytail shot out, wrapping around his wrists and ankles, anchoring him firmly to the spot.
“You—” he started, but Minori cut him off, voice ringing clear across the open space.
“I am done being silenced! Done being hidden! Done being your fake son!”
Then, a strange, tingling sensation ran through her body. The residual effects of the villain’s quirk—the one that had made her an adult—faded, leaving her once again in her sixteen-year-old body. She looked down, noticing immediately she wasn’t a midget or frail—her body was smaller, yes, shorter at 5’2, but healthy, strong, and agile. The quirk had undone the artificial stunting from her father’s control.
Her clothing fit differently now, sleeves slightly long, pants brushing her ankles. She flexed her hands and arms experimentally. Everything was still hers, just younger.
Her father’s eyes widened in confusion and rage. “What… what have you done?!”
Minori stepped forward, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. Though her body was younger, her voice carried the same power. “I am disappointed in you.”
The words struck him harder than any physical blow could. “You—how dare you—”
“I am disappointed that you tried to control me, to hide me, to dictate who I could be. You monitored me, punished me, and tried to make me something I’m not. You failed to protect me. You failed to love me.”
Even in her sixteen-year-old frame, she stood tall with confidence, every word deliberate, every gesture filled with authority beyond her years. The sticky-ball quirk kept him immobilized, and she pressed the point further.
“You will never dictate who I am again. I am Minori—your daughter—and I am not afraid of you anymore.”
Her mother arrived at that moment, clutching the evidence she had gathered. Principal Nezu and Aizawa quickly confirmed the documents and prepared to detain him for his crimes. Her father struggled, but Minori’s quirk held firm.
She exhaled slowly, feeling a strange mix of relief and empowerment. She had returned to her younger self, yes—but the confidence, the self-assurance she had gained as an adult stayed with her. The years of suppression could no longer define her.
Her mother knelt beside her. “I am so proud of you, Minori. You’ve been so brave.”
Minori leaned into her embrace, the sixteen-year-old version of herself finally feeling safe, seen, and unafraid. She glanced at Aizawa, at Nezu, at her classmates who had gathered to witness the resolution. She had been heard. She had been validated.
And for the first time in her life, she could truly move forward—not as her father’s puppet, not as a version of herself he wanted, but as herself.
.
The courtroom was tense, every seat filled with people listening closely. Minori sat in the witness stand, her posture straight, hands folded in her lap. Though her sixteen-year-old body sat smaller than the adult one she had briefly inhabited, her presence radiated confidence, the years of fear tempered into steely resolve.
The judge looked down at her, voice calm but firm. “Miss Minori, you may proceed with your testimony.”
Minori took a deep breath. “Thank you, Your Honor. I will tell the truth about everything my father did.”
She began with the earliest memories she could recall: the constant monitoring, the rules, and the restrictions that limited her freedom. She explained how her father tried to control how she expressed herself and forbade her from showing any part of her identity that didn’t fit the role he wanted. She described the emotional toll it took—the confusion, the fear, and the sense of being alone.
Then she revealed the more serious actions: treatments he had given her to control her growth and development, plans for procedures without her consent, and how he had tracked her movements even when she thought she was private. She explained that even during events like summer camp, when she had intentionally left her phone behind or turned it off, her father could still know her location—and had used that knowledge in anger to compromise her safety.
“The summer camp was supposed to be a safe experience,” she told the court, her voice steady. “But he used the tracker in my arm to find out where we were and, in his anger, shared that location with people who could have caused us harm. He thought of it as revenge for defying him, but it endangered me and my classmates.”
The court listened quietly as she continued, describing cameras in places she shouldn’t have been recorded, constant threats, and the years of pressure to conform.
Her voice grew steady and resolute as she concluded. “All of this… all of it was done without my agreement. I am Minori, and I am not a product of his control. I am myself.”
The prosecutor nodded, clearly satisfied with her testimony. Defense attorneys struggled, but there was little they could do in the face of the overwhelming evidence her mother had gathered, the support from Aizawa, Nezu, and Recovery Girl, and the documentation of her father’s actions.
Documents were presented showing the treatments, tracking logs, messages, and records of his instructions. Each piece painted a clear picture of his controlling and dangerous behaviour.
When the trial concluded, the judge addressed her father directly. “You have been found guilty of multiple counts of abuse, unlawful actions, invasion of privacy, neglect, and endangerment. Your sentencing will reflect the severity of your actions, and restraining order will also be put into place."
Minori exhaled quietly, a mix of relief, exhaustion, and validation washing over her. She had spoken her truth. She had reclaimed her voice. And finally, the person who had tried to control and harm her for years was being held accountable.
As she left the courtroom with her mother, Minori’s steps were lighter. Each stride felt like a reclaiming of the life she had always wanted—a life defined not by fear or control, but by her choices, her identity, and her freedom.
For the first time, she truly felt safe—and fully herself.
.
The dorm room was warm with soft lighting and the hum of quiet chatter. Snacks were scattered across the table, and blankets and pillows were arranged in a cozy circle. Minori sat cross-legged on her futon, Momo beside her, Jiro leaning back on a pillow, and the other girls making themselves comfortable.
After the previous grim revelations, the atmosphere was now light and playful. Mina grabbed a deck of cards. “Who’s up for a game?”
Minori’s eyes sparkled. “Me! But only if I get to be the dealer this time.”
“Deal with it,” Momo said, smirking. “I’ll let you.”
As Minori shuffled the deck, she hummed a soft melody she had never done before around them. The girls paused, surprised. “You hum while you concentrate?” Jiro asked.
Minori shrugged, smiling shyly. “I guess I do… it helps me focus.”
The card game started, and laughter soon filled the room. Minori’s competitive streak came out, playful and teasing, as she tried to read the other girls’ faces to predict their moves. “Ah, Momo! You think I can’t see that bluff?” she teased, grinning.
Momo laughed and shook her head. “You’re too observant.”
Later, they switched to snacks and drinks. Minori helped pour tea, her movements fluid and confident. “Here, try one of these,” she said, handing Jiro a cookie. “I made them a little extra sweet because you always seem sleepy.”
Jiro chuckled, taking it. “You remembered! Thanks, Minori.”
They shared stories, jokes, and quiet moments. Minori leaned back and sighed happily. “I never thought girls’ nights could be this… normal. I mean, I always wanted to be included, but I didn’t think it would feel this comfortable.”
Momo nudged her gently. “You’ve earned this, Minori. You’re part of us now.”
The night continued with silly games, whispered secrets, and quiet giggles. At one point, Minori grabbed a notebook and started doodling, showing her sketches to the others. “Look at this!” she said. “I tried drawing the class from our last field trip—minus the chaos!”
The girls leaned in, admiring her work. “Wow, Minori, this is amazing,” Mina said.
For Minori, it wasn’t just about fun. Every laugh, every shared story, every small smile was a reminder that she was seen, understood, and accepted—not the version her father had forced her to be, but her true self.
As the night drew to a close, they settled back on pillows, blankets wrapped around them. Momo leaned against her, whispering, “You’re really one of us now.”
Minori smiled, feeling a warmth in her chest she had never felt at home. “I know,” she whispered back. “And I’m glad I finally get to be me.”
The lights dimmed, soft music playing in the background, and Minori felt a deep sense of peace. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t hiding, wasn’t afraid, and wasn’t alone. She was part of something real—a group of friends who cared, supported, and accepted her for exactly who she was.
And for Minori, that made all the difference.
.
The classroom was bright, the walls decorated with colorful posters and student projects. Minori stood confidently at the front, presenting her project to the class. She spoke clearly, hands expressive, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and pride.
From the back of the room, her mother watched quietly, her heart swelling with emotion. She could see her daughter—truly herself, confident, and surrounded by supportive classmates and teachers. Every word, every gesture radiated authenticity, a stark contrast to the years of fear and suppression she had endured at home.
Minori’s mother leaned forward slightly, watching her daughter’s eyes light up as she explained her work. The classmates listened intently, some nodding, others whispering encouraging words to one another. M’s teacher beamed, giving a subtle nod of approval.
When the presentation concluded, the room erupted in applause. Minori’s mother rose from her seat, and Minori immediately turned toward her, smiling widely.
“Mom!” she exclaimed, rushing forward.
Her mother opened her arms, and Minori fell into a warm embrace. She held her daughter tightly, whispering softly, “I’m so proud of you, Minori. You’ve grown into someone incredible… and you’re happy, finally.”
Minori beamed, feeling the love and support from both her mother and the classmates around her. She could see their smiles, their pride in her achievements, and it filled her with a sense of belonging she had never known before.
As she released her daughter, her mother discretely pulled out her phone, her expression calm. She sent a message, transferring funds to the quirk user she had hired to support Minori’s transformation and help reveal her femininity in a safe, guided way. It had been her idea, a way to finally allow her daughter to be herself fully and to show others the confident, vibrant young woman she had always been inside.
Her mother glanced at Minori again, smiling. No matter the chaos that had tried to intrude that day—the revenge of her ex-husband or anyone else—it didn’t matter. Her daughter was happy now. Fully herself. Supported, strong, and finally free.
And for her, that was enough.
.
The Friday morning sun shone warmly over UA, casting a golden glow across the campus. Minori walked through the halls with a confident stride, her head held high, a small smile playing on her lips. She passed classmates who waved or called her name, friends who had cheered her on through everything—Momo, Jiro, Mina, and the others. They smiled back, proud and supportive, a silent affirmation that she truly belonged.
In class, she participated actively, answering questions, leading small group activities, and demonstrating her quirk with precision and creativity. Her confidence was evident, but so was her joy—she laughed freely, shared ideas without hesitation, and even offered guidance to younger students who looked up to her.
During lunch, she sat with Momo and Jiro, sharing stories and giggling over small jokes. The camaraderie felt effortless, natural. Minori no longer felt like she had to hide who she was or walk on eggshells; she was fully herself, accepted by the people around her.
After class, she returned to the dorms, where her mother now spent weekends with her instead of working. They cooked together, shared meals, and laughed over small mishaps in the kitchen. Her mother’s pride and support were unwavering, a constant reminder of the love that had been there all along, even when life had made it hard to see.
That evening, the girls organized another casual gathering. Blankets and pillows were strewn across the floor, snacks laid out, soft music playing. Minori sat in the center, Momo beside her, Jiro leaning back with a content smile. The room was filled with laughter, chatter, and warmth—comfort she had once thought impossible.
“I never thought I’d feel like this,” Minori admitted, looking around at her friends. “Like… I belong. Like I can just be me.”
Momo squeezed her hand. “You do belong. And you’ve worked so hard to get here. You deserve this.”
Her mother, quietly sitting in the corner, watched her daughter with tears in her eyes. “You’ve grown into someone incredible, Minori. I’m so proud of you,” she whispered softly.
As the evening wound down, Minori leaned back, looking around at the people who had become her family—the friends she trusted, the teachers who believed in her, the mother who had finally been there fully for her. She felt safe, loved, and celebrated.
No more fear. No more hiding. No more control from the past. She had reclaimed her life, her body, her identity—and now, she could live fully and freely, knowing that the people around her supported her every step of the way.
With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the happiness wash over her. The journey had been long and hard, but it had brought her here: surrounded by love, acceptance, and the confidence to be herself.
And for Minori, that was the beginning of everything she had ever wanted.
The future was hers—and she was ready.
—The End—