Two months.
Two months of hell disguised as preparation, and I was starting to think Kimiko enjoyed watching me suffer.
"Again," she called from across the park, clipboard pressed against her chest, stopwatch gleaming in the pre-dawn light. "Your form's sloppy on the turns."
I bent over, hands on my knees, sweat dripping onto the gravel track. The public park was empty except for us and a few dedicated joggers who gave us a wide berth. Smart people. They could probably sense the aura of barely contained violence radiating from my sister-turned-drill-sergeant.
"My form," I panted, "is fine."
"Your form is adequate. Adequate doesn't get you into U.A."
I straightened, shooting her the middle finger. Kimiko just smiled that sweet, merciless smile and clicked her stopwatch.
"Sprint intervals. Go."
The woman was a sadist. A beautiful, brilliant sadist who'd somehow convinced me that voluntary torture at five in the morning was character building. But as I launched into another sprint, feeling my muscles burn and my lungs scream, I had to admit something I'd never tell her out loud.
She was right.
Two months ago, I'd been a decent fighter with a flashy Quirk and enough arrogance to fill Tokyo Bay. Now? The scrawny teenager's body I'd inherited had transformed into something lean and dangerous. Not bulky—I'd never be a powerhouse like some of these hero types—but fast. Precise. Deadly.
"Time," Kimiko called, and I collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving.
She jogged over, her own breathing barely elevated despite keeping pace with me for the past hour. Sometimes I forgot she'd been doing this longer than I had, working multiple jobs while maintaining her own fitness regimen. The woman was a machine wrapped in curves and determination.
"Better," she said, offering me a water bottle. "Your acceleration on the third interval was almost respectable."
"Almost respectable," I repeated, taking a long drink. "Please, praise me more."
"I'm exactly as kind as you need me to be." She settled beside me on the grass, pulling out her phone to log my times. "Junkyard next?"
I groaned. The junkyard was where the real magic happened, where I'd learned to turn my Quirk from a party trick into something that could level buildings. But it was also where Kimiko pushed me hardest, where she'd stand just outside the blast radius and critique my technique while I tried not to accidentally vaporize myself.
"Can't we skip straight to the flashcards today?"
"Nice try." She stood, extending her hand to pull me up. "The exam is in twelve hours. If you're not ready now, another day of cramming won't save you."
The junkyard sprawled before us like a metallic graveyard, towers of rusted cars and broken appliances. Two months ago, I'd come here to throw charged coins at tin cans. Now I saw something else entirely.
A symphony waiting to be conducted.
I started simple—a charged ball bearing ricocheting off three car hoods before detonating against a refrigerator door. The explosion sent shrapnel flying in a controlled pattern, each piece striking predetermined targets.
"Showoff," Kimiko muttered, but I caught the pride in her voice.
I wasn't showing off. I was thinking three moves ahead, the way I used to read poker tells and calculate odds. Except now the stakes were measured in twisted metal and purple fire instead of cash and pride.
"Efficiency rating?" I called, already knowing the answer from her expression.
"Eighty-seven percent." She made a note on her clipboard.
Eighty-seven percent. Two months ago, I'd been lucky to hit sixty. But Kimiko's standards were as relentless as her training methods. Good enough wasn't good enough. Perfect was the starting point.
"Again," she said, and I obeyed.
By the time we stumbled back to the apartment, I could barely feel my arms. The shower was a religious experience, hot water washing away two months of accumulated aches. When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, I found Kimiko waiting with her stack of flashcards and that look that meant my suffering was far from over.
"Hero law," she announced, settling onto the couch and patting the cushion beside her.
I collapsed next to her, still damp and exhausted. She held up the first card.
"Quirk usage regulations in public spaces."
"Licensed heroes and those under direct supervision of licensed heroes may use Quirks in public for the purposes of villain apprehension, disaster relief, or authorized training exercises. Unlicensed Quirk usage is subject to fines up to—"
"PR response to civilian casualties during villain encounters."
"Express immediate concern for the injured, emphasize the priority of saving lives, deflect specific questions to the investigation team, and schedule a follow-up statement once all facts are available."
"Weakness of typical strength-enhancement Quirks."
"Overconfidence, tunnel vision, and poor strategic thinking. They rely on brute force and forget that the strongest man in the room is still just a man with weak points."
She smiled, the first genuine one I'd seen all day. "Someone's been paying attention."
"Someone's had a very thorough teacher."
The flashcards continued for another hour, covering everything from villain psychology to media management to the subtle art of merchandising deals. Kimiko's mind was a steel trap wrapped in silk, cataloguing every detail that might give me an edge. She didn't just want me to pass the exam—she wanted me to dominate it.
By the time we finished, the sun had set and my brain felt like overcooked rice. I slumped against the couch cushions, watching Kimiko organize her notes with the same methodical precision she applied to everything else.
The bathroom was thick with chemical fumes and the weight of ritual. I sat on the rickety stool, shirtless, while Kimiko worked her magic with bleach and developer. My black roots had grown out over the past two months, a visible reminder of how long I'd been grinding toward this moment.
"Hold still," she murmured, her fingers gentle but sure as she sectioned my hair. "Unless you want to go to U.A. looking like a zebra."
The process was meditative in its own way. I could feel her breath on my neck as she worked, could smell her shampoo mixing with the harsh chemical scent. These quiet moments between us had become precious over the past two months, islands of calm in the storm of preparation.
"Nervous?" she asked, applying bleach to another section.
"Should I be?"
"Most people would be." She paused, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "Then again, most people aren't you."
"The acceptance rate is less than one percent," I said, testing the words.
"I know."
"Thousands of applicants. Some of them with Quirks that could level city blocks."
"I know that too."
"What if I'm not enough?"
Kimiko's hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their work.
"Then you make yourself enough," she said simply.
An hour later, I was back to being the High Roller. I wasn't just playing a character anymore. The confidence, the precision, the cold calculation—it was all real now. Earned through sweat and pain and Kimiko's relentless faith in my potential.
We ended up on the couch, a documentary about Endeavor's early career playing on the TV. Neither of us was really watching. Tomorrow loomed like a mountain, and the closer it got, the more I could feel the weight of everything riding on it.
Kimiko shifted beside me, her body warm against mine as she settled more comfortably. Her head found its way to my chest, her hair tickling my chin. The weight of her was grounding, familiar. Safe.
"A little quiet, aren't we?" she murmured, tilting her head to look at me. Her mahogany eyes held that teasing glint I knew so well. "Getting nervous, Yu-yu?"
I grunted.
She shifted again, propping herself up on her elbow so she was looking down at me. Her thumb traced my jawline, the touch feather-light but somehow more intimate than anything I'd experienced in either of my lives.
"And here I was thinking my little brother was finally becoming such a big, strong man."
A frustrated sigh escaped me, and I finally met her eyes.
"The odds are insane," I admitted. "Less than one percent. Even with everything we've done, all the training, all the preparation..."
She didn't offer empty platitudes or false reassurance. Instead, she leaned down, pressing her forehead against mine. The playful teasing was gone, replaced by something fierce and unwavering.
"Then be better than one percent," she whispered, her breath warm against my skin. "Go show them what a Murano is worth."