The awe lasted exactly thirty seconds before reality crashed back in. A woman with a clipboard and the voice of a drill sergeant started barking orders through a megaphone, and suddenly we were cattle being herded into the slaughterhouse.
"All applicants proceed to the main building! Follow the blue arrows! Stay in single file! No running!"
The crowd lurched forward like a living thing, and I got swept along. Toru's floating coat bobbed beside me as we were funneled through doors that could have accommodated a small aircraft. The interior was even more ridiculous than the exterior—marble floors that reflected the ceiling lights like a mirror, staircases that spiraled up into infinity, and windows so tall they made me feel like an ant.
"This place is insane," Toru whispered, her voice barely audible over the shuffle of hundreds of feet. "Look at that chandelier!"
I tilted my head back. The thing was massive, all crystal and gold, hanging over us like a glittering sword of Damocles. Everything here was designed to make you feel small, insignificant. It was psychological warfare disguised as architecture.
Smart. Break them down before the test even starts.
We were herded into a grand hall that could have doubled as a cathedral. The ceiling disappeared into shadows, and banners bearing the U.A. logo hung from the walls like battle standards. The noise was incredible—thousands of voices bouncing off stone and marble, creating a constant hum of nervous energy.
"Attention applicants!" The voice boomed from speakers hidden somewhere in the rafters. "Please proceed to your assigned testing halls. Rooms are assigned alphabetically by the first letter of your last name. A through F, east wing. G through L, west wing. M through R, north wing. S through Z, south wing."
Toru and I looked at each other—or rather, I looked at where I thought she was.
"Hagakure... Murano," she said, and I could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Different wings."
"Yeah." I shrugged, keeping my tone casual. "Guess they don't want us comparing notes."
"Good luck!" She reached out and squeezed my arm, her gloved fingers warm through my coat. "See you on the other side, Yukio!"
I watched her floating outfit disappear into the crowd heading toward the west wing, then turned and followed the signs pointing north. The other M-through-R students around me were a mixed bag—some trying to project confidence, others looking like they were about to throw up. A kid with broccoli hair was muttering what sounded like a prayer under his breath. Another one kept checking his watch every five seconds.
Amateurs.
The north wing was a maze of corridors lined with identical doors, each marked with a letter and number. I found mine—N-7—and stepped inside.
The lecture hall was exactly what you'd expect from a place like this: rows of desks arranged in perfect formation, each one equipped with a pencil, an eraser, and a bottle of water. The walls were bare except for a clock and a whiteboard. The smell hit me immediately—floor wax, cleaning chemicals, and the sharp scent of anxiety sweat.
Students were already filing in, choosing seats like they were picking burial plots. Some went for the back rows, hoping to hide. Others claimed the front, eager to make an impression. I picked a seat in the middle, close enough to see everything but far enough back to avoid unwanted attention.
The whispers started immediately.
"Did you study the Municipal Ordinance section?"
"I heard they ask about the Quirk Registration Act."
"My sister said the practical exam is impossible."
I tuned them out and focused on the clock. Five minutes until the official start time. The door was still open, letting in the sound of footsteps and muffled conversations from the hallway. Then, right at the stroke of nine, the chatter died.
The sound that silenced the room wasn't an announcement or a bell. It was the sharp, rhythmic click-clack of high heels on linoleum.
She didn't walk into the room. She performed an entrance. The leather of her costume caught the fluorescent lights, creating highlights and shadows that moved like liquid.
Her dark hair swayed with each step, and when she reached the front of the room, she turned to face us with the kind of smile that belonged in a jazz club, not a classroom.
Midnight.
I'd seen her on TV, of course, but the cameras didn't do her justice. They couldn't capture the way she commanded space, how her presence seemed to fill every corner of the room. She leaned back against the podium, one hip cocked, her whip coiled loosely in her hand like a sleeping snake.
"Well, well," she purred, her voice a low contralto that seemed to vibrate in my chest. "What a lovely crop of little lambs we have today."
The effect on the room was immediate and varied. Half the boys turned red and started staring at their desks. A few girls did the same. Others couldn't look away, their eyes wide and glassy. One kid in the front row actually gulped, the sound audible in the sudden silence.
I just watched her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. This was theater, pure and simple. She was using every tool in her arsenal—voice, body language, costume, reputation—to establish dominance before the test even began. It was beautiful in its efficiency.
Her gaze swept across the room, cataloging reactions, filing away information. When her eyes met mine, I didn't look away or blush or stammer. I met her stare with calm interest.
For just a moment, her smile shifted. It became less performance and more genuine amusement. Game recognizes game, her expression seemed to say.
"The rules are quite simple," she continued, pushing off from the podium and beginning a slow prowl between the desks. "You have ninety minutes to complete your examination. That should be more than enough time for anyone with proper... stamina."