She paused next to a boy with green hair who looked like he was about to faint. "There will be no cheating. No peeking at your neighbor's work. No communication of any kind." Her whip uncoiled slightly, the leather making a soft whisper as it moved. "I have excellent vision, and I take a very personal interest in discipline."
The crack of the whip was like a gunshot in the quiet room. Several students jumped. The green-haired kid made a sound that might have been a whimper.
"Keep your hands visible at all times," Midnight continued, her voice dropping to something that was almost a whisper. "On your desks, on your papers, nowhere else. If I catch you with wandering fingers, I'll give you something much more interesting to do with them."
She was good. Really good. Every word was calculated to unnerve, to throw the students off balance before they even saw the first question. It was psychological warfare at its finest.
But I'd played this game before, in rooms where the stakes were higher and the players more dangerous. In casinos where a misread could cost you everything, where knowing when someone was bluffing could mean the difference between walking away rich or walking away breathing.
Midnight wasn't trying to seduce or intimidate me. She was putting on a show, and I was appreciating the artistry.
"Any questions?" she asked, returning to the front of the room.
Silence.
"Excellent. You may begin... now."
The exam papers were distributed by floating sheets—someone's Quirk, probably. I turned mine over and scanned the first page. Hero law, ethics scenarios, strategic thinking problems. Exactly what Kimiko had drilled into me for two months.
Question 1: A villain with a hostage demands safe passage in exchange for the civilian's life. You are the only hero on scene. What is your primary consideration?
Child's play. Kimiko had made me write essays on this exact scenario. I picked up my pencil and started writing, my hand moving across the page in smooth, confident strokes.
Question 7: Explain the legal framework surrounding Quirk usage in emergency situations by unlicensed individuals.
I'd lived this one. The night I met Mt. Lady, when I'd used my Quirk to stop that thug, I'd technically been breaking the law. But the Good Samaritan provisions covered civilian intervention in life-threatening situations, provided the force used was proportional and...
The clock ticked. Papers rustled. Someone behind me was erasing something for the third time. I kept writing, my mind moving through the questions like water through a channel. This wasn't a test; it was a formality. The real evaluation would come later.
Question 23: A fellow hero's actions result in significant collateral damage during a rescue operation. How do you handle the situation?
I paused for a moment, my pencil hovering over the paper. There was the textbook answer—report through proper channels, document everything, maintain professional relationships. Then there was the real answer—it depends on who the hero is, how much influence they have, and what kind of dirt they might have on you.
I wrote the textbook answer. They weren't ready for the real one.
Forty-five minutes later, I was done. I set my pencil down and leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze wander around the room. Most of the other students were still hunched over their papers, some of them looking panicked. The green-haired kid was writing furiously, his hand moving so fast it was almost a blur.
Midnight noticed I'd finished. She raised an eyebrow, a silent question. I shrugged, equally silent. She nodded and made a note on her clipboard.
I spent the remaining time studying my future classmates. The red-haired kid had finished too and was staring at the ceiling with a satisfied grin. A girl with pink hair and skin was doodling in the margins of her test. A boy with glasses was still working methodically through each question, his movements precise and mechanical.
These were my competition. My rivals. My future colleagues.
Or my stepping stones.
"Time," Midnight called, her voice cutting through the scratching of pencils and the rustle of papers. "Pencils down. Papers face-down on your desks."
The collective sigh of relief was audible. Some students slumped in their chairs. Others looked like they wanted to keep writing. The green-haired kid was muttering something under his breath that sounded like a mantra.
"Congratulations," Midnight said, her smile returning to full wattage. "You've survived the first round. Those of you who pass will receive notification for the practical examination. For those who don't..." She shrugged eloquently. "There's always next year."
Papers were collected by the same floating Quirk that had distributed them. Students began filing out, their voices rising as they compared answers and shared their panic. I stood and stretched, working out the kinks from sitting still for ninety minutes.
As I headed for the door, Midnight's voice stopped me.
"Murano."
I turned back. She was sitting on the edge of her desk now, one leg crossed over the other, her clipboard balanced on her knee.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Interesting approach to question fifteen."
I thought back. Something about media management during a crisis. "How so?"
"Most students would have gone with the standard PR playbook. You suggested redirecting attention to positive community outcomes instead of trying to control the narrative directly."
"Seemed more practical," I said. "People don't like being told what to think. They prefer to think they came to the conclusion themselves."
Her smile was sharp and knowing. "Indeed. Good luck with the practical, Mr. Murano."
"Thank you."
I walked out into the hallway, joining the river of students flowing toward the main auditorium. The practical exam briefing was next—the real test. The written portion had been about proving I could think like a hero. Now I had to prove I could act like one.
The hallway was grand enough to host a state dinner, all marble columns and vaulted ceilings. Our footsteps echoed like thunder, and the collective murmur of conversation grew louder as we approached a set of doors that looked like they belonged on a cathedral.
The buy-in is complete, I thought, adjusting my coat and checking that my playing cards were still secure in my pocket. Now let's see what the real game looks like.