The sound of the studio's control board dug into my chest like the rhythm of a vast machine: the clicking of switches, the muffled commands from the director, the quiet hum of air conditioners filling the pauses between minutes. The cameras—black wheels on long arms—slowly turned toward the center of the stage, where light markers guided them along a pre-drawn line. On the huge screens behind the audience, the logo flashed: "The Recipe for True Love." This was the format in which people came not so much for answers as for a feeling—for that small narcotic of trust that the stage provided.
The Enlightener stepped onto the stage like a man who knew just the right word to taunt the audience. He wasn't just a presenter; he was a puppeteer of emotions: a slight irony in his voice, a spark of challenge in his gaze. When the spotlight fell on him, the audience responded—with a murmur, a soft whisper of admiration. The Enlightener smiled, lifting his chin slightly, and his face became a screen that could reflect a thousand reactions in an instant.
"Today we have a special episode," he said, his voice echoing across the studio walls. "We'll test the boundaries of what people call 'love.' And we'll start with the one who stands before us as a symbol: Nice."
The applause erupted, steady and precise, like a count in a card game. A shaky mass of anticipation froze in the corner of Lin's heart; he was ready—the preparation had become automatic—but inside him, the first night still burned, doubts, the curse of an empty promise. The Educator, a man of action, didn't consider doubts appropriate on live television.
"We'll conduct a classic 'Truth or Dare' test," he continued. "But with a slight twist. We'll use a 'trust detector.' People want to see a reason—and we'll show it."
Scenes changed, cameras were turned, camera operators practiced editing down to the last second. On the table next to Prosvetitel stood a device—a silver frame with flickering sensors; attached to it was a laptop, a stream of numbers, graphs, and blinking green and red lights. It wasn't exactly a police polygraph, but its equivalent—a tool for "reading" emotions, for reading how well the director's sincere reaction matched the audience's.
Lin sat, taut as a string, in his chair at the table. The camera was aimed directly at him; the light was warm, soft—he was learning to smile in it. Moon sat on the airship in the recording, her face distant, but seemingly looking straight at him. When Enlighter asked the first question, the room fell silent. This wasn't a stage for dialogue; it was a stage for confession.
The screen filled with an image of a television studio—vast, flooded with light, with cameras on long tripods and giant screens behind them. The logo flashed: "The Recipe for True Love . "
"The show," Jiro whispered. "They're taking him out on the show."
Class 1-A tensed in their seats, sensing something important was about to happen.
The Enlightener, a man whose presence commanded attention, took the stage. The voiceover described him: "He wasn't just a presenter; he was a puppeteer of emotions . "
"Another manipulator," Todoroki muttered. "The system is full of them."
When the Enlightener spoke, his voice full of gentle irony and a spark of challenge, the studio audience responded with admiring whispers.
Nezu leaned forward:
— A charismatic controller. The most dangerous type. People follow him willingly, not realizing they're being manipulated.
The Enlightener's words sounded like an announcement: "Today we have a special edition. We will test the boundaries of what people call 'love.' And we will begin with the one who stands before us as a symbol: Nice . "
The applause exploded, even and precise, like a count in a card game.
Midoriya clutched the notebook:
"They're bringing out Ling Ling as Nice. In front of the whole country. This... this is the moment of truth."
The screen showed Ling Ling sitting in a chair. The camera was aimed directly at him. A voiceover conveyed his thoughts: "In the corner of Ling's heart, a trembling mass of anticipation froze; he was ready—preparation had become automatic—but inside him, the first night still burned, the doubts, the curse of an empty promise . "
Uraraka covered her mouth with her hand:
"He's ready on the outside, but he's still fighting on the inside. He hasn't given up!"
Bakugo leaned forward:
- Good. Hang in there, Ling Ling. Don't show any weakness.
When the Educator announced, "We're going to conduct a classic Truth or Dare test. But with a slight twist. We're using a 'trust detector,'" the class froze.
"A trust detector?" Iida repeated. "What is it?"
The screen showed a device—a silver frame with flickering sensors, connected to a laptop. A stream of numbers, graphs, and flashing green and red lights.
"It's not a police polygraph," Nezu explained, "but its equivalent. A tool for 'reading' emotions. For measuring how well a genuine reaction matches the audience's expectations."
Yaomoro turned pale:
"They're going to test it publicly. If it fails, if the system detects a discrepancy..."
"He'll be exposed," Todoroki finished. "And then it'll all be over."
Aizawa crossed his arms:
"A public test. A smart move. If he passes, people will accept him as Nice without question. If he fails..."
He didn't finish. There was no need.
On the screen, Ling Ling sat "taut as a string ." The camera was aimed directly at him. The light was warm, soft—he was learning to smile in it.
Midoriya stared at the screen, his heart beating so loudly he was sure the others could hear:
- He's so calm on the outside... but there must be a storm inside.
One of the screens showed a recording of Moon on the airship—her face was distant, but it seemed like she was looking straight at him.
"Moon," Uraraka whispered. "The heroine from the beginning. The ideal heroine of the system."
Kirishima clenched his fists:
"They're using her image to test him. It's... it's a psychological game."
When the Enlightener asked the first question, the studio fell silent. A voiceover said, "This wasn't a scene for dialogue; it was a scene for confession . "
The entire Class 1-A leaned forward in their seats, unable to tear their eyes away from the screen.
The Almighty gripped the armrests:
"It's a test. Not physical, but psychological. A test of who he's become. Is he Nice or is he still Ling Ling?"
Bakugo was literally sitting on the edge of his chair:
— Come on, Ling Ling. Show them. Fool them all.
Tokoyami stood up, his cloak hanging motionless:
"The light must hide in the darkness to survive. But sooner or later it will shine brighter than before."
Nezu turned to the class:
"Watch carefully, students. What's about to happen will reveal the true nature of man under the pressure of the system. Will he break completely or find a way to resist?"
On the screen, the camera slowly zoomed in on Ling Ling's face. His eyes—already almost indistinguishable from Nice's—stared straight into the lens.
And somewhere in their depths a spark flashed.
Not submission.
No fear.
Determination.
Midoriya whispered like a prayer:
— You can. I know you can. Don't lose yourself. Please don't lose yourself.
The studio fell silent.
The enlightener opened his mouth, ready to ask the first question.
The trust detector blinked, ready to detect any lie, any deviation from the image of the ideal hero.
Class 1-A held their breath.
The moment of truth has arrived.
And the entire cinema froze in anticipation.
What happens next?
Will Ling Ling survive?
Or will the system finally swallow him up?
The silence was absolute.
And in that silence, every student in Class 1-A prayed for the man on the screen—the man who had dared to challenge the system and paid for it with everything he was.
The lesson continued.
And its end was near.
"Tell me honestly: is Moon your girlfriend?" The host's voice was calm, but it contained a word that could draw out the truth: "honestly."
Lin's heart leaped. His insides tightened—not from fear of exposure, but from that old pattern of devotion he'd been building all his life: the image of Moon, the moment of salvation, the voice that had guided him through sleepless nights. He felt Trust, that quiet, warm resonance, tightening beneath his skin—an activity indicator pulsing in the scarf of his throat.
He answered, first in a whisper that covered the microphone, then his voice grew stronger:
- She... is not just a girl. She is my goddess.
Coming out of it, the phrase sounded less like a sales pitch and more like a sacred name; in the studio mirror, it looked shockingly credible. The detector blinked green. A curve appeared on the screen—a smooth, confident line, confirming what most people hunger to see: sincerity. Enlighter nodded, as if what he'd said had just collected the show.
The cameras also captured a couple of followers in the audience, their faces breaking into smiles. This frame captured the millions of comments, likes, and shares that were already pouring online in real time. Trust picked up the hype: the light indicator on Lin's bracelet flickered and warmed, as if confirming that the public believed it.
The educator switched to the next level: "Truth or Dare," "detective," "pressure." He wasn't just checking the facts—he was creating a plot: conflict, temptation, emotional upheaval. What was an internal catechism for Lin became a spectacle for the public. His every breath was recorded, his every reflex was accounted for.
And just as the voice was beginning to swell, a noise burst into the studio—not a pre-recorded chord, not a rumbling chord, but a roar of irrational intrusion. Someone in the audience screamed, and an armored figure appeared in the audience—too massive, too mechanical for the show. Cheng Yaojin appeared not as a former boss with a faint grin, but as a man hiding a difficult past behind a steel frame.
The Enlightener's question sounded like a blow: "Tell me honestly: is Moon your girlfriend?"
Class 1-A frozen.
The screen showed a close-up of Ling Ling's face. The voiceover conveyed his inner state: "His heart leaped. His insides clenched—not from fear of exposure, but from that old model of devotion he'd been building his entire life: the image of Moon, the moment of salvation, the voice that guided him through sleepless nights . "
Midoriya pressed his hands to his chest:
"He feels something real. This isn't just a role for him. Moon... she means something important to him."
Uraraka leaned forward:
"But is it true? Or are these Nyce's feelings, implanted in him by the system?"
As Thrust— that quiet, warm resonance —twitched beneath his skin, the activity indicator pulsing on his neck, Todoroki frowned.
— The system reacts. It measures his emotions in real time.
Ling Ling's answer was first a whisper, then his voice grew stronger:
"She... she's not just a girl. She's my goddess . "
Silence.
And then—
The detector flashed green.
A curve appeared on the screen – a smooth, confident line, confirming sincerity.
"HE PASSED!" Kaminari exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. "The detector showed that he was telling the truth!"
Yaomoro shook her head, her eyes filled with tears:
"But is it true? Or has he become so immersed in the role that even a detector can't tell the difference?"
Aizawa leaned towards All Might:
"That's the problem with method actors. When you live in a role long enough, the line between you and the character blurs. He believes what he says. Because part of him has already become Nice."
The Almighty closed his eyes:
"But Ling Ling is still there, inside. He has to be there."
On the screen, the Enlightener nodded, as if he'd just gotten what he wanted. The cameras captured the faces of the audience—they were smiling and admiring.
"They're buying it," Bakugou whispered. "They all buy into this nonsense."
The voiceover described the reaction: "Millions of comments, likes, and reposts were already pouring in online in real time. The Trust caught the buzz: the light indicator on Lin Lin's bracelet flickered and warmed up, as if confirming the public's belief . "
Nezu gripped the armrests:
"Trust reinforces the crowd's faith. And the more they believe, the more the system controls them. A vicious circle."
Kirishima clenched his fists:
— But he's holding up! He passed the first test!
When the Enlightener switched to the next level - "Truth or Dare," "detective game," "pressure" - creating conflict, temptation, emotional shock, Iida stood up:
"This is manipulation! He's turning Ling Ling's internal struggle into a spectacle for the public!"
"That's exactly the point," Jiro replied. "Every breath is recorded. Every reflex is taken into account. This isn't an interview—it's an interrogation."
Midoriya looked at the screen, his body tensing:
"How much longer can he hold out? How many questions will there be before the system cracks?"
And suddenly—
Noise.
Unrecorded, undirected - a true roar of irrational invasion.
Someone in the audience screamed.
Class 1-A jumped out of their seats.
"WHAT?!" Kaminari exclaimed.
An armored figure appeared on the screen—too massive, too mechanical for the show.
"IS THIS A VILLAIN?!" Uraraka screamed.
The camera zoomed in, revealing a face inside the armor.
Cheng Yaojin.
"CHENG?!" Midoriya grabbed his head. "His former boss?! The one who fired him?!"
But the voiceover described him not as a former boss with a grin, but as "a man hiding a difficult past behind a steel frame . "
Todoroki straightened up:
"He didn't come as an enemy. He came... as something else."
Bakugou narrowed his eyes:
— In armor. On live broadcast. It's either a rescue mission or suicide.
Panic erupted across the studio screen. Security guards rushed toward Cheng. Cameras darted between him and Ling Ling. The educator froze, his professional facade cracking for the first time in the entire broadcast.
The Almighty stood up, his voice full of hope:
"Maybe he came to save Ling Ling? Maybe he realized he was wrong?"
Aizawa shook his head:
"Or he came to expose him. Cheng knows who's really behind Nice's mask. He can destroy all the deception with a single word."
Yaomoro covered her mouth with her hands:
"But if he exposes Ling Ling on the live broadcast... they'll kill him! Miss J won't forgive such a failure!"
On the screen, Cheng stepped forward. The guards tried to stop him, but the armor was too strong. He walked straight toward the stage where Ling Ling sat.
Kirishima shouted at the screen:
— WHAT IS HE GOING TO DO?! HELP OR HARM?!
Lin Lin looked at Chen on the screen. Their eyes met.
And in that moment, Midoriya saw it—recognition. Ling Ling recognized Cheng. Despite the transformation, despite becoming Nice, a part of Ling Ling still remembered.
"HE REMEMBERS!" Midoriya shouted. "Ling Ling is still there!"
Asui grabbed Uraraka:
- Ribit! But what is Cheng going to do?!
Nezu sat motionless, his beady eyes glued to the screen:
"The next few seconds will determine everything. Either Cheng will save him or destroy him. There is no third option."
Tokoyami stood with his hands raised:
— Destiny balances on a knife edge! Darkness and light collide!
On the screen, Cheng opened his mouth, ready to speak.
The cameras were pointed at him.
Millions of viewers watched.
Class 1-A froze in absolute silence.
What will he say?
Will he save Ling Ling?
Or destroy it?
The silence was unbearable.
And in that silence, every student in Class 1-A understood that the next words would change everything.
The lesson has reached its climax.
And no one knew how it would end.
The screen froze on Cheng's face.
His mouth dropped open.
AND-
He stood in the center, clad in armor with matte metal accents and sharp lines. His face was hidden, but his bearing was commanding. He looked like a tragic actor about to shatter his mask. He held not a weapon in the traditional sense, but a scroll—a thick set of scrolls with sheets of paper protruding from them. The Enlighter froze; the audience held their breath; the cameras instantly focused on the figure who had come to disrupt the script.
"I've come to remind you that not everything that glitters is true," he said lowly. His voice, piercing the studio, sounded like a metallic ringing: precise, utterly calm. "These 'termination letters' aren't just paper. They're power. They're what raised me from nothing. They feed on the fear of those who've been told they're fired, who are afraid of losing what they have. They fuel someone's success. Today, I'll show you the power of fear."
He unrolled one of the scrolls, and the pages, covered in neat handwriting, seemed to squeeze out the air. The Educator took a step forward, but that step was marked by different rules: this was no longer a conversation, but a challenge. Miss Jay, in the shadows behind the equipment, clenched her fist; her face was pale but calm—she knew her crisis management mechanisms were in action at that moment.
Cheng approached Lin. His maneuver was theatrical, like a performance: he threw the scroll like someone aiming for a heart. The audience froze, like a bird flying towards the wall. Then he unsealed the first "letter" and began whispering the words. Their meaning was simple and terrifying: lists, reports, catalogs of failures—not his personal vendetta, but a carefully crafted text capable of fanning the flames of panic in the crowd. Each paragraph was like a fan, stirring up fears from the depths and channeling them directly into the audience.
The first lines settled in his ears like rain—tiny drops of doubt. The cameras reacted, the graphics on the screen flickered with a gray stripe. Trust felt it: a cold current swirled around Lin's bracelet, like a shield crumbling under a hailstorm. It wasn't physical pressure—it was a mental storm that could make anyone unstable.
But at that very moment, as Cheng's words, like tiny knives, struck the audience, Lin didn't break. He remembered Moon's face—not idealized, not airbrushed, but the one he'd seen on the airship and in his thoughts: alive, vulnerable. A second later, something within him responded—not with a scene, not with a summary, but with the oldest motivation: to protect. He felt how Trust, previously alien and mechanical, partly responded—another current had begun to live within him: not only acceptance, but also the energy generated by the masses.
He stood up.
The movement was soft, almost timid, but it carried the trick he'd been taught: breathing evenly, looking into the audience, a smile like a seal. But there was more to that look now than just a role. He felt something ignite within him—not just a transformation, but a feeling as if his body was finally being warmed by someone's hands. And then something happened that no one expected: what Trust had been producing as an effect turned into an action.
His palms, trained to work with microcurrents, emitted a wave—not a visible, targeted wave, but an effect: a faint glow around his hands, sparks in the air, a sound like thousands of tiny circuits trembling with tension. These weren't just imaginings: the lights registered the flash, the microphones recorded the hiss, and the cameras slowed down to store the frame in the broadcast memory. Cheng, in his armor, made contact, and the "letters" began to overlap like real pressure—but Lin was no longer just a target.
"He looks like... a warrior," Uraraka whispered.
But in his hands was not a weapon. A scroll. A thick set of scrolls with protruding sheets of paper.
"What is this?" Kaminari asked. "Documents?"
Chen's voice rang out low, piercing the studio with a metallic ringing. "I've come to remind you that not all that glitters is true. These 'resignation letters' aren't just paper. They're power. They're what raised me from nothing. They feed on the fear of those who've been told they've been fired, who fear losing what they have. They fuel someone's success. Today, I'll show you the power of fear . "
Class 1-A frozen.
Midoriya slowly sank back into his chair:
— Resignation letters... His quirk? Is his power related to the fear of being fired?
Todoroki frowned:
"He feeds on people's fear of losing their jobs, their livelihoods. It's... it's a psychological weapon."
Nezu leaned forward, his gaze sharp.
"An interesting ability. He transforms the bureaucratic horror of job loss into real power. In their world, where work defines identity, it's a devastating weapon."
When Cheng unrolled one of the scrolls, and the pages, covered in neat handwriting, seemed to squeeze out the air, Yaomoro shuddered:
— I feel it even through the screen... pressure. Fear.
Bakugou clenched his fists:
"So that's why he came in armor. Not for protection. For intimidation. He's going to attack Ling Ling with his own fear."
The screen showed Ms. Jay in the shadows behind the equipment. Her fist clenched, her face pale, but she remained calm.
Aizawa chuckled:
"Even she didn't expect this. Cheng has escaped the system's control."
When Cheng approached Ling Ling, his maneuver was theatrical, throwing the scroll as if aiming for his heart.
"He's attacking!" Kirishima shouted.
Cheng opened the first "letter" and began whispering the words. A voiceover described their meaning: "Lists, reports, catalogs of failures—not his personal vendetta, but a carefully crafted text capable of fanning the flames of panic in the crowd . "
"He uses the fear of being fired as a weapon of mass destruction," Iida whispered. "Everyone in this room who has a job will feel it."
The reaction was shown on the screen—the first lines settled in my ears like rain. Cameras recorded the graphics on the screen flickering like a gray strip.
Trust sensed it.
A cold stream swirled around Ling Ling's bracelet, "like a shield crumbling under hail . "
Uraraka grabbed the armrests:
— NO! The trust is weakening! If it loses control, everything will collapse!
Midoriya looked at Ling Ling's face on the screen—he saw the struggle, the pressure, the moment when everything could break.
But Ling Ling didn't break.
The voiceover described his thoughts: "He remembered Moon's face—not idealized, not airbrushed, but what he had seen on the airship and in his thoughts: alive, vulnerable . "
"Moon," Jiro whispered. "He thinks of her. Not as a goddess. As a real person."
"A second later, something inside him responded—not with a scene, not with a summary, but with the most ancient motivation: to protect . "
The Almighty stood up, his voice trembling with excitement:
"There it is! The true motivation of a hero! Not glory, not approval—the desire to protect!"
On the screen, Trust, "previously alien and mechanical, partially responded—another flow began to live within him: not only genuine acceptance, but also the energy generated by the masses . "
"Trust is changing," Nezu whispered. "A system designed for control is starting to respond to real emotions."
Ling Ling stood up.
The movement was soft, almost timid, but it had the trick he had been taught—even breathing, looking into the audience, a smile like a seal.
But now there was more to that look than just a role.
Midoriya leaned forward, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"He feels it! A real connection with people! Not through the system, but in spite of it!"
The voiceover described Ling Ling's sensation: "He felt something ignite inside him—not just a transformation, but a feeling as if his body was finally being warmed by someone's hands . "
And then something happened that no one expected.
Ling Ling's palms, trained to work with microcurrents, emitted a wave - a faint glow around his hands, sparks in the air, a sound similar to the trembling of thousands of tiny circuits under voltage.
The entire class 1-A jumped up from their seats.
"HE'S GOT A QUIRK?!" Kaminari shouted.
"IMPOSSIBLE!" Iida clutched his head. "Quirks don't happen to adults!"
Todoroki looked at the screen with wide eyes:
"Unless... unless it's the Trust's effect. The system has become so integrated with him that it manifests as a physical ability."
Yaomoro covered her mouth with her hands:
— Trust... has turned from an instrument of control into a source of power!
The screen showed the cameras recording the flash and the microphones capturing the hiss. It was real.
Bakugo laughed loudly and admiringly:
— THIS MADNESS! He hacked the system! He turned a control tool into a weapon!
Cheng made contact in his armor, and the "letters" began to press like real pressure.
But Ling Ling was no longer just a target.
The Almighty stood with his hands raised, his voice booming in the cinema:
— HERE IT IS! THE BIRTH OF A TRUE HERO! Not through the system! BY OVERCOMING IT!
Kirishima screamed, his quirk activating from the emotion:
— LIN LIN! SHOW THEM! SHOW EVERYONE WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A REAL HERO!
Midoriya was crying openly, but his tears were tears of joy:
"He did it... He found a way. He took the system that was supposed to control him and turned it into his power!"
On the screen, the sparks around Ling Ling's hands grew brighter. His eyes—finally—were filled with life. Not programmed. Real.
Aizawa leaned back in his chair, a rare smile appearing on his face:
"The cunning bastard. He actually did it. He infiltrated the system and hacked it from the inside."
Nezu applauded:
— Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent! He didn't destroy the system. He reprogrammed it to serve people, not control them!
Asui and Uraraka hugged, both crying and laughing at the same time:
— He survived! He preserved himself and became stronger!
Tokoyami stood with his arms outstretched:
— LIGHT HAS TRIUMPHED OVER DARKNESS! HOPE WAS BORN OUT OF DESPAIR!
On the screen, Lin Lin looked at Cheng. Their eyes met.
And at that moment, the entire class 1-A realized that this was not a battle between enemies.
It was a test.
Cheng did not come to destroy Ling Ling.
He came to awaken him.
Remind him who he really is.
And Ling Ling passed this test.
The studio exploded with applause – but this time it wasn't programmed, but real.
People felt it.
Something has changed.
Someone real has appeared on the scene.
Class 1-A stood applauding the screen, tears of joy streaming down the students' faces.
The lesson was learned.
Not a lesson in defeat.
A lesson in the triumph of the human spirit over the system.
A lesson that even in the darkest situation, light can be found.
And this light is called heroism.
True heroism.
Soon the battle began. It wasn't the spurt of a thousand-year war—it was a choreography of energy: Cheng unleashed waves of "writing" that weakened, fragmented, and traumatized; Lin responded with short pulses, then movements he'd never thought possible. His body moved as if it remembered the schematics he'd seen in the Trust lab: how to channel the flow, how to dampen resonance, how to weaponize his own anxiety. One strike, and Cheng's armor creaked; a second, and the metal panel creaked like an old shield; a third, and one of the slats of his helmet shook.
The live audience erupted in emotion: some were initially apprehensive, but when they saw Nice, whom they knew as a symbol of perfection, now—alive and responding like never before—euphoria lit up their eyes. This wasn't just a victory over a man in armor; it was a victory for an image that proved greater than the paper it was written on. Enlighter, capturing every note, grinned: the ratings were rising, the numbers were climbing, and Trust, like a system, seized on the moment and became a support system—not just for Lin, but for those who wanted to believe.
Cheng fell under the final blow—not broken, but forced to leave the arena. His "letters" scattered like pages, and a murmur of approval and alarm swept through the studio. Miss Jay stood there at that moment, like the commander of a quiet battlefield: proud, calculating, but also surprised—her mechanism had worked almost perfectly, and it was both a plan and an unexpected bonus.
As the lights gradually softened and the cameras pulled back, Lin stood center stage, his pulse pounding in his ears, surrounded by the sound of applause, timid at first, then growing louder until it became an explosion of confidence. His eyes, recently devoid of their southern sparkle, now trembled with what they had just experienced: fear, responsibility, and, strangely, relief. He had proven—to himself and to the audience—that he had something in him that people were willing to root for. And the ratings grew, the numbers flickering in the upper right corner of the broadcast window, becoming the measure of a new reality.
Miss Jay was the first to arrive. Her voice didn't waver, but it held something you couldn't let slip: pride, like someone who'd won a game. "Brilliant," she whispered. "Your entrance was a millimeter premature, but the result... perfect."
He barely heard her words. All that was concentrated in his body was a quiet whisper: "I did it. But at what cost?" And in the distance, beyond the glass and the light, where the airship was once again slowly floating across the sky, Moon was smiling—and in that smile he saw not only a reflected effect but also a promise—a promise for which he was willing to become anything.
***
The elevator smelled of resin and metal—that distinctive aroma of high floors, where everything is polished and polished down to the last hard line. The glass dome of the elevator car glided along the shaft, and the city below them blurred into night lights, while the studio lights still flickered dully in his ears, like an echo of a recent battle. His hands were still shaking: not from the cold, but from the tension that hadn't yet left the arena with the applause. One thought, one urgent need, burned in his chest—to know the truth.
Miss Jay sat across from her, her clean-shaven, wrinkle-free face expressing only one emotion: calculation. Her fingers lazily flicked through a document, and the gesture held something of a surgeon calmly selecting an instrument. Over her shoulder, reflections of storefronts, logos, and faces that only an hour ago had fueled its newfound glory flickered in the elevator glass. Now they seemed like a distant masquerade.
"You did well," she said calmly, as if noting facts rather than people. "The audience bought it. Your lines, your vision—everything played into the brand's hands."
He listened, but the words didn't match the buzzing within him. He remembered Nice lying on the pavement, the camera invisibly capturing the last crooked smile. Grief settled within him, and a question, rusty and sharp, burst forth of its own accord:
"Miss Jay..." He gulped, because the word "suicide" sounded different than it had been in the press release rehearsals. "Is it true? He... he killed himself?"
The screen showed an elevator—a glass cabin gliding along the shaft of a high-rise building. The city below blurred into night lights.
Class 1-A slowly sat back in their chairs, still digesting the previous scene.
"What's going on?" Uraraka whispered. "Where is he?"
The screen showed two people in an elevator. Ling Ling, his hands still shaking, and Miss Jay across from him.
Midoriya tensed up:
— He's alone with her. With the head of the system.
The voiceover described the smell of the elevator: "Resin and metal—that characteristic aroma of high floors where everything is polished down to the last hard line . "
"The top floors," Todoroki whispered. "Where the decisions are made. Where the people who control everything live."
Miss Jay's face was described as "clean-shaven, unlined, expressing only one emotion: calculation . "
Bakugo crossed his arms:
"Even after what happened in the studio, she hasn't changed. She's still a cold machine."
When Miss J. said, "You did well. The audience bought it. Your lines, your vision—it all played into the brand's hands ," Yaomoro shuddered.
"She speaks of him as... a tool. Even after he's shown true power."
Aizawa nodded:
"It doesn't matter to her. The result is more important than the person."
On screen, a voiceover described Ling Ling's thoughts: "He listened, but the words didn't match the hum inside him. He remembered Nice lying on the sidewalk, the camera invisibly capturing his last crooked smile . "
Midoriya clutched the notebook:
"He remembers. Even after the transformation, even after becoming Nice, he remembers the real Nice. His death."
"Grief settled within him, and a question, rusty and sharp, burst forth of its own accord . "
The entire class leaned forward.
Ling Ling asked, his voice trembling:
"Miss Jay... Is it true? He... he committed suicide?"
The silence in the cinema was absolute.
Uraraka covered her mouth with her hands:
"He asks her directly. About Nice. About what really happened."
Kirishima gripped the armrests.
"It's dangerous. If she realizes he's doubting her, that he's asking the wrong questions..."
Iida adjusted his glasses:
"But he must know. It is his right to know the truth about the man he replaced."
Miss J.'s face was shown on the screen. Her expression remained unchanged. Her fingers continued to lazily scroll through the document.
Class 1-A stood frozen in anticipation.
What will she answer?
Will he tell the truth?
Or will he lie?
The Almighty gripped the armrests so hard that they creaked:
"This moment will determine everything. If she lies, Ling Ling will know. If she tells the truth..."
"...He'll find out the system killed Nice," Todoroki finished. "And then everything will change."
Nezu leaned forward, his beady eyes glittering.
— The moment of truth. Literally.
Bakugo was literally sitting on the edge of his chair:
- Come on, bitch. Tell him the truth. Let's see what he does.
On the screen, the camera slowly moved closer to Miss Jay's face.
Her lips parted.
And Class 1-A held their breath, waiting for the words that would change everything.
The lesson was approaching its critical point.
And no one knew how it would end.
Her gaze darkened for a moment. Something she usually knew how to hide seemed to flicker in that shadow—not regret, but a calculation of the consequences. She sat up, as if harboring not only an answer but a final decision, and said quietly:
- It was Nice's choice.
The words lay like cold stone. But what came next—a drawn-out, elusive threat—was spoken almost in a whisper, yet at the same time—like a directive:
— Make the right choice too.
He felt his throat go dry. The invitation and the threat were combined into a single, metallic mantra: "If you want to live on in this world, play by the rules. If not, go out gracefully." There was no room for compassion in that phrase; it held the clanking of chains that could hold anyone in place. He realized this wasn't an offer for a hero, but a bargain: accept the role forever, or pay the price.
"What do you mean?" he asked, but his voice already sounded different – quieter, firmer.
She bowed her head, and for a moment her face became almost human. But then everything returned—cold, businesslike, calculating. "We provide order. You provide trust. The world, in return, provides ratings, contracts, opportunities. Sometimes—a price," she paused and added without a trace of emotion, "Sometimes—life. Make up your mind."
The elevator stopped. The doors slide shut, and the Hall of the Hero's Tower spread its haughty silence over them: marble, glass, and sculptures, like frozen applause. Lin emerged onto the floor where Nice lived—a floor with a specially prepared life camera, with views of the city, furniture carefully aligned so that every frame could be transmitted without interference. He was shown to a room—clean as a stage before the phantom button was pressed. In the corner lay objects chosen for identity: neatly folded suits, a couple of old photographs, a marble tray with a cup that had never been used. All this was for the public—for the one who would one day have to assume the image and live it.
Night fell slowly and thickly. When the others had left, leaving him alone in this rehearsed life, he entered the room, approached the bed, and paused for a moment. His heart was heavy—not from fatigue, but from an inner turmoil: how many lies does it take to smile evenly for the camera? How much truth can be hidden behind perfectly placed lighting?
He opened the closet and touched the suit's fabric—it was cool and sticky with varnish. Then he noticed the door to the next room—the one designated as "private." According to Miss J., it was supposed to be the one who had played the role alongside him for the sake of the many who loved her—Moon. Her image—airy, soft, and always welcoming—was now nearby, but he didn't know what part of her he had received: the real thing, or just an echo, sewn into the script.
Lin stepped into the room. The light was dim, like night, and it seemed unwilling to reveal what could not be hidden. With his first step, he saw her—Moon. She lay on the bed like a tired doll, her hair spread across the pillow. But it wasn't her tired visage that caught his eye: on her leaf-thin temple was a dark streak. Blood. A thin line, barely dry, tugged at the damp sheen of her skin.
For a moment, the world melted away. All the pre-choreographed words, all the rehearsals and smiles—everything dissolved into a silence that could be cut. He approached, cautiously, as if to a wounded animal, unsure whether he could help or only ruin her. Her breathing was even—she seemed asleep. But the blood...
His hand instinctively reached for her face. The cool metal of the bracelet echoed on the skin of his fingers. He pushed back against reality: how could blood appear here, where everything was calculated down to the second, down to the shade of lipstick? What did this symbol mean at the core of the brand, at the heart of the ideal they were selling to the world? It wasn't an effect, not a prop—it was reality, vaguely and maliciously embedded in artificiality.
His fingers trembled, and he noticed a glimmer of moisture beneath Moon's lashes—a tear or a reflection of light. He didn't know whether it was a real wound or a dramatic effect; the thought that it might have been inflicted on her deliberately, to elicit sympathy, flashed before him, and was countered by an even more terrifying suspicion: that someone had already harmed her. She, who was the face of a smile, whose face was straightened to the light, suddenly bore the mark of violence.
His heart began to beat faster. The voice that had whispered to him on the roof spoke again in his throat: "If no one gives you a chance, you'll take it away." But now the promise sounded different—no longer like a plan to save an idea, but a demand to save a real woman, whose blood proved that the boundaries between plaything and life could be torn apart with bloody desire.
He turned his head cautiously, searching for Miss J., but she wasn't there. The door to the hallway was closed. Cameras could be in the corners, recordings in the hinges. He knew one thing: this discovery was a wake-up call. And if the truth was that violence was at the root of it, then his task was to not watch, not to accept the role, not to embellish the picture. Not needed to act.
But action isn't an immediate decision. Action required understanding, and understanding required questions, and questions required risk. He leaned over Moon, touching her temple where the blood was drying with his fingers. She tossed and turned as if in someone else's dream, and a smile flickered at the corner of her mouth—the same, polished smile he'd seen a million times on the airship. It was both incredible and terrifying: a face covered in blood smiling as if reality itself wanted to emphasize its insidious role.
Miss Jay's gaze darkened for a moment. Something she usually knew how to hide flickered in that shadow—not regret, but a calculation of the consequences.
Class 1-A froze, waiting for an answer.
She said quietly:
"It was Nice's choice . "
The words fell like a cold stone.
Midoriya turned pale:
— Choice... She calls it choice.
But then came the continuation—a drawn-out, elusive threat, spoken almost in a whisper, but at the same time—like a directive:
"Make the right choice too . "
The entire cinema exploded:
"SHE'S THREATING HIM!" Kirishima shouted.
"She just told him to 'submit or die'!" Bakugo stood up. "Right in his face!"
Uraraka covered her face with her hands:
- This is not an offer... it's an ultimatum!
The voiceover described Ling Ling's feeling: "The invitation and the threat combined into a single metallic mantra: 'If you want to live on in this world, play by the rules. If not, leave gracefully . '"
Todoroki clenched his fists:
— "Exit gracefully." Like Nice. Jump off the roof with a smile.
Yaomoro was trembling:
"She's not asking him to be a hero. She's offering him a deal: accept the role forever or pay the price."
When Ling Ling asked, "What do you mean?" his voice was quieter but firmer, and the Almighty straightened up.
"He's not broken. He's scared, but he's not broken."
Miss Jay bowed her head, and for a moment her face became almost human. But then it all returned—cold, businesslike, calculating.
"We provide order. You provide trust. In return, the world gives ratings, contracts, opportunities. Sometimes—price. Sometimes—life. Make up your mind . "
Aizawa closed his eyes:
"There it is. The true essence of the system. It all comes down to a deal. Your life for your obedience."
Nezu shook his head:
"She doesn't hide it. She says it openly. Because she knows he has no choice."
The elevator stopped. The doors slid open.
The screen showed the Hall of the Hero's Tower - marble, glass, sculptures, like frozen applause.
"The Hero's Tower," Iida read. "The place where ideal heroes live."
Lin Lin was led to the floor where Nice lived. "A floor with a specially prepared life camera, with views of the city, furniture carefully aligned so that every frame could be transmitted without interference . "
Jiro shuddered:
"Even his house is a film set. Every corner is designed for the cameras."
They showed me the room— "clean as a stage before the ghostly button was pressed ." In the corner lay objects chosen for identity: neatly folded suits, a couple of old photographs, a marble tray with a cup that had never been used.
Mineta took off his glasses:
— All this... is scenery. A false life created for the public.
As night fell and Ling Ling found himself alone in this rehearsed life, a voiceover conveyed his thoughts: "My heart was heavy—not from fatigue, but from inner turmoil: how many lies does it take to smile smoothly for the camera? How much truth can be hidden behind perfectly placed lighting?"
Midoriya clutched the notebook, tears streaming down his cheeks:
- He asks himself these questions... He still struggles inside.
Ling Ling opened the closet and touched the fabric of his suit—it was cool and sticky with varnish. Then he noticed the door to the next room—the one marked "private."
"What's there?" Uraraka whispered.
The voiceover explained, "According to Miss J, there had to be someone who played the role next to him for the sake of the many who loved her - Moon . "
The class froze.
"Moon," Midoriya exhaled. "The perfect heroine. She's here."
Ling Ling entered the room. The light was as dim as night. And with his first step, he saw her.
Moon lay on the bed like a tired doll, her hair spread out across the pillow.
But what caught his attention was the dark streak on her leaf-thin temple.
Blood.
Class 1-A collectively sighed.
"No," Yaomoro whispered. "No, please..."
"A thin line, barely dry, stretched across the damp sheen of the skin . "
For a moment, the world melted away. Ling Ling approached cautiously, as if he were approaching a wounded animal.
Her breathing was even - she seemed to be sleeping.
But the blood...
Kirishima hit the armrest:
— SOMEONE HURTED HER! The perfect heroine! The goddess of the system!
As Ling Ling instinctively reached for her face, the voiceover described his thoughts: "How could blood appear here, where everything was calculated down to the second, down to the shade of lipstick? What did this symbol mean at the core of the brand, at the heart of the ideal they sold to the world?"
Todoroki stood up, his voice icy:
"The system doesn't protect its heroes. It uses them. And when they cease to be useful or become a problem..."
"...She hurts them. Or kills them," Bakugo finished.
The voiceover continued: "It was not an effect, not a prop – it was reality, vaguely and maliciously embedded in artificiality . "
The Almighty clenched his fists:
— Moon... The ideal heroine, whose face was straightened towards the light, suddenly bears the mark of violence.
When the voiceover described the shimmer of moisture under Moon's eyelashes—a tear or a reflection of light—Uraraka burst into tears:
"She's suffering! Even the perfect heroine suffers in this system!"
Ling Ling's thoughts raced: "Was this a real wound or just a dramatic effect? The thought that this might have been intentionally inflicted on her to elicit sympathy flashed through his mind, only to be met with an even more terrifying suspicion: that someone had already harmed her . "
Aizawa leaned forward:
"He understands. Even a symbolic heroine is a hostage to the system. Perhaps even more of a hostage than he is."
Ling Ling's heart began to beat faster. The voice that had whispered to him on the roof spoke again: "If no one gives you a chance, you'll take it." But now the promise sounded different—not like a plan to save an idea, but a demand to save a real woman .
Midoriya stood up, his voice trembling:
— This is it! His true calling! Not to play a role! To save a real person!
Nezu nodded:
"Moon's blood is a wake-up call. Proof that behind the perfect façade lies violence and suffering."
As Ling Ling cautiously turned his head, searching for Miss J., but she was gone, the voiceover described his realization: "Cameras could be in the corners, tapes on loops. He knew one thing: this discovery was a wake-up call . "
Bakugo crossed his arms:
"He understood. Violence is at the core of everything. The system is built not on inspiration, but on coercion and pain."
"His job wasn't to observe, to take on a role, to embellish the picture. He had to act . "
The entire class 1-A stood up.
Kirishima with tears in his eyes:
— YES! DO IT! SAVE HER! SAVE BOTH OF THEM!
But the voiceover continued: "But action is not an instant solution. Action requires understanding, understanding requires questions, and questions require risk . "
Ling Ling leaned over Moon, touching her temple with his fingers where the blood was drying.
She turned as if in someone else's dream, and a smile flickered at the corner of her mouth—the same polished smile he had seen a million times on the airship.
"It was both incredible and terrifying: the face, covered in blood, was smiling, as if reality itself wanted to emphasize its insidious role . "
Class 1-A froze in horror.
Yaomoro covered her face with her hands:
- She smiles... Even when she's bleeding, she smiles... Because she was programmed to smile like that...
Jiro was shaking:
"This is the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. A smile on a bloody face. Proof of how deeply the system controls them."
The Almighty sank into the chair, his body going limp:
— The system... turned them into dolls. Dolls that smile even when they suffer.
Aizawa put his hand on his shoulder:
"Now do you understand why I'm cynical? This is what any system can lead to if given absolute power."
On the screen, Lin Lin looked at Moon, bloodied, smiling, trapped in the same system as him.
And determination lit up his eyes.
It's not just about surviving.
Not just to free yourself.
Free them all.
Midoriya whispered like a prayer:
— Save her, Ling Ling. Save her and destroy this system. Please.
The screen slowly faded to black, leaving the image of a smiling, bloodied Moon and Ling Ling leaning over her.
Class 1-A sat in stunned silence.
The lesson has reached its darkest point.
But in this darkness a spark of hope appeared.
Ling Ling knew the truth.
And he was going to do something about it.
All that remained was to find out what exactly.
And will he survive doing this?
***
"NICE" - PV
In a world where heroes are measured not by strength, but by the faith of people...
He appeared as an ideal that could only be celebrated in legends.
His movements are precise and flawless, every step is honed to perfection, every strike is lightning fast and deadly accurate.
Everyone sees only the hero's mask, the glint of strength and impeccable determination, and admires him.
But behind this radiance there is a man.
A person who struggles with himself every day, trying to be better, higher, stronger.
A person whose soul is full of doubts, but whose heart longs for recognition.
His enemies see only steel armor and a cold gaze, they have no idea about the internal battle, about the fears that gnaw at him from within.
He fights as if the whole world is watching, as if every victory is a test of his own worth.
In the fight with Rek, his blows are striking, but in every movement one can hear the whisper of inner doubt.
He wins by destroying his enemies, but every victory leaves an emptiness inside, and this emptiness is heavy, like a stone pressing on the chest.
Nice's face conceals emotion, but his heart is a storm. Pain, loneliness, the fear of losing oneself in pursuit of the ideal.
They applaud him, they believe in him, they praise him - but no one sees how much each victory costs, how much a person loses by hiding his feelings behind a mask of perfection.
His path is not just a fight against external enemies.
His path is an internal war, a battle with himself, with doubts, with the need to please a world that is constantly changing.
And even when the light of admiration fades and silence covers the battlefield, he remains alone, standing among the ruins and ashes.
Alone, in the void, he searches for a purpose, searches for himself, tries to understand what it means to be a hero.
But he doesn't back down. It doesn't give in. He doesn't lose faith.
He rises again to fight new enemies, new challenges, and himself.
Because being a hero means keeping going even when no one sees your struggle.
Even when no one applauds except your own conscience.
And in this endless quest to be perfect, amidst battles and disappointments, amidst loneliness and doubts...
He remains someone who deserves to be called a hero.
He is Nice .
The screen suddenly changed. Instead of continuing the story, a new screensaver appeared—a promotional video (PV).
Class 1-A sat up straight in their seats, surprised by the change in pace.
The words appeared on the screen:
"In a world where heroes are measured not by strength, but by the faith of people..."
Midoriya immediately picked up a pen, ready to write.
The image showed the hero's figure—perfect, flawless. His movements were precise and flawless, every step honed to perfection, every strike lightning-fast and deadly accurate.
"This..." Uraraka began.
"Nice," Todoroki finished. "A commercial for the original Nice."
The voice-over continued:
"Everyone sees only the hero's mask, the gleam of strength and impeccable determination, and admires him . "
On screen, Nice fought his enemies—his movements were like a dance, deadly and beautiful at the same time. Every frame was polished to perfection.
Bakugo crossed his arms:
— The perfect killing machine. Not a single wasted movement.
But then the tone of the video changed:
"But behind this radiance there is a man . "
The class froze.
The camera zoomed in on Nice's face—behind the perfect smile, something else flickered. Pain? Doubt?
"A person who fights with himself every day, trying to be better, higher, stronger . "
Yaomoro covered her mouth with her hand:
— They... they show his humanity. In advertising.
"A man whose soul is full of doubts, but whose heart longs for recognition . "
The Almighty leaned forward, his eyes widening.
— This... this is what I feel. What I've felt all these years.
The screen showed Nice fighting an enemy named Rek. His blows were devastating, but "every movement was laced with a whisper of inner doubt . "
Midoriya wrote feverishly:
— He wins by destroying his enemies, but every victory leaves a void inside...
Kirishima clenched his fists:
"This... this is true heroism. Not ostentatious strength, but an inner struggle."
"Nice's face hides emotion, but his heart is a storm. Pain, loneliness, the fear of losing oneself in pursuit of the ideal . "
Uraraka began to cry quietly:
— He suffered... The real Nice suffered all this time, and the world saw only the ideal shell.
"They applaud him, they believe in him, they praise him - but no one sees how much each victory costs, how much a person loses by hiding his feelings behind a mask of perfection . "
Aizawa closed his eyes, his voice quiet.
"That's why he jumped. Not because the system ordered it. Because he couldn't keep up that mask anymore."
"His path is not simply a struggle against external enemies. His path is an internal war, a battle with himself, with doubts, with the need to please a world that is constantly changing . "
Nezu shook his head:
— The tragedy of the perfectionist hero. When standards are so high that it's impossible to be human.
The screen showed Nice standing alone among the ruins and ashes after his victory.
"And even when the light of admiration fades and silence covers the battlefield, he remains alone, standing among the ruins and ashes . "
Tokoyami stood up, his voice trembling:
— The loneliness of a hero... The darkness that follows every light of glory...
"Alone, in the void, he searches for a purpose, searches for himself, tries to understand what it means to be a hero . "
Midoriya cried openly:
— He was searching... He was constantly searching for meaning. He was trying to understand why he was doing all this.
"But he doesn't back down. He doesn't give in. He doesn't lose faith . "
The Almighty stood up, his body trembling:
— He continues... Even in pain, even in doubt, he continues...
"He rises again to fight new enemies, new challenges and himself . "
Kirishima screamed through tears:
— THIS IS A TRUE HERO! Not the one who always wins, but the one who keeps going, no matter what!
"Because being a hero means keeping going, even when no one sees your struggle. Even when no one applauds but your own conscience . "
Class 1-A stood there, applauding the screen through tears.
"And in this endless striving to be perfect, amidst battles and disappointments, amidst loneliness and doubts..."
Pause.
The camera showed Nice's face—not perfect, not retouched. Real. With weariness in his eyes, but determination in his heart.
"He remains someone who deserves to be called a hero . "
Final shot:
"He is Nice . "
The screen went dark.
Class 1-A stood in absolute silence, tears streaming down the students' faces.
Midoriya sank into the chair, his body going limp.
"That's who he was... A true Nice. Not a perfect machine. A man who suffered, doubted, but carried on. Because that's what heroes do."
Bakugo turned away, wiping his eyes:
— Damn it... They killed him. The system killed a man who was a true hero.
Yaomoro cried into Jiro's arms:
"Now I understand why Ling Ling was so shocked by his death. He saw Nice not as a brand, but as a real person."
Todoroki clenched his fists:
"And now Ling Ling must wear his mask. Live his life. Carry on the legacy of the man the system killed."
The Almighty sat with his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
"I knew... I always knew how hard it was to be a symbol. But Nice... he bore that burden without support, without understanding. Until the very end."
Aizawa put his hand on his shoulder:
"That's why you were able to remain yourself, Toshinori. You had us. You had support. Nice had no one."
Iida stood up, his voice full of determination:
— We must learn from his example! Not from his perfection, but from his struggle! From his humanity!
Kirishima wiped away his tears.
"Being a hero doesn't mean being perfect. It means keeping going, even when it hurts. Even when you're alone."
Asui hugged Uraraka:
— Ribit. Nice was a true hero. Not because he was strong. Because he was human.
Nezu stood up slowly:
"This video is a message from the system. They're showing Nice's humanity to sell more. But the irony is that it was precisely this humanity that led to his destruction."
Mineta said quietly:
"The system creates heroes, and then destroys them when they become too human. It's... it's monstrous."
Tokoyami stood with his head down:
"Nays's light has faded, but his shadow remains. And now Ling Ling must decide—to become that shadow or to create his own light."
The continuation of the film slowly appeared on the screen.
But class 1-A sat in silence for a long time, digesting what they had seen.
They just witnessed the tragedy of a true hero.
A man who tried to be perfect for a world that didn't deserve his sacrifice.
And now they understood why Ling Ling had to act.
Not just for myself.
For the memory of Nice.
For all the heroes the system uses and destroys.
The lesson was learned.
Cruel, painful, but necessary.
On the price of heroism in a world where heroes are a commodity.
And that even in the darkest system, true hope can be born.
If there is anyone who dares to resist.