Ziipziip
The electronic bell chimed as the glass doors of the small corner convenience store slid open. A group of teens walked in, wearing brownish uniforms—the typical Japanese school style.
One had purplish hair–odd for a japanese middle schooler , freckles, and such a forgettable face you'd lose him in a crowd. Beside him was a gyaru girl—tan, loud, and unmistakably herself. The two seemed like trouble makers .
They wandered the aisles, grabbing a few bags of chips and drinks. I noticed them sneaking a couple of beer cans into their bags too. Obvious as hell, but I had no reason to intervene.
Not like I'm paid enough to care
When they got to the counter, I scanned their stuff, took the money, and let them leave. Their conversation was still loud as they exited, but it wasn't my business.
"Kotani–kun! Let's celebrate your brother getting into Seijin High! He's gonna be a big-shot hero soon, so let's get drunk outta our minds, yey!"
Seijin High School? Hero?
Wait… why does that name sound familiar?
Hold up. Isn't that some background school from My Hero Academia? Like, zero screentime, zero relevance?
No way. Does that mean…?
It can't be. I mean—this is a manga. A fictional world. What the hell am I doing in MHA?
…
…
…
Haha… no. No way. But… if it is, does that mean I can actually become a hero?
No—I'd be in danger. But if I don't train, I'll probably get offed by some random villain. I might not even make it to the war arc.
I worked the rest of my shift like usual. Same store. Same name on the ID badge. Same layout, same cheap fluorescent lights. It was identical to the one I worked at in my old world.
Seems like I'm still me after all.
Same memories. Same job. Only… this world has heroes and Quirks—and that backdrop's been grafted onto everything I know.
Anyway, I'm Fan Chen. Sixteen years old. Just another high school student living in Musutafu City, Shizuoka Prefecture.
I go to Seien middle School. Ranked third overall in academics. This version of me wanted to be a hero—or at least bring some kind of justice to the world. I applied to U.A. and a few other hero schools. Most of them already tossed out my application.
My Quirk doesn't exactly scream "hero material."
It's called Actor—I can mimic personalities, embody roles. Not a physical transformation like Toga's Quirk—mentally, emotionally, I become whoever I play. I take on their habits, their mindset, their skills. Their life.
Not useful in a fight. Not flashy. And acting's out of reach too—I don't exactly have a face for the screen.
I mulled it over as I walked through the city streets on my way home. It was already night, but the noise and light of Musutafu never really died down.
Eventually, I got back to my apartment. Small, cheap, the kind of place you get when you're a high school orphan living off a leftover inheritance.
Dropped my bag. Changed into some comfortable clothes—pink Hello Kitty pajamas. Don't judge.
"Let's see… maybe Actor isn't totally useless."
I started digging through my memories, trying to recall any role I'd ever played.
"Ah… yeah. I did play a character once."
Back in kindergarten. I was a nameless guard in Othello. No lines, just walked on stage, stood around, and left.
Still counts.
I took a few deep breaths, then picked up a meter stick from my desk.
I stood in a neutral pose—one I half-remembered from some YouTube video on Western swordplay. I raised the ruler near my head, angled downward. Then I swung. Downward slash. Upward sweep. Pull back. Thrust.
Each swing should've made the usual plasticky "swoosh" of a ruler cutting the air—but instead, it hissed. Sharp. Precise. Clean.
The final thrust jabbed into the wall. The ruler's edge had left a narrow cut—same shape and size as its tip. A clean slice.
Yeah… maybe Actor isn't so useless after all.