The first day of school began with sirens.
Not emergency ones.
The morning bell.
Loud. Repetitive. Echoing down the hallway like a heartbeat refusing to sync.
Eri sat in the back row.
Desk too big. Feet dangling.
Uniform crisp. Hair braided by Yaoyorozu, who'd volunteered without asking.
Midoriya gave a thumbs-up from the front. She didn't return it, but her eyes said enough.
The teacher walked in.
Hound Dog.
Sniffed the air. Flinched.
"I smell… Spiral rot," he muttered under his breath.
Eri's hand tensed under the desk.
But he didn't push it.
Just started class like nothing had ever broken the universe two weeks ago.
Everyone acted normal.
But no one was.
Jirou's hearing had changed.
She could pick up the sound of time lagging by half a second in people's voices.
Uraraka no longer used her quirk in tight rooms. Said it "made gravity feel wrong."
Shoji stared at mirrors too long, then looked away like something watched him back.
The Spiral had touched them.
Not enough to corrupt.
But enough to mark.
During break, Bakugo finally snapped.
Cornered Eri behind the vending machines.
Didn't shout. Didn't threaten.
Just stared her down.
"What did you see?" he asked.
Her eyes didn't blink. "Versions."
"Of me?"
She nodded.
He leaned closer.
"Was I ever good?"
Silence.
She answered softly.
"Once. But only when you lost everything."
Bakugo laughed once. No humor. "Figures."
Then walked away.
Third period: Quirk Theory.
Power Loader played a new video. Data logs from quirk evolution simulations.
At the end of the clip, a question popped up:
"Can quirks evolve without user intent?"
Nobody answered.
Eri raised her hand.
Power Loader blinked. "Yes, Eri?"
She spoke with calm precision.
"Quirks don't listen to what we want. They listen to what we feel."
Power Loader frowned. "That's a little metaphysical—"
"They're memory locks," she interrupted. "Not tools."
The class went silent.
Power Loader turned off the projector.
"Lunch."
Midoriya caught up to her by the fountain.
He was sweating again.
Too many thoughts crammed behind bright green eyes.
He hesitated, then asked, "Are we safe?"
Eri looked at the water.
Her reflection didn't ripple.
"No one ever is," she whispered. "But we're forward. That's something."
He exhaled like it hurt.
Then said:
"You'll tell me if it happens again, right?"
She looked up.
Met his eyes.
"No."
He blinked.
"Why?"
"Because you'll try to save me."
Her voice was steady.
"And this time, I need to save myself."
That night.
Todoroki visited the basement gym.
It was empty.
He stood in front of the mirror.
His left side looked wrong.
Older. Faded. Like it didn't belong.
He pressed his palm against the glass.
And whispered:
"…What version of me are you?"
The mirror smiled.
He didn't.
In Eri's dorm.
She unwrapped the ribbon from her horn.
Still cracked.
Still glowing sometimes when she dreamt too loud.
But it hadn't activated.
Not yet.
She took out a small notebook.
Wrote:
"Do not rewind."
Then underneath:
"Remember all the versions. But live only one."
She stared at it.
Closed the book.
Went to sleep.
And in the space between waking and dreaming—
She heard the Red Lady's voice.
"You learned the first rule. Good."
"Now learn the second."
"Versions don't just vanish…"
"…they wait."
To be continued.