The alarm rings when it's still dark outside.
Not the pitch black of night, that's total, unsupported, but the darkness before dawn. Still, suspended, as if the world were holding its breath along with me.
I get up slowly, without making a sound even though I don't feel like it. I'm barefoot, and the cold of the floor immediately bites my soles. First stop: bathroom, of course. I turn on the water. It's freezing, it stings my skin... but that's okay. It opens my eyes wide, forces me back to the present. No excuses.
The uniform is there, folded on the chair as I left it yesterday. It still has that antiseptic smell of detergent, which to me smells like a new beginning. I put it on one piece at a time. Without skipping anything. The boots... I tie them twice. Always.
The knot in my stomach? Since last night.
I don't ignore it. I let it be. I think it's adrenaline, compressed energy that can't wait to burst out. It keeps me awake better than coffee. It makes me tense, yes, but light. Not a burden. A warning. (The body prepares itself. And so do I).
After ten minutes, there's a soft knock. The door is open, so Uraraka peeks her head in. She offers me a sweet smile, as always.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
We walk downstairs together. The square at six in the morning has a sound of its own.
Boots clatter on concrete, belts tighten. The breath of running and talking rises in thin clouds. And then Lieutenant Aizawa, already there. I see him with his scarf, his clipboard, a half-asleep look on his face, and a huge yawn he doesn't even try to hide.
"Bravo team evaluation. Three modules: impact route, hostage rescue, mobile engagement. Six minutes total, penalties for team errors. Priority: communication and synergy."
Yes, right. Communication and synergy. With whom? Wait, let me guess.
Because I can feel it coming.
Bakugo.
Behind me, he arrives like a gust of hot wind. He doesn't stretch, he doesn't run in place: he simply cracks his knuckles, once. Then again.
"Are you awake, rookie? Or do I have to shout in your ear?" What a lovely good morning.
I almost smile, but I keep it behind my teeth.
"I'm here."
"Don't fall asleep." He hisses. "If you throw a curtain in front of me, you'll catch fire in your face."
I take a deep breath.
"If you want to go ahead, then... give me a decent angle. Or don't you know how it works?"
I see it. The eyes narrowing, the hands curling into fists. He hadn't expected it like this: without venom, but without bowing either. A smooth, sharp blade.
Aizawa raises his arm, his gaze as flat as ever:
"You two finish this. We're off."
Modulo 1: Impact route.
Three concussive turrets. Lined up above our heads like sentries. Each with its own sound, its own height, its own promise of chaos.
The first shot bounces off the wall to the left. And I already know it, even before it arrives: that dry crack that vibrates not in the air, but in my chest. It no longer surprises me. Yet it remains there. Etched. Every time like the first time.
Iida raises his arm and takes the lead. His voice is like a knife that seems to pierce you from one side to the other: "Bravo Team, over to me! Uraraka, make sure you keep a high level of vigilance. Midoriya, read the trajectories, and Bakugo, fire! Ino, you manage the pressure."
I listen. And I take notes inside. Each order is a line that sticks to us, like tattoos.
"I confirm." My diaphragm picks up the pace. I inhale four times. I exhale four times. The first concussive ball detaches from the tube with a sharp whistle, bounces off the panel, and comes back down. And that's where I come in.
I raise my palm, bending my wrist slightly. My power stretches out, thin and invisible, like a sheet of glass suspended in the air. The sphere doesn't pass through it: it slides over it, veers off course, and falls empty, two meters away.
I don't see my power. I feel it. The veil wraps around my ears, a constant pressure that never turns to pain. You know that feeling of breathing inside a bubble? That. Everything outside seems distant, muffled… but under my skin, I know exactly where it yields and where it resists.
"Tsk."
Bakugo leaps forward and opens the turret with a sharp explosion. Metal flakes fly everywhere, the smell of hot dust and iron mingles with the air. The second sphere launches low, almost crawling. Midoriya paces his voice like a metronome: two words at a time, crisp.
"Corner five left! Now!"
I anchor myself to my breath. I inhale two, exhale six. With that rhythm, I twist the invisible wedge, lightening it at the tip. The concussive wave slides over my veil, making a gentle curve before dying on the ground. Bakugo brushes past me as he lunges. So close that the heat of his explosion burns my knuckles.
"Don't hide behind me, you idiot!"
He spits out the words and a moment later, he's gone.
I'm left with that heat. Brief, but real. It says more than a thousand insults.
"I'm just saving you from embarrassment," I reply. My voice remains flat, but I keep my gaze steady.
Third ball, double.
The first ball hits the wedge I'd created perfectly, deflected as expected. The second, however, lands sloppily. It slides awkwardly on the edge, nipping my shoulder with a gust of air. It doesn't hurt, but it's a clear warning: the angle was too crooked.
I'll correct it immediately.
I draw two narrow, parallel veils, one next to the other. They close into a transparent tube, wide enough to cover our front. "Inside!" I shout to everyone.
Iida enters the aisle with the regularity of a metronome. Bakugo follows him, stepping over a piece of debris lying in the middle of the ground. Uraraka covers us with a newly lightened container. Midoriya murmurs, "Excellent weather."
And we exit the first module. Aizawa's stopwatch clicks, a clear tick on the clipboard. No comments. Better this way. Trust me: much better this way! 🙂
Modulo 2: Hostage rescue
Collapse simulation. The scaffolding is about to collapse, it's poorly supported, and two mannequins are waiting for our rescue underneath. The space is narrow, suffocating. You know that feeling when the air closes in on you? There you go. Every sound bounces louder, the dust cuts off your breathing like an invisible wall.
Uraraka lightens the main beam, lifting it just enough to halt the collapse. I intervene with my power: I create a veil of air, thin, invisible, a surface you can't see, but one that pushes. This power doesn't just block solid objects or stop bodies; it moves the intangible too, the dust, the echoes of sound. The air opens before us, clearing our noses and mouths, muffling the screech of bolts giving way.
It's like weaving a fragile membrane between us and the chaos: a filter that makes the world more breathable.
"Iida, go left! Midoriya, check grapple points. Bakugo, cover, no big fires here," says Aizawa in a tone that is both order and statement.
Bakugo huffs but doesn't argue. He's standing next to me, unfortunately, ready to jump. He's looking at my hands, not my face: from there he understands where I'm aiming the wedge. Every movement of my fingers betrays the inclination of the veil, that invisible surface stretching in the air. It doesn't stop the weight, it doesn't really support it, but it accompanies it, guides it.
I inhale two. I exhale six. And here I admit: there's a second of fear. Because if I make a mistake now, the weight will hit us and goodbye dummies. Goodbye score. Goodbye everything.
The long breath slowly releases the air and with it I stabilize the panel, while Uraraka lifts it as if it were massless, just for three seconds. It's a tiny time, but it's enough.
Iida moves as if it were a real rescue: knees low, the dummy in his arms as if it were alive. Midoriya, not far away, frees the other's leg with surgical precision. No waste, no extra movement.
A bolt suddenly flies out from the right. I see it out of the corner of my eye. I prepare a short wedge, a flick of the wrist. The piece of metal deflects and falls to the ground, a hand's breadth from Bakugo's foot.
"Careful, idiot." He says it softly, more instinctively than as a reprimand.
My heart skips a beat, but it quickly returns to its rhythm. And I look straight at him: "Don't worry, I'm not missing it right in front of you. Too much satisfaction."
Yes, I said it. Softly, but I said it. And believe me, seeing him clench his jaw is almost as good as a point in the standings.
"EEEH?"
Dummies out. Structure safe. Iida signals: "Clean." Aizawa confirms: "No penalty. Go ahead."
Modulo 3: Mobile engagement.
Wide shot. Three drones in flight, filled with compressed foam projectiles that hiss like rabid mosquitoes. They don't really hurt, but they'll dislodge you if you don't read them in time. There's no time to wait here: we're running.
Breathing is all that matters, as far as I'm concerned. If it falters, I'm done for. I inhale short, exhale long. Repeat it, Junko. Don't be fooled. Every step makes noise, and meanwhile I spread thin veils of air, not walls, too obvious, but surfaces that bend the blows, letting them fall empty. There's no point in blocking, only deflecting.
The body burns (thankfully, you can't see it), but the head must stay still. It's a race within the breath, not against the drones.
"Strategy," says Midoriya, precise as ever. We line up and he reels off the plan: Uraraka eases, Iida cuts, Bakugo detonates, and I open corridors. And he, of course, calls the corners.
I nod. My throat scratches from the dry air, but I answer anyway: "Thirty degrees on the first, fifteen on the second, frontal tilt on the third?"
Midoriya's eyes widen, impressed. (Yes, Izuku-san, I can read your mind sometimes.)
"Move, you bastards!" roars Bakugo, electric as ever.
I don't reply. It's too easy to set him on fire: better to stay frozen.
We're off. The first drone fires a barrage of foam bullets. I raise my hands and build a tube in front of Iida: two parallel, invisible veils that cut off his air resistance. I shield him from the bullets and open a smooth, perfect corridor for him to run through. And he darts through it like a lightning bolt. (Classic Iida: straight out of a sprinter's manual.)
The drone tries to correct its aim, but Uraraka lightens its mass just a moment: it wobbles. Bakugo closes without thinking, a flash, an explosion, and off it goes, foam in confetti. (Silent applause, Katsuki. Always as fine as a jackhammer.)
The second drone is more aggressive. It hits me in the ankle with a blow when I miss half a breath. Yes, that's all it takes: half a breath and the veil gives way.
"Angle ten!" calls Midoriya.
I inhale six, exhale two. I tighten the wedge, tilt it, and the veil folds like a transparent sheet. The burst deflects, barely grazes our boots, and dies on the wet ground.
"Better!" Uraraka shouts. I smile from within, without wasting any breath.
Three veils open, all at once. It's like balancing invisible plates. One in front, a tube for Iida. One to the side, a wedge to deflect. One far away, tilted to protect Uraraka. (Yes, it seems impossible. But don't worry: the Junko Circus is open and it's free.)
The body races, but the mind remains still. Always there, anchored to three invisible points. Every breath changes the hold: I inhale and the veils tighten, I exhale and they risk giving way.
My head pulls, my temples throb as if I were holding onto ropes I can't let go. It's not pain, no. It's worse: it's weight. Invisible, impossible to measure, but capable of consuming you all the same.
A moment's distraction and one of the three veils vibrates, threatening to break. I quickly recompose it, even though I know how fragile the balance is. The more I hold, the more I empty myself. (A real bummer, huh?)
The third drone comes in against the wind, you bastard. The shots are dirty, dragged by the air. And of course, Bakugo blurts out: "Get out of the way, I'll open this time."
A nasty spark forms inside me. Not against him per se, but against the idea that I have to move aside like an extra. (Spoiler: it doesn't happen.)
"If you want to open, give me a number," I reply without slowing down. My voice is flat, icy.
"Ten degrees to the left. Now." I finish the sentence.
He stares at me for a moment, incredulous. Then he lets out a crooked half-smile.
"Ten? Let's make it fifteen."
I don't fall for the game. "Fifteen," I say dryly. And I immediately correct the angle.
I tilt the wedge, sharper. Another veil opens at the top, supporting the crest that the wind bends. Invisible surfaces tense: one deflects the blows, the other dampens the gust.
"Now!" I order.
Bakugo fires. The blast enters the funnel I've opened for him and comes out narrower, longer. Precise, lethal. The drone splits in two, foam raining down on us like hot hail. My face stings a little, but I stay still. (If you scratch yourself, you look weak. And no, I won't give him that satisfaction.)
Aizawa watches. He doesn't say anything, but I know he's recorded everything. Always the same silent guillotine look.
"Time!" Iida shouts. The clock reads 5:32. A breath of fresh air, finally.