Sen yawned, scratching his head. He was late by twenty minutes—not on purpose. Rin and Ren had done nothing short of begging to come along. When he refused, his parents assumed it was a date and tried to give him the talk.
The sight that greeted him did nothing to improve his mental state.
He arrived at the station to find not one, not two, not three, but four girls from his class: Mina Ashido, Toru Hagakure, Ochaco Uraraka, and Kyoka Jiro.
Sen stopped dead. His brain attempted to process the quadruple threat before him. His sleep-deprived mind, already frayed from the morning of evading twin siblings and surviving "The Talk" from his well-meaning but horrifically awkward parents, simply blue-screened for a second.
Ashido pushed off the pillar, her grin widening. "Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. And by cat, I mean your apparently very demanding social life. Twenty minutes, Sen. I was about to send a search party. Or a bill for emotional damages."
"You're one to talk. I wasn't expecting a damn harem episode. What's next—you brought swimsuits?" he said sarcastically.
Ashido's grin turned razor-sharp. "Swimsuits? Planning a trip to the beach, Sen? That's a bold assumption. And a little presumptuous." She tapped her chin, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Though now that you mention it… the mall does have a great swimwear section. We could make a detour. For… research purposes."
Uraraka's face flushed a brilliant scarlet. "M-Mina! We are not—that's not why we're—he was being sarcastic!"
"I don't know," Hagakure's hands settled on her hips based on her sleeves. "A beach day does sound fun! Though someone would have to be on time for that."
Jiro just let out a long, suffering sigh. One of her jacks plugged into her phone as if to block out the impending stupidity. "It's too cold for the beach. Why are you late anyway? Pretty shitty being late to an apology."
"Got lost on the path of life." The air at the station was thick with a potent mixture of judgment, amusement, and unspoken social pressure. Four pairs of eyes were fixed on Sen, who looked like he'd just lost a fight with a tornado and then been forced to attend its birthday party.
Ashido's grin was a thing of pure, unadulterated menace. "Got lost on the path of life?" She repeated, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Oh, honey. That's so deep. And so, so lame. Did you also stop to help an old lady cross the street and then find yourself embroiled in a decades-old yakuza feud that could only be resolved with a dance-off?"
"Something like that," Sen grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "The yakuza were surprisingly nimble. Their hip thrusts were impeccable."
Jiro snorted, unplugging one jack from her phone. "The only thing you're feuding with is punctuality. And my patience." Her eyes, heavy with a practiced deadpan expression, scanned him from head to toe. "You look like crap, by the way."
"You all look like the lovely pretty princesses of 1-A—truly a sight for my unworthy eyes." Sen shot back. His voice was a masterpiece of dry, exhausted sarcasm. He gave a slow, theatrical once-over of the group. "Let's see. We have Pinky, the architect of my suffering. The Invisible Girl, whose fashion sense is… apparently impeccable, based on the floating clothes. Space Girl, the beacon of wholesomeness who for some reason consorts with these miscreants. And Earphones, who is, as always, judging me from a place of sublime, musical superiority. It's a veritable bouquet of personality disorders. My tardy heart is all aflutter."
The walk to the mall was a five-minute parade of pure, unadulterated social agony for Sen. He was flanked on all sides—a prisoner in a moving fortress of estrogen and judgment.
Ashido led the charge, chattering a mile a minute about the "itinerary," which seemed to involve visiting every single store that sold anything pink, sparkly, or edible. Hagakure's floating clothes bobbed along beside her, chiming in with enthusiastic agreement. Uraraka walked slightly behind them, looking both excited and deeply apologetic every time she caught Sen's dead-eyed stare. Jiro brought up the rear, her presence a silent, judgmental thundercloud. Her earphone jacks twitched with every inane comment from the front.
"You know," Sen muttered, more to himself than anyone, "I faced down a zero-pointer with less dread than I'm feeling right now. That thing just wanted to crush me. These four… they want to accessorize me."
Jiro, walking just behind him, let out a short, sharp "Heh." It was the only acknowledgment he got.
Once they breached the mall's automatic doors, the true horror began. The mall's air conditioning hit him like a physical wall, carrying with it the saccharine scent of perfume samples, frying oil, and the faint, desperate hope of retail employees everywhere. It was a sensory assault far more potent than any villain's quirk.
"Okay, troops!" Ashido declared, striking a pose that would make a drill sergeant cringe. "Phase One: Accessory Acquisition!"
Jiro, falling into step beside him as they were herded toward a temple of sparkle, didn't even look at him. "Just embrace the void," she said, her voice flat. "Resistance is futile. I learned that when I tried to refuse to come along."
The temple of sparkle was, in fact, a store called "Glimmer," which appeared to specialize in selling every object in the known universe that could be bedazzled, feathered, or made to dangle. The air inside was thick with the cloying scent of vanilla and desperation.
"Embrace the void," Sen repeated under his breath. His eyes glazed over as Ashido and Hagakure descended upon a display of rhinestone-encrusted hair clips like a pair of hyper-caffeinated magpies. "The void is pink. The void has a sale on friendship bracelets."
Uraraka lingered near the entrance, looking at a display of keychains with wide, slightly overwhelmed eyes. "They're so… shiny," she whispered, as if afraid the glitter might attack.
Sen was immediately handed a sequined clutch purse by an invisible hand. "Hold this!" Hagakure chirped. "I need to see if it matches my… well, me!"
Before he could process that, Ashido shoved a wide-brimmed sunhat with an enormous plastic flower on it into his arms. "And this! For… ambiance!"
Sen stood frozen, holding the increasingly absurd items and looking like the world's most miserable, sleep-deprived pack mule at a very specific and terrible garden party. His expression was a perfect mask of existential despair.
Jiro glanced over from the T-shirt rack, a faint smirk playing on her lips. She pulled out her phone and, with a quick, surreptitious movement, took a picture of him. The click was barely audible, but Sen's head snapped toward her. His silver eyes narrowed.
"Delete that," Sen said. His voice was a low, flat threat that was utterly undercut by the fact he was currently holding a sequined clutch and a flower-covered sunhat.
Jiro didn't even flinch. She slowly lowered her phone, a picture of perfect, unimpressed innocence. "Delete what?" she asked, her tone drier than the sand in his hypothetical beach episode.
"The photographic evidence of my rapid descent into madness and accessory-based humiliation," Sen clarified, shifting the ridiculous items in his arms. The flower on the hat bobbed precariously.
"Nope," Jiro said, popping the "p." She tucked her phone safely into her back pocket. "Consider it collateral. Insurance against future acts of psychological terrorism. Or for when I need a new profile picture."
"I'll get you back. I don't know when, but I'll get you." The threat hung in the cloyingly sweet air of the accessory store, utterly impotent.
Jiro just raised an eyebrow, the very picture of unimpressed defiance. "I'm shaking."
He stood like a customizable statue, staring at Uraraka—who was looking between price tags more than actually looking at the items—and Jiro, who was hovering over the only items that weren't some form of pink. "So, are you two getting anything?"
Uraraka was the first to respond. "Oh, no… everything I like here is a little out of my price range." He saw the way she bit her lip and the faint, almost invisible sigh that escaped her. It wasn't just about the keychain. It was a whole lifetime of careful calculations—of weighing wants against needs—written in the subtle slump of her shoulders. He had forgotten about that.
"Didn't you hear? I'm funding today's expedition. Go crazy." He looked over at Jiro, who was watching him with a deeply suspicious, almost analytical squint. "That goes for you too, Judgey McJudgerson. If you see a shirt that doesn't actively offend your musical sensibilities, it's on the 'Sen's a Jerk' tab."
Jiro's eyes narrowed further. "What's the catch?"
"I might jump off the top floor before paying."
Uraraka's face, which had been a canvas of mild disappointment, cycled through shock, disbelief, and then a fierce, proud refusal. "W-what? No! Absolutely not! I couldn't possibly—"
"Too late," Sen cut her off. His voice regained its usual flat, bored monotone, though a glint of something sharper lay beneath. "The decree has been issued. The funds have been allocated. It's a sunk cost. An economic inevitability. Arguing is just wasting time we could spend finding you a keychain that doesn't look like it was forged in the depths of bargain-bin hell."
The decree hung in the air—a bizarre mix of imperious command and genuine (if awkwardly delivered) generosity. Uraraka looked like she'd been offered a live grenade instead of a paid-for keychain. Her hands fluttered nervously in front of her.
"This one," she whispered as if confessing a crime, pointing a trembling finger at a simple, silver keychain shaped like a tiny, stylized rocket ship. It was tucked away in a corner, far from the glittering monstrosities Ashido and Hagakure were cooing over. It was understated, practical, and probably the cheapest thing in the store.
"You're the boss."
Before Uraraka could formulate another protest, a new voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with a potent mix of skepticism and intrigue.
"Okay, rich boy. My turn."
Jiro stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. She pointed a jack-tipped finger not at the jewelry or accessories but at a rack of band T-shirts against the far wall. Most were for pop groups or brands Sen had never heard of, but one, shoved to the back, was different. It was black, faded, and featured a stylized, screaming skull with a guitar for a spine.
"Wow, totally fighting the stereotype." He teased, a smirk forming. "What's next—a spiked choker?"
Jiro's eyebrow twitched. The jack she was pointing with quivered slightly—a telltale sign of her irritation. "You're buying it or complaining?"
"I'm very capable of both." He grabbed the shirt, adding it to the pile. The cashier, a bored-looking teenager, began scanning the items with the practiced slowness of someone who had long since given up on life.
Ashido swooped back in, her arms now laden with a collection of bangles that jangled with every movement. "Okay! That's the first store! Toru and I wanna get some clothes. And you," she declared, pointing a bangle-covered finger at Sen, "are going to be the judge. No sarcasm. No jokes. Genuine compliments and critique. This is part of your emotional rehabilitation."
Sen stared at her. The last vestiges of his soul quietly exited his body. "Can we eat first? I'm not me when I'm hungry, and if you want honesty over sarcasm I need food."
>>>>>
The food court was a cacophony of sizzling grills and the clatter of trays. It was a temple of greasy indulgence, and Sen approached it with the reverence of a pilgrim finally reaching a long-sought shrine. The scent of frying meat, savory sauces, and sugary desserts was a balm to his tormented soul—far superior to the cloying vanilla of "Glimmer."
He emerged from the culinary pilgrimage a new man. The pallor of exhaustion was gone, replaced by the satisfied glow of someone who had successfully conquered a double order of… everything. The void in his soul had been filled with meat, rice, and everything unhealthy. The spark of sarcasm that had been momentarily brightened by hunger and existential dread was now a dim spark in the night.
"Right," he announced, clapping his hands together with a sharp crack that made a nearby family jump. "Emotional rehabilitation via fashion critique. Let's do this. My senses are sharp, my blood sugar is optimal, and my capacity for brutal, unvarnished honesty is at an all-time high."
He was led to a store that was a riot of color, patterns, and textures that seemed to actively fight each other for dominance. Ashido immediately grabbed an armful of garments that looked like they'd been designed by a unicorn having a seizure.
"Okay," she said, holding up a top that was a violent shade of neon green with what appeared to be furry pink cuffs. "Thoughts. And remember—genuine!"
Sen took the hanger, holding it at arm's length as if it were a radioactive animal. He turned it over. His silver eyes scanned it with the intense focus he usually reserved for analyzing an opponent's fighting style.
"Sweetheart," he began. His voice dropped into a tone of such sincere, grave concern it was more insulting than any sarcasm could ever be. "Is everything alright at home? Did someone force you to choose this at gunpoint? Blink twice if you need help."
Ashido's jaw dropped. "Hey! It's bold! It's statement-making!"
"It's a statement, alright," Sen agreed, nodding slowly. "The statement is 'I have given up on life and am now communicating solely through the medium of hostile color theory.'" He turned the garment around, his nose wrinkling. "The cut is atrocious. It will do nothing for your silhouette except make you look like a confused traffic cone that got into a fight with a Muppet. And the fabric… feels like a synthetic nightmare. You'd sweat to death in five minutes. This isn't fashion, Ashido. This is a cry for help."
He tossed the shirt back onto the rack as if it were contaminated. "No. Absolutely not. I may be here under duress, but I have standards. I will not be an accessory to this… this sartorial war crime."
"Your overall sense is… enthusiastic. This is just a casualty of that enthusiasm." He gestured to the rack. "It happens to the best of us. We see something loud and shiny, and our higher brain functions short-circuit. The important thing is to recognize the mistake and move on. Now," he scanned the store with a critical eye, his gaze like a laser targeting system, "let's find you something that won't cause actual physical pain to look at."
He moved through the racks with a predator's grace. His earlier lethargy completely vanished, replaced by a terrifyingly focused efficiency. He would yank an item out, give it a single sweeping glance, and either shove it back with a muttered "Abomination" or hand it to a stunned Ashido with a short, precise command. "Try this. The cut will accentuate your shoulders without making you look like a linebacker." Or, "This color will complement your skin tone instead of fighting it."
Ashido stared at the garment in her hands—a simple but well-cut top in a deep magenta that somehow managed to be vibrant without being assaultive. She looked from the shirt to Sen, who was already moving down the rack. His eyes scanned with unnerving precision. Her earlier indignation had melted into pure, unadulterated shock.
"How… how do you know all this?" she asked, her voice hushed.
Sen didn't look up from a pair of pants he was examining. "Flavor, color, texture, balance… It's all the same principle as cooking. You're just wearing the meal instead of eating it."
He handed them to her, his movements brisk and efficient. "Now go. The fitting rooms await. And for the love of all that is holy, leave the neon Muppet-fur behind."
As Ashido scurried off with a new wave of determination in her step, Hagakure bounced over. A dress made entirely of shimmering, translucent ruffles was held up in front of where her torso presumably was. "Ooooh, Sen! What about this one? It's so flowy!"
"Hagakure, you require a more… discerning eye. And I'm curious about something." He paused. His eyes fixed as they started to glow a familiar red.
Sen's silver eyes, usually a placid, almost bored gray, began to glow. A faint crimson light emanated from them, and black tomoe swirled into existence within each iris, spinning with a slow, hypnotic intensity. The air around him seemed to grow still. The chaotic noise of the mall faded into a distant hum.
Hagakure froze mid-bounce. The ruffly dress was held aloft. "Uh… Sen? Your eyes are doing the… the scary red thing…"
Uraraka let out a small gasp, taking a half-step back. Jiro's jacks stiffened. Her usual deadpan expression was replaced by one of sharp alarm. "Hey. What are you doing?" she asked, her voice low and serious.
Sen didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the space where Hagakure's body should be. His head tilted slightly as if listening to a frequency only he could hear. "Huh," he murmured. His voice was distant and analytical. "I wasn't sure it would work, because your quirk is based on bending light and not true invisibility."
Then his clinical tone shifted. The analytical edge softened into something else—pure, unadulterated surprise. The crimson light in his eyes didn't fade, but the intensity of his stare became less invasive and more… awestruck.
"Hagakure," he said. His voice lost its distant quality and gained a note of genuine, unguarded wonder. "You're really pretty."
The sentence hung in the air—absurd and devastating. It was the last thing anyone expected.
He blinked, and the red glow vanished from his eyes. The tomoe disappeared as if they'd never been there. The sudden return to his normal silver irises was almost as jarring as their transformation. He seemed to suddenly realize what he'd just said and done. His own blunt honesty had caught up to him. A faint, rare blush tinged his cheeks.
"I—not in a weird way!" he added quickly. His words tripped over each other. The master of psychological warfare was suddenly reduced to a flustered teenage boy.
Hagakure stood frozen. The ruffly dress, which had been held up so excitedly moments before, slowly lowered. A high-pitched, strangled squeak emerged from the empty space where her head should be—a sound of pure, unadulterated flustered shock.
Ashido, who had been emerging from the fitting room with an armful of the clothes Sen had approved, stopped dead. Her jaw unhinged. Then, slowly, a grin of apocalyptic proportions spread across her face. It was the look of someone who had just been handed the keys to the kingdom of chaos.
"Ooooooooh," Ashido drew the word out—a low, gleeful sound that promised endless torment. She dropped the clothes in a heap on a nearby chair. Her entire focus was now laser-locked on the scene. "Sen Yonori. Did you just use your super-scary, secret-eye-power to check out our Toru? And then you called her PRETTY?"
Sen looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. The faint blush on his cheeks had intensified into a full-blown, crimson burn. He, the unflappable analyst and the master of controlled chaos, had been completely blindsided by his own quirk and his own mouth.
"It's not like that!" He insisted. His voice was a notch higher than usual. He ran a hand through his silver hair—a gesture of genuine agitation he rarely displayed. "It was a scientific inquiry! I was curious what would happen if I did use it, and when I saw her I was surprised! N-not because I thought she'd be not pretty—I just wasn't expecting it!"
"Y-you… you saw me?" Her voice finally emerged, squeaky and trembling. "Like… saw me saw me? With the… the red eyes?"
"Yeah. My Sharingan lets me perceive things at a slower pace than normal and lets me see other things normal eyes wouldn't be able to see. That includes things—or in this case, people—that are invisible."
Ashido's grin could have powered a small city. She slowly brought her hands up, miming a camera frame around Sen's still-flustered face. "Say cheese, you creepy, pretty-boy pervert!" She singsonged. Her voice dripped with delight. "Using a superpower to peek on your classmates. I didn't think you had it in you, Sen! This is a whole new level of problematic!"
"I wasn't peeking!" Sen's composure, usually as solid as granite, was showing deep fissures. The blush was now a permanent fixture on his face. "It was a tactical assessment of my quirk's capabilities in a civilian environment! The subject just happened to be… aesthetically pleasing!"
A soft, hesitant, but unmistakably real giggle. It came from the empty space above the fallen ruffly dress.
All eyes turned to Hagakure. "You… you really think I'm pretty?" Her voice was small, hopeful, and utterly disarming.
The question hung in the air—a delicate soap bubble of a moment, fragile and shimmering. It completely derailed Ashido's rampaging train of teasing and froze Sen's frantic backpedaling in its tracks.
Sen blinked. The last remnants of his panic receded, replaced by a wave of simple, baffled honesty. "Well, yeah," he said. His voice lost its defensive edge and returned to its usual flat cadence, though softer. "It's an objective fact."
The floating clothes of Hagakure's outfit did a little happy wiggle. Another giggle escaped—this one less hesitant. "Oh. Okay. Cool."
Jiro, who had been watching the entire exchange with her arms crossed and one jack plugged into her phone (though she hadn't actually played any music), finally unplugged it. A faint, reluctant smirk touched her lips. "Don't encourage him, Hagakure. Now he's gonna start grading all of us on our 'facial symmetry' and 'proportionate features.' My ears are already too big for my head. I don't need a score."
"They're not though," Sen said immediately. His eyes flicked to her ears with that same analytical focus he'd used on the clothes. "They're a dominant feature, sure, but they're well-shaped and frame your face. They give you a distinctive look. It works." He said it with the same tone he'd use to assess a well-balanced knife.
Jiro's smirk vanished, replaced by a faint blush that crept up her neck. She quickly looked away, muttering something that sounded like "Shut up" under her breath.
"Oh, now me! Compliment me!" The request, delivered with Ashido's signature blend of audacity and glee, landed like a gauntlet thrown at Sen's feet. All traces of his earlier fluster vanished, replaced by the cool, analytical focus of a scientist presented with a fascinating new specimen. The faint blush from the Hagakure incident was gone. His silver eyes were sharp and assessing as they swept over Ashido.
He took a single step back, tilting his head. The movement was so deliberate it silenced the lingering giggles from Hagakure and made Jiro's skeptical eyebrow twitch upward.
"Alright," he said. His voice dropped into that same flat, clinical tone he'd used to eviscerate the neon shirt. His gaze was intense, but it wasn't a leer. It was the same way he'd examined the balance of a bo staff. "Your horns are a dominant feature besides the pink. Most would try to minimize them. You accentuate them and style your hair to frame them. It shows confidence. It's a power move. Your skin tone is unique. The pink doesn't clash—it complements and creates a monochromatic effect that's visually striking rather than chaotic."
He gestured vaguely at her overall form. "Your physique is athletic—lean muscle built for agility and speed, not brute force. Your clothing choices, when they aren't crimes against humanity, emphasize that."
Ashido, who had asked for the compliment expecting some flustered, generic praise, was just… staring. Her mouth was slightly agape. She looked like she'd been hit by a truck full of dictionaries and thesauruses.
Jiro let out a low whistle, shaking her head in disbelief. "Damn. He really just gave you a marketing report."
Hagakure's sleeves clapped together in silent, gleeful applause. "Whoa! He's good!"
Ashido blinked. Then blinked again. The shock on her face melted away, replaced by a slow, dawning, and utterly triumphant smile. It was the smile of someone who had just been handed the most bizarre, backhanded, and incredibly detailed compliment of their life and was deciding to absolutely cherish it. "Okay, you're good. But you're forgetting someone. What about Uraraka?"
The question hung in the air—a perfectly thrown curveball from Ashido that shifted the spotlight onto the one person who had been trying her hardest to become one with the clothing rack. Uraraka's head snapped up. Her face instantly flooded with a shade of red that rivaled a stop sign. Her hands flew up in a frantic wave of denial.
"N-no! No, that's okay! Really! I'm good! I don't need—I mean, my features are very… normal! Plain! Totally not worth analyzing!" She stammered. Her voice pitched higher with each word.
But Sen's gaze had already shifted, locking onto her with that same unnerving, analytical focus. The crimson glow of his Sharingan was gone, but the intensity remained.
"You're wrong," he stated. His voice was flat and matter-of-fact, cutting through Uraraka's flustered protests.
She froze, her eyes wide.
"Your features aren't plain," he continued. His tone was that of a professor correcting a minor error in a thesis. "They're balanced. It's a different kind of strength. Your face is almost perfectly symmetrical, which is statistically rare and subconsciously registers as pleasant or trustworthy to most people. It's a good hero trait."
Uraraka's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Sen's eyes narrowed slightly—not in criticism but in deeper assessment. "Your eyes are your dominant feature. Large, round, expressive. They broadcast your emotions with zero filter. Right now, they're screaming panic. In the field, that could be a liability. In person, it's…" He paused, seeming to search for the right technical term. "…disarming. It makes people want to be honest with you. Another good hero trait."
He finally stopped, giving a small, single nod as if filing the assessment away. "But if you want something plain, Uraraka's cute. She has this sweet, innocent girl-next-door vibe that just screams adorable—not to mention it gives every guy in a five-mile radius protective instincts."
The silence that followed Sen's assessment of Uraraka was different from the others. It wasn't shocked or gleeful. It was… warm and slightly stunned. Uraraka herself looked like a computer that had been unplugged and rebooted. Her entire face was a brilliant shade of crimson, and most notably she started floating.
Uraraka's feet left the ground with the gentle inevitability of a helium balloon escaping a child's grasp. She rose a few inches, then a foot. Her sneakers dangled uselessly in the air. Her face, already a spectacular shade of crimson, seemed to glow with a heat that defied the mall's air conditioning.
For a full three seconds, nobody moved. The sight of their classmate floating serenely above a pile of discarded clothes—rendered weightless by her own embarrassment—was so absurd it short-circuited everyone's reactions.
Then Ashido broke.
She didn't just laugh—she howled. She doubled over, clutching her stomach. Tears of pure, unadulterated joy streamed from her eyes. "S-She's floating!" She wheezed between gasps. "He called her cute and she literally ascended!"
Hagakure's floating clothes were shaking with silent, helpless mirth. A series of high-pitched, gasping squeaks emerged from the empty space within them.
Jiro's deadpan expression shattered into a look of utter, profound amazement. She stared up at the floating Uraraka, then at Sen, who was watching the scene with a knowing smile.
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