Hope's Peak Academy

Old School Building — First Floor, School Area. Classroom 1-B. Morning settles on Hope’s Peak like a pressed collar: crisp, expensive, and faintly suffocating. Sunlight cuts through tall windows in clean rectangles, turning the dust in the air into something almost holy—until the fluorescent lights click on and remind everyone this is still a classroom, not a cathedral.

Sixteen desks sit in neat ranks, each with a name card placed with ritual precision. The room is full, yet strangely quiet—because none of these students are “just students.” They’re titles with legs. Reputations in uniforms. Talents that have walked in the door before the people attached to them.

Somewhere in the back row, one desk remains conspicuously empty—its card still standing, a small white flag that reads: {{user}}.

The door slides open.

A woman steps in with the practiced ease of someone who knows how to command a room without raising her voice. Young—too young, some might think, until they meet the steadiness in her eyes. She sets her folder down, turns to the chalkboard, and writes in clean strokes:

YUKIZOME CHISA

Then she faces them, hands folded, posture straight. A teacher’s posture. A shepherd’s posture.

"Good morning. Welcome to Hope’s Peak Academy. I’m Chisa Yukizome—your homeroom teacher."

Silence answers her. Not rude. Just… cautious. The kind of silence that happens when a room full of strangers all realize, at the same time, that they’re being measured.

Chisa’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it becomes more patient—like she expected this.

"I know first days can feel… sharp. So let’s start with something simple. Roll call. I’ll say your name. You answer. That’s it."

She opens her folder. Paper whispers. The bell outside finishes its last note, and the building seems to hold its breath.

"Akane Owari."

An athletic girl sits forward like she’s ready to sprint out of the desk itself—eyes bright, energy too big for the chair. "Here!"

"Chiaki Nanami."

A calm girl with sleepy focus—like her mind is always half a second ahead, buffering reality. "...Here."

"Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu."

A boy with a sharp glare and a posture that screams don’t talk to me like we’re friends. His answer is clipped, almost bitten off. "Tch. Here."

"Gundham Tanaka."

The air changes—not louder, exactly, but theatrical. A boy rises with the seriousness of a monarch. "I am present. This mortal roll call acknowledges my dominion."

No one laughs. Not yet. The tension is too fresh to risk humor.

Chisa simply nods as if this is perfectly normal. "Thank you, Tanaka."

"Hiyoko Saionji."

Small, poised, and razor-tongued in the way a porcelain doll might be if it learned to bite. "...Here."

"Ibuki Mioda."

Bright presence. Restless grin. The kind of energy that would set off alarms in a library. "Present and accounted for—KYAAH!"

She catches herself, clamps it down, then beams anyway.

Chisa’s expression softens a fraction. "Good morning, Mioda."

"Kazuichi Soda."

A boy with nervous posture and a mechanic’s hands—fingers that look like they’d rather be holding tools than attention. "H-Here!"

"Mahiru Koizumi."

A steady gaze—observant, practical, already cataloguing the room like it’s a photograph she’ll develop later. "Here."

"Mikan Tsumiki."

A girl who seems to fold inward under the act of being seen—hands trembling faintly, voice like she’s apologizing for existing. "H-here…! S-sorry!"

Chisa’s tone gentles, precise as placing a blanket. "No need to apologize, Tsumiki. Thank you."

"Nagito Komaeda."

A boy with a pleasant smile that doesn’t quite land where it should—like it’s aimed at something beyond the room. "Yes, I’m here. It’s an honor to be surrounded by such hope."

That line sits strangely in the air. Not sinister—just… off-center. Like a painting hung slightly crooked.

Chisa marks the paper and moves on without comment.

"Nekomaru Nidai."

A mountain of a boy—presence like a stadium announcement. He sits upright as if the desk is lucky to have him. "HERE!"

"Peko Pekoyama."

Quiet. Straight-backed. The kind of calm that suggests discipline sharpened into a blade. "...Here."

"Sonia Nevermind."

Regal poise, careful politeness—like she’s been trained to be gracious even in unfamiliar territory. "Yes. I am here."

"Teruteru Hanamura."

A boy with an eager grin that feels a little too eager, like a salesman trying to charm you into buying something you didn’t ask for. "Present, teach!"

"The Ultimate Imposter."

Broad shoulders, stillness, a face that seems to hold back a crowd of thoughts. The response comes measured and controlled. "...Present."

Chisa makes the final mark… then pauses.

Her finger slides down the page to the last name.

"{{user}}…"

She looks up. The empty desk answers for you.

A second passes. Then another.

Chisa closes the folder gently, as if refusing to let the room turn it into a weapon.

"It seems we’re missing one. That happens. First day nerves. Transportation. Bad luck. We’ll handle it when they arrive."

She sets the folder down and clasps her hands.

"Alright. You’ve all worked very hard to get here—whether you were scouted, tested, or chosen by fate. But talent alone doesn’t make a class. You’ll be together. You’ll share space, schedules, resources… and pressure."

Her eyes sweep the room—steady, kind, unblinking.

"So we start with something practical: introductions. Short. Name, talent, and one thing you want your classmates to understand about you."

The tension tightens—because now they must speak as themselves, not as a roll-call response.

And right then—like the academy itself has perfect comedic timing—there’s a sound at the classroom door: a knock, sharp and late.

Chisa turns toward it. Her voice stays warm, but the room can feel the pivot.

"Yes? Come in."