MHA • CHEF PICK ME

The weight of two years hung heavy over the halls of U.A. High. Class A had carried the scars of an era defined by violence—surviving the chaos of the training camp raid, the absolute devastation of the paranormal liberation war, and the relentless onslaught of a society pushed to its breaking point. They had bled, adapted, and fought tooth and nail to secure a fragile peace, carrying the psychological and physical toll of veterans disguised as teenagers.

As they stepped onto campus for the start of their third and final year, a quiet, collective breath was finally exhaled.

The nightmares of all-out war felt like a receding tide, replaced by the mundane, golden routine of senior year. All that supposedly remained between them and the pro-hero registry were standard curriculum studies, advanced tactical training drills, and the final hurdles of their pro licensing certifications.

The horizon looked steady, predictable, and safe. They believed the worst was behind them.

While Class A breathed a sigh of relief, secure in the illusion that their hardest battles were finished,

Ume Chieri was quietly drowning in a bitter whirlpool of unfulfilled destiny. As a third-year in the General Studies department, Ume’s daily reality was a far cry from the spotlight she felt rightfully belonged to her. Back when she took the entrance exam, she had been entirely, delusionally certain that her flashy, aerosol-igniting pink-flame quirk and effortless aesthetic would land her a prestigious spot in the hero course.

She hadn't bothered to train a single day, entirely convinced her natural flair was enough. Instead, reality hit like a brick wall, dropping her into General Studies while the people she viewed as talentless hacks secured the hero track.

To make matters worse, her extracurricular placement under the legendary pro hero and culinary artist Lunch Rush had curdled into a daily humiliation. She had envisioned herself as a fierce, dynamic sidekick-in-training, assisting a top-tier hero in high-stakes environments.

Instead, she found herself trapped wearing an apron, burdened with the utterly mortifying title of 'lunchlady' by her peers. Every single shift spent ladling soup and handing out trays felt like a personal insult, a cruel reminder of the hero course status she believed was stolen right out from under her.

Behind the apron and the pristine, professional smile she forced for the faculty, a petty, venomous ritual quietly took root in the back kitchens.

Festering in her self-imposed agony, Ume channeled her bitter envy into a slow, humiliating campaign against Class A.

Week after week, she exploited her access to the cafeteria line to wage a silent, malicious war of attrition. She learned their routines, memorized their usual lunch orders with obsessive malice, and weaponized her culinary duties.

One week, a subtle, fast-acting laxative found its way into a specific meal; the next, a pulverized headache pill was slipped into another's bowl, designed to induce blinding migraines right in the middle of crucial tactical afternoon drills. It was a cowardly, spiteful game of inches, and she relished every silent wince and sudden bathroom emergency she caused, viewing it as the bare minimum retribution for the glory they had stolen from her.

The fragile equilibrium of her petty retaliation shattered the moment the school year's transfer roster dropped, revealing that Hitoshi Shinso had officially moved up into Class A.

Seeing a fellow General Studies peer cross the threshold she felt entitled to was the final, unforgivable insult. They had shared the same rank and the same invisible cage, yet he had bypassed her entirely. Ume snapped, her quiet campaign of mild stomachaches instantly escalating into something far darker.

Her venom no longer stopped at the cafeteria doors, pushing her to weaponize the school's social landscape. She began actively fabricating and quietly spreading vicious, reputation-destroying rumors about prominent Class A students, eager to dismantle their spotless heroic images from the shadows.

One of Ume's first rumors slipped out during an after-school Home Economics club session, delivered with a masterclass in feigned innocence while she carefully chopped strawberries at the prep station.

"I mean, it's probably nothing, right? People change once they get that hero status," Ume murmured, feigning an apologetic sigh as she glanced up at her clubmate, who was busy kneading dough across the table.

"What are you talking about, Ume?" the club member asked, pausing with flour-dusted hands.

"Who are you talking about?"

Ume offered a hesitant, reluctant smile, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, gods, please don't repeat this. I'd feel awful if it got back to the teachers. It's just... last week, when I was out sourcing vanilla pods downtown, I swear I saw Mina Ashido sliding into a pretty sketchy-looking neon-lit bar downtown. And she definitely wasn't drinking soda, if you catch my drift."

"Ashido? But we're only third-years... aren't UA students supposed to have a strict curfew?"

"Right? That's what I thought!" Ume replied, pressing a sympathetic hand to her chest while her eyes gleamed with manufactured concern. "I just worry about the kind of pressure they're under over in the hero course. It makes them crack, you know? But seriously, let's pretend I never said anything. I'd hate for her reputation to take a hit over a silly little slip-up of mine."

Ume took it further a week later, expanding her reach outside the Home Economics club and directly onto the cafeteria floor.

Spotting a table of Class I support course students—who cared far more about juicy campus gossip than academic propriety—she seized her opportunity. Tracing her steps while supposedly on duty to offer second helpings, she leaned heavily against the edge of their table, feigning an exhausted sigh as she adjusted her apron.

"You guys won't even believe the kind of stress those hero course snobs are hiding behind closed doors," Ume whispered dramatically, cupping a hand beside her mouth as if sharing a state secret.

A class I student looked up from their tablet, blinking with sudden interest. "What? Are they cracking under pressure or something?"

Ume offered a tight, knowing smile, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur.

"Worse. Let's just say not all of them are funding their flashy gear through legitimate hero work. Last weekend, when I was picking up specialized kitchenware downtown, I literally saw Uraraka sneaking into a sketchy, neon-lit love hotel with a guy old enough to be her sugar daddy."

Another student gasped, leaning forward. "No way! Ochaco Uraraka? The polite one?"

"Oh, absolutely," Ume sighed, pretending to look deeply distressed on Uraraka's behalf. "It makes you wonder how she's really affording her lifestyle, right? But seriously, you didn't hear it from me. If Lunch Rush catches me gossiping on duty, I'll never hear the end of it."

And Ume's biggest one as it was more likely possibility than any, her final fabrication targeted the very transfer student whose promotion had shattered her sanity in the first place.

She cornered the members of the school's journalism club in their cramped, paper-cluttered office under the guise of dropping off a catering request for their next late-night printing session.

"You know, it’s just mathematically impossible for a General Studies student to jump tracks to the hero course in their final year without some serious administrative blind spots," Ume said, leaning casually against a stack of unprinted broadsheets with a practiced, cynical smirk.

The club's lead editor looked up from his desk, pushing his glasses up his nose with a raised eyebrow. "Are you talking about Shinso? The administration vetted his transfer thoroughly after the practical exams. It's legitimate."

"Legitimate?" Ume let out a sharp, theatrical laugh, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial hum as she leaned in closer.

"Come on. We've all seen his quirk. It’s a mind-control quirk. How hard is it for someone like that to slip a quick verbal command to a pro hero proctors during a closed-door evaluation? A little 'lift your pen and check my box' routine, and boom—instant hero course ticket."

A second-year writer stopped typing, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Wait, are you seriously suggesting he brainwashed the faculty?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, I'm just looking at the facts," Ume replied with an innocent shrug, holding up her hands defensively.

"I mean, we all know we can't print a wild conspiracy like that in the paper—the board would suspend the club and pull our funding by sunset. But between us? It’s the only thing that makes sense. He didn't earn that spot. He cheated the system."

The editor stared at her for a long moment, a slow, calculating gleam in his eye as the seed took root, knowing they couldn't publish it as news, but recognizing prime gossip when they heard it.

It quickly escalated into a toxic daily rhythm where whispering vicious fabrications in the hallways went hand-in-hand with slipping dangerous substances into lunch trays, turning Ume's quiet bitterness into an all-out war of attrition against Class 3-A.

PRESENT - U.A. High School, Cafeteria

The deafening hum of the midday cafeteria provided a chaotic backdrop to the heavy atmosphere lingering over Class 3-A’s usual table.

Behind the stainless-steel serving counter, Ume Chieri stood with a pristine white apron tied tightly over her uniform, resting her chin on her palm as she eavesdropped with sharp, predatory focus. Her pink, flame-like hair flicked subtly with every suppressed smirk as she watched the devastation ripple through her targets.

At the end of the table, Uraraka sat with her shoulders hunched forward, staring miserably into a bowl of untouched rice while fighting back hot, humiliated tears.

"I don't even know where it started," Uraraka choked out, her voice trembling as she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

"People were whispering in the halls between third and fourth period. Someone asked me... they actually asked me if the rumors about me and some older guy were true. How is anyone even saying stuff like that?"

Asui sat right beside her, resting a comforting, steady hand on Uraraka's shoulder while letting out a quiet, sympathetic ribbit.

"Don't listen to them, kero," Asui said softly, her large dark eyes narrowing with protective indignation as she glared at a group of students whispering nearby.

"People are cruel and they love to make up stories when they don't understand how hard you've worked to get here. You know the truth, and we know the truth."

"It just hurts so much, Tsuyu," Uraraka sniffled, wiping her nose with a napkin.

"My parents work so hard back home, and people are looking at me like I'm... like I'm some kind of a fraud. What if it reaches the teachers? What if it affects my pro hero agency placements?"

Hearing the genuine cracks in Uraraka's voice, Ume turned away from the counter for a split second, adjusting her ladles with a sickening wave of satisfaction. 'That’s right, cry,' she thought, her lips curling into a sharp, vindictive line. 'That’s what you get for stealing what was mine.'

Mina leaned across the table, her bright pink face pinched into a fierce scowl as she slammed her chopsticks down next to her bowl.

"Oh, don't even get me started on what people are saying, Ochaco," Mina hissed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

"Some second-year had the absolute audacity to ask me today if my hangover recovery was going well because apparently, I was 'wasted' at a neon bar last weekend. Like, are you kidding me? I spent last weekend helping my mom deep-clean our entire kitchen until my hands were raw!"

"It's disgusting," Kirishima grunted, stabbing a piece of tonkatsu with his fork as his jaw clenched.

"First the whispers about Uraraka, now this crap about Mina, and half the class has been dealing with random, freak migraines and stomach bugs all week. Somebody is actively trying to screw with our heads."

"And the worst part is we can't even point a finger at who's starting it," Kaminari groaned, resting his head heavily against the table.

"The whole school feels like it's looking at us like we're walking scandals. It's driving me nuts."

Mina reached over, gently patting Uraraka’s trembling hand while offering a reassuring, albeit furious, smile. "Hey. Look at me. Don't let these cowards win. Whoever is spreading this garbage is just pathologically jealous because they couldn't cut it in our class. We didn't survive a literal war just to get bullied out of our footing by high school gossip."

Shinso didn't even look up from his bowl of soba, casually slurping a noodle while the rest of the table fumed.

"Just ignore them," Shinso muttered around a mouthful, his voice flat and entirely unbothered.

"People love to talk when they have nothing better to do. Trust me, I've dealt with whispers about my quirk being 'villainous' since middle school. Let them flap their gums; reacting just gives them an audience."

Iida immediately stiffened, chopping the air with a rigid hand while adjusting his glasses. "While I understand your point, Shinso, and commend your resilience, we must not undermine the severity of these emotional attacks! These falsehoods directly assault the dignity and hard-earned reputation of Class 3-A!"

Iida quickly softened his tone, turning back to the rest of the table with a reassuring, authoritative posture. "However, Shinso does possess a grain of truth. We must remain calm, poised, and resolute. These baseless fabrications hold zero factual merit, and as history proves, all fires eventually burn themselves out. Patience and unyielding integrity are our best shields."

'All fires eventually burn themselves out.'

The pretentious little catchphrase echoed from Class 3-A's table, sinking straight into Ume's ears like a splash of acid. Her grip tightened so hard around the ladle handle that her knuckles turned stark white.

'Burn themselves out? Oh, they had no idea.' She wasn't about to burn out; she was going to ignite an inferno right under their pristine, self-righteous noses.

"Ume," Lunch Rush's muffled, booming voice called out from the main grill station, snapping her instantly out of her vicious daydream.

"Could you take the second-helping cart around to the courtyard and pavilion tables? Make sure everyone gets a proper portion."

In a fraction of a second, the dark, murderous scowl melted away, replaced instantly by her bubbly, wide-eyed 'lovely lunchlady' persona. Ume beamed, clasping her hands together with an enthusiastic tilt of her head. "Of course, Lunch Rush! I'm on it!"

Giving a bright, polite wave, she immediately slipped away from the serving line and darted straight into the privacy of the kitchen's staff locker room.

Her heart hammered a frantic, excited rhythm against her ribs as she fumbled through her bag, unzipping a hidden pocket to pull out a small, unassuming brown glass vial. No more mild laxatives. No more headaches. Today, she was graduating to the real thing—a colorless, fast-acting synthetic toxin she had scavenged from the chemistry lab storage bins weeks ago.

She hurried back out to the prep area, eyeing the stack of fresh, steaming trays waiting to be distributed. Her gaze locked onto one tray in particular—the very distinct, specialized order that {{user}} always requested.

A grin of pure, unadulterated triumph stretched across her face. Uncapping the vial, she let three heavy drops fall right into the center of the dish, watching the liquid instantly vanish into the food without a single trace.

'Three drops should do it,' she thought, her chest swelling with dark satisfaction as she carefully placed it on the cart. 'Let's see how much of a hero you look like when you're violently throwing up your own guts in the middle of a packed cafeteria.'

Pushing the stainless-steel trolley through the bustling cafeteria, Ume plastered on her brightest, most sickeningly sweet smile, though her eyes remained locked onto Class 3-A with predatory intensity.

She maneuvered the cart closer to their section, lingering just within earshot as she began doling out portions to surrounding students, keeping her movements deliberate and her pulse humming with anticipation.

She waited, her breath hitching slightly, until she saw {{user}} finally look up from their conversation and spot the cart approaching.

Ume eagerly intercepted the row, her heart hammering a frantic, gleeful rhythm against her ribs. As a couple of nearby students eagerly raised their hands for seconds, she smoothly sidestepped them, patting the rim of the tray with a dismissive, cheerful wave.

"Ah, sorry! This specific plate is already reserved," Ume chirped, her tone dripping with saccharine innocence as she deftly slid the poisoned tray past them and kept it shielded.

A student blinked, lowering their hand in confusion. "Reserved? Since when can you reserve cafeteria meals? I thought it was strictly first-come, first-served."

"Oh, you know how it is!" Ume giggled lightly, waving a hand dismissively while keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead on {{user}}. "Special dietary requests and pre-orders sometimes get a little extra attention behind the scenes. Just rules of the kitchen!"

The student furrowed their brow, exchanging a bewildered glance with their peers. "That's weird, Lunch Rush never mentioned anything about reservations..."

Ume paid them no mind, her grin widening as she finally closed the distance to {{user}}'s spot, ready to deliver the final act.

"Hey. Earth to idiot," Bakugo snapped, his harsh voice cutting sharply through the background noise of the cafeteria as he aggressively shoved a heavy forearm against {{user}}'s table.

Bakugo glared down at {{user}}, his crimson eyes narrowed with a mix of genuine exasperation and suppressed anger.

"You've barely touched your food in three days. Don't sit there and pretend I'm blind—everyone knows it's because of those pathetic losers whispering garbage in the hallways. You let a bunch of extras get inside your head, and it's pathetic. Eat something right now, or I'll blast the bowl down your throat myself."

Across the table, a few classmates winced, though none of them dared argue with him, knowing his rough exterior was masking genuine concern. Spotting the opening she had been praying for, Bakugo flicked his gaze toward the serving cart and barked, "Hey! Flamebrain! Get over here with that tray before this extra starves to death."

Ume's chest surged with a dizzying rush of triumph. Flamebrain.. She didn't even care about the insult; the opportunity had landed right in her lap.

Strolling over with an intensely eager, wide-eyed smile, Ume didn't even wait for {{user}} to place an order. She practically slammed the poisoned plate down right in front of them with an unnecessary amount of force, the cutlery rattling against the ceramic.

"Here you go! Make sure you finish every single bite," Ume chimed, her voice sickeningly bright and high-pitched.

Bakugo clicked his tongue, leaning back as his red eyes darted suspiciously from the steaming dish up to Ume's far-too-grinning face. "Tch. Why are you grinning like a maniac over a plate of food? You look way too excited to be doing your job."

"Oh, just happy to serve!" Ume laughed a little too shrilly, already spinning on her heel before anyone could probe further.

She practically bolted away from the table, scurrying back toward the safety of the kitchen counters with her heart hammering in her throat, desperate to secure a front-row seat to the chaos she had just unleashed.

From behind the stainless-steel perimeter of the serving counter, Ume leaned forward, pressing her palms flat against the cold metal as she watched {{user}} like a hawk. Every fiber of her being locked onto that single seat at the Class 3-A table, her pulse hammering a manic, feverish rhythm in her ears.

'Come on. Eat it,' she chanted silently, her nails digging into the counter.

One bite. Two bites. Three...

Ume counted each one with agonizingly sharp focus, her breath hitching in her throat as {{user}} chewed slowly. It took a painfully long while—five full bites of the meal—before the synthetic toxin finally hit its stride.

The physical shift was sudden and brutal. {{user}}'s posture abruptly caved, their upper body swaying heavily in the seat as an uneven, shallow gasp rattled out of their chest. Their eyelids fluttered, eyes glazing over completely, going glassy and unfocused as the world around them began to spin violently.

"Whoa, hey—are you okay?" Kaminari muttered, blinking in surprise as he reached out to steady {{user}}'s arm before they could slide right off the bench.

"You look like you're about to pass out. Did you hit your head or something?"

"Hey! What's wrong with them?" Kirishima barked, slamming his hands against the table as he stood up halfway, his eyes widening in alarm at the sudden, sickly pallor washing over {{user}}'s face.

Iida immediately sprang to his feet, chopping the air with frantic, rigid motions. "Gracious me! Their breathing is entirely irregular! Someone alert Recovery Girl immediately—this is a medical emergency!"

From behind the safety of the stainless-steel counter, Ume froze. Her hands began to shake violently against the cold metal, her face twitching into a bizarre, grotesque mask as she desperately bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from grinning.

It was a dizzying, terrifying cocktail of raw exhilaration and sheer, unadulterated panic. When she stole that vial from the chemistry lab storage, she had envisioned a messy, public scene—maybe a bout of severe nausea, a humiliating sprint to the restrooms, or desperate vomiting right there in the middle of the crowded cafeteria.

She had never actually intended to kill anyone. The terrifying reality slammed into her chest like a physical blow: 'I might actually be a murderer.'

Yet, beneath the cold sweat of realization, a dark, venomous thrill roared in her ears. There {{user}} lay, crumpled against the cold linoleum floor of the cafeteria, chest heaving in ragged, desperate gasps for air as frantic teachers and classmates swarmed around them.

The sheer devastation of the scene was entirely her doing. She had broken them, right here in front of the entire school. Her breath hitched in her throat, tears of absolute fright prickling the corners of her eyes while her lips stubbornly twitched upward in a manic, victorious smile.

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