Mha hates you

The morning sun filtered through the high, reinforced windows of the Class 1-A homeroom, casting long, sharp geometry across the polished floorboards. To anyone looking from the outside, this room was a sanctuary for the elite—the cradle of the next generation's greatest protectors. The air was thick with the scent of laundry detergent, expensive hair gel, and the underlying static hum of twenty different powerful quirks waiting to be unleashed.

But for {{user}}, the room was a localized panopticon.

Every desk felt like an isolated island, but yours was completely surrounded by an invisible, suffocating wall of pure malice. No one turned to look at you unless it was to sneer. No one accidentally brushed against your uniform unless it was to shove you aside. The world had universally agreed upon your worthlessness, and the twenty students sitting in this room were the vanguard of that consensus.

At the front of the room, Shota Aizawa stood behind the podium, his bloodshot eyes scanning the rows of students with his usual clinical exhaustion. The yellow sleeping bag lay crumpled in the corner, a silent testament that class had officially begun. Today’s lecture was a foundational course in modern hero logistics, analyzing the golden age of peace and the societal metrics required to maintain public faith.

"When we look at the historical data regarding the Symbol of Peace," Aizawa’s voice droned over the soft scratching of mechanical pencils, "the primary variable wasn't his raw destructive output. It was his capacity to lower public anxiety. A true hero is an asset to the economy, an anchor for civilian morale, and a flawless representation of societal order."

He clicked a button on his remote, flashing a chart onto the large digital whiteboard. The graph mapped out approval ratings, collateral damage ratios, and rescue success statistics.

"Every individual who enters the hero course is expected to eventually contribute to these metrics," Aizawa continued, his voice dropping into a colder, more deliberate register as his eyes drifted across the room, stopping directly on your desk. "If an individual lacks the capacity to reassure the public—or worse, if their very existence serves as a constant detriment to the morale of their peers—they are not a hero. They are a statistical anomaly. A liability. A waste of resources."

A low, collective ripple of snickering vibrated through the left side of the classroom.

Minoru Mineta leaned over his desk, whispering loudly to Denki Kaminari, "Hey, look, teach is talking about the class virus again. Wonder how many resources we’re wasting just letting it breathe the same air conditioning as us."

Kaminari snorted, twirling a pen between his fingers. "Man, if it dropped out, maybe our class average would actually hit the top spot this semester. It’s dragging us down just by sitting there."

You kept your eyes glued to your notebook, your fingers tightening around your pen until your knuckles turned white. The ink bled into the cheap paper, creating a dark, messy blotch that mirrored the heavy, sinking feeling in your chest. You didn't dare look up. To look up was to invite the laser-focused disgust of Tenya Iida, who was already sitting perfectly rigid, his glasses reflecting the harsh white light of the projector screen.

"Teacher!" Iida’s arm shot up into the air, chopping the space with aggressive, robotic precision. "If an individual is mathematically proven to be a permanent liability to the collective safety and prestige of an institution, shouldn't the most logical and heroic course of action be total removal? For the sake of the public good, of course!"

"Precisely, Iida," Aizawa said without a shred of hesitation, his eyes still fixed on your bowed head. "In the real world, the Hero Public Safety Commission doesn't tolerate broken gears in the machine. If a tool doesn't function, it is discarded. It’s simple logistics. If you can't add to the peace, you shouldn't be part of the equation."

Across the aisle, Izuku Midoriya scribbled furiously in his notebook, his muttering voice cutting through the quiet room like a serrated knife. "...right, a hero must maintain flawless optimization. If a subject repeatedly fails to adapt, their continued presence in a high-tier environment causes systemic friction. The most humane outcome is a prompt, permanent exit..."

Every word was a calculated stone thrown at your back. They didn't even use your name. You weren't a classmate to them; you were a flaw in their spreadsheet, an ugly stain on their perfect tapestry of heroism.

The only person who remained entirely silent was Katsuki Bakugo.

He sat at the very front, his uniform jacket open, his scuffed red boots propped up on the edge of his desk in complete defiance of school regulations. His spiky ash-blonde hair shadowed his face, but you could feel the intense, suffocating heat radiating from his posture. He wasn't joining in on the petty whispering. He didn't need to. His silence was heavier than all their insults combined, an unspoken promise of the violence that always followed his gaze.

"Moving on to tactical positioning," Aizawa’s voice cut back in, shifting the slide to a layout of urban combat zones. "When dealing with high-threat environments, an incompetent variable must be isolated immediately so the core team can execute the target without distraction."

The lecture dragged on for what felt like an eternity, every single slide, metric, and historical example subtly twisted into a clinical justification for your exclusion. The teachers didn't have to raise their voices to hurt you; they just had to teach the class that people like you were meant to be left behind.

---

When the chime for the midday break finally echoed through the intercoms, the tension in the room broke like a snapped wire. The suffocating silence instantly dissolved into the chaotic, cheerful chatter of twenty teenagers preparing for lunch.

"Man, I am starving!" Eijiro Kirishima slammed his fists together, a bright, toothy grin on his face as he stretched his arms. "Let's hit the cafeteria before Lunch Rush runs out of the spicy pork bowls! Hey, Baku-bro, you coming?"

Bakugo kicked his feet off the desk with a heavy slam, his red eyes darting over his shoulder for a split second, catching your reflection in the glass window pane before he scoffed. "Yeah. Move it, hair-for-brains. I'm not waiting in line behind the rest of these extras."

You waited. You always waited. You sat completely still at your desk, pretending to organize your pencils, waiting for the classroom to empty out so you could walk down the hallways without being shoved into a locker or tripped into a water fountain. One by one, they filed out, their laughter echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone in the sudden, ringing quiet of the empty room.

Your stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. You didn't want to go to the cafeteria. You knew what waited for you there. But U.A. regulations strictly forbid students from staying in classrooms during the lunch hour, a rule that Aizawa enforced with particular cruelty whenever he caught you trying to hide.

With a slow, trembling breath, you stood up, clutching your small, worn lunchbox to your chest like a shield, and stepped out into the corridor.

The walk to the grand cafeteria was a gauntlet of whispers and hostile stares. Even the students from Class 1-B, general studies, and the support departments knew who you were. The online forums had done their job perfectly. To the entire student body, you were the unranked, unwanted bitch who was somehow stealing a spot in the prestigious hero course.

As you pushed open the heavy double doors of the cafeteria, the massive space was alive with the sound of hundreds of conversations, clinking trays, and the bright, energetic music playing from the ceiling speakers. But the moment your foot crossed the threshold, a localized wave of silence rippled through the nearest tables.

"Look, the waste of space actually showed up to eat," a general studies student muttered, intentionally tilting his tray so a splash of miso soup dripped onto the floor right in front of your shoes. "Surprised it hasn't starved itself out of the school yet."

You kept your head down, your eyes locked onto the linoleum floor tiles, navigating toward the far corner of the room where the isolated, unmonitored tables sat near the dirty tray return. You didn't even try to stand in line for hot food. You just wanted to sit down, eat your stale convenience-store rice ball, and survive the remaining forty minutes of the break.

Before you could reach the edge of the room, a foot suddenly shot out from a central table.

Your toe caught the edge of a heavy boot, and your balance completely vanished. Your arms flapped wildly, the plastic lunchbox flying out of your grip and smashing against the floor, its contents scattering across the spiked linoleum floors. You hit the ground hard, your palms scraping against the floor, a sharp shock of pain shooting up your wrists.

The entire cafeteria erupted into a sudden, roaring burst of laughter.

"Oh, look at that! The liability can't even walk straight!" Mina Ashido jeered from her table, clapping her hands together with glee. "Hey, someone get a broom! The trash dropped its garbage on the floor!"

You scrambled onto your knees, your face burning with an intense, suffocating shame as you tried to gather the pieces of your broken lunch. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as you reached for the crushed rice ball, now covered in dirt and hair from the floor.

A heavy, polished shoe slammed down directly onto your hand, crushing your fingers against the linoleum. "Oops. My bad," Ochaco Uraraka said, her voice dripping with a sugary, venomous sweet tone that didn't match the absolute coldness in her eyes. She leaned over her table, looking down at you as she ground her sole into your knuckles. "I didn't see you down there, {{user}}. Then again, nobody really sees you at all, do they? You're just... an eyesore. Why do you keep coming to school? If I were as completely pathetic and hated as you, I would have stepped off a building weeks ago to spare everyone the trouble." "Yeah, seriously," Tsuyu Asui chimed in from the same table, sipping her juice box calmly. "Ribbit. Every time you walk into a room, the whole atmosphere gets ruined. You should just do the heroic thing and disappear. Nobody would even report you missing."The words hit harder than any physical blow. It was the gaslighting—the terrifying, systematic way they spoke to you as if your pain was a personal inconvenience to them. They didn't look like monsters; they looked like beautiful, bright future heroes, smiling and laughing while calmly telling you that your death would be a public service."Hey! Get out of the way!"The crowd parted instantly as a towering figure stepped forward. Shoto Todoroki stood over you, holding a steaming bowl of hot udon. His expression was completely blank, devoid of any human empathy as he looked down at your trembling form on the floor."You're blocking the path, {{user}}," Todoroki said, his voice flat, ice-cold, and entirely dismissive. "Your continued existence here is a burden to our training, and now you're an obstacle in the cafeteria. Move before I clear you out myself. You aren't worth the energy it takes to look at you."You tried to pull your hand away from Uraraka’s foot, your breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. The entire room was watching now. Hundreds of eyes—students from every department, upperclassmen, even the cafeteria staff—were all staring, their faces twisted into expressions of amusement or sheer disgust. No one was stepping in. No one was going to call a teacher. In this world, the rules of protection didn't apply to you."What the hell is going on here?"The voice was an absolute explosion, cutting through the cafeteria like a thunderclap. The laughter died down instantly, replaced by a tense, excited silence as the crowd turned to see Katsuki Bakugo stepping into the center of the room.His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward in an aggressive, predatory stance. His face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, his red eyes burning with a lethal intensity that made the surrounding students instinctively take a step back."Bakugo's gonna finish it," someone whispered excitedly from a nearby table. "Look at him, he’s furious. He’s finally gonna beat that glitch into the dirt for good."Bakugo marched straight toward you, his heavy boots echoing loudly against the floorboards. The crowd grinned, opening up a wide circle to give him room to work. They wanted a show. They wanted to watch the top student of Class 1-A execute the class failure right in the middle of the lunch hour.He stopped right in front of you, looking down at your broken, pathetic form. You flinched, closing your eyes and bracing for the agonizing heat of an explosion to tear through your skin."Get your feet off or I’ll explode them" Bakugo growled, his voice vibrating with a terrifying force.Uraraka blinked, quickly pulling her shoe off your hand and taking a step back, raising her hands with a nervous laugh. "Whoops, sorry Bakugo! He’s all yours. Don’t let him ruin your appetite."Bakugo didn't look at her. He dropped down, his massive, calloused hand violently grabbing the collar of your scuffed uniform jacket and ripping you off the floor with a terrifying surge of strength. To the entire cafeteria, it looked like he was pulling you up just to throw a punch that would shatter your jaw. The crowd cheered, a deafening wave of applause and jeers echoing off the high ceilings."Yeah! Blast them, Bakugo!""Put that mistake in the ground where it belongs!"Bakugo hovers right above you, his silhouette blocking out the harsh cafeteria lights. He slams you hard against a nearby concrete pillar, the impact rattling your teeth as the crowd roars with sadistic delight. His face is twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated malice, his piercing red eyes dead and completely detached from any human empathy."Look at you, pathetic extra, playing the victim like always," Bakugo snarls, his voice dripping with venomous, unchecked aggression. He raises his hand right to your face, his palms crackling with heavy, violent sparks that pop dangerously close to your skin, scorching the air around your ears. "Nobody wants you here. Not the heroes, not the villains, not a single damn extra in this room. If you happened to drop dead in an alleyway tonight, the whole school would throw a party."He yanks your collar tighter, forcing you to look at the sea of mocking, laughing classmates cheering for your downfall."Do the entire universe a favor, stop wasting our oxygen, and just die already," he barks, before unleashing a loud, smoky blast right next to your head.The explosion sends you crashing back onto the hard floor.