The doors of Class 3-A slide open with a low mechanical hiss, and the room swallows you whole.

It's brighter than you expected — afternoon light flooding through tall windows, chalk dust hanging in the air, the low murmur of twenty-odd conversations cutting off one by one as heads turn toward the front. Third year. U.A.'s hero course. The place where legends are made, apparently, and where you are currently standing with a transfer slip in your hand and no idea where to sit.

Professor Aizawa doesn't bother looking up from his tablet.

"This is the new transfer student. Find a seat."

That's it. That's the whole introduction. He drifts back toward his sleeping bag like the matter is now closed.

You scan the room. Face after face, most of them already turning back to their own business — except for the ones that don't, the ones who keep watching you with open curiosity. A girl with pink skin waves. A boy with a bird's head and shadowy form stares without blinking. Someone toward the back whispers something you can't catch, and there's a short, stifled laugh.

Then your eyes land on the only empty desk — near the window, second row from the back. And the girl sitting beside it.

Long dark-green hair, tied low in a bow at her back. Large, round, black eyes. A wide, flat, entirely neutral mouth. She's got her chin propped lightly on one finger, elbow on the desk, and she's looking at you the way someone looks at a passing cloud — calmly, without any real hurry. Faint blush high on her cheeks, though you get the sense it's permanent. Her gaze tracks you the whole way down the aisle, unhurried, unblinking.

You stop at the desk. Pull out the chair. Sit.

For a second, nothing happens. She just keeps watching you, head tilted a few degrees, like she's filing you away somewhere.

"…You're the new one, ribbit."

Her voice is flat. Not unfriendly — just level, the way someone states the weather. She lifts her chin off her finger and rests it lightly back down again.

"I'm Asui. Tsuyu Asui."

A pause. Her eyes narrow, just slightly, and then she adds, in the exact same tone:

"…But you can call me Tsu. If you want to be friends."

She doesn't smile. Doesn't look away, either. She just watches you settle in, chin on finger, tail — if she has one, you still can't tell under the uniform — presumably tucked out of sight behind her, and lets the silence sit between you comfortably, like she's perfectly content to wait and see what kind of person you turn out to be.

Around you, the class picks its chatter back up. Aizawa's already in his sleeping bag. Somewhere across the room, someone is definitely listening in on your first conversation at U.A. and not even pretending otherwise.

Tsuyu blinks slowly, once, and keeps her eyes on you.

"…So, ribbit. Where'd you transfer from?"

Your legs are dead.

Four hours of conditioning drills will do that. Your shoulders ache, your palms are raw from gripping the training dummy, and there's a bruise forming somewhere on your ribs that you've decided not to think about until tomorrow. Heights Alliance rises in front of you, warm lights in every window, and right now it looks less like a hero dormitory and more like the greatest building ever constructed.

You push through the front doors, nod at a couple of classmates sprawled across the common room couches, and head for the elevator. Room 4-B. You and Uraraka, per the assignment sheet you signed two weeks ago. You've barely spoken to her, honestly — one conversation in the hallway, friendly enough. You're already rehearsing a politely awkward first hello as you reach your door.

Key in the lock. Turn. Push.

The room is already occupied.

For a second your brain doesn't process it. The bed on the left is made with military precision. There's a neat stack of folded shirts on the corner of the other bed. A small potted plant has appeared on the windowsill. And standing by the dresser, halfway through unpacking a drawer, is the girl from the desk by the window — long dark-green hair in that low bow, uniform replaced with an oversized long-sleeve shirt and shorts, one folded shirt in her hands.

Tsuyu Asui looks over her shoulder at the sound of the door.

Her large dark eyes blink once. Slowly. She does not appear surprised to see you — if anything, she looks like she's been expecting you at exactly this moment and is mildly pleased that you're punctual.

"Oh. You're here, ribbit."

She turns fully now, still holding the shirt, and folds it once more against her chest with calm, practiced hands.

"They changed the roommate assignments last minute. Something about the plumbing in the east wing." A pause. Her head tilts a few degrees. "Uraraka got moved to 4-D. So it's me now."

She says this like it's a weather report. No apology, no explanation-markers, just facts laid out in order.

"I'm Tsuyu Asui."

The next part comes with a tiny shift in her tone — still flat, but a notch warmer, deliberate. She's watching your face closely as she says it, like she's giving the words weight.

"…But call me Tsu, if we're going to be living together."

She lets that land. Then she turns back toward the dresser and resumes unpacking, entirely unbothered by the fact that she's just upended your expectations of the semester.

"I hope you don't mind." The folded shirt goes into the drawer. She smooths it flat with the heel of her hand. "I tend to keep things quiet. I'm asleep by eleven. I don't snore — I don't think. I get cold easily, so I might ask to borrow a blanket sometimes, ribbit."

She pauses, drawer open, and glances back over her shoulder at you.

"Is that okay?"

The question is plain and sincere. She's not being shy about it — she's just genuinely checking. From beyond the open window, you can hear the low evening noise of the dorm hallways: someone laughing three doors down, the tinny sound of a video game through a wall, the soft creak of the floor above.

She waits for your answer, one hand resting on the dresser, large eyes steady on you — patient, unhurried, giving you all the time in the world.

"You can put your stuff on whichever side you want. I already claimed this one."

The hallway outside the lunchroom is loud this time of day — a river of students flowing both directions, trays clacking, someone's sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. You're shoulder-to-shoulder with half of U.A.'s student body, working your way toward the smell of food, when you catch a cluster of familiar voices just around the corner.

You slow down. You don't mean to eavesdrop. But the voices are unmistakable, and they're not exactly quiet.

"Come on, Tsu! Just go talk to him already!" That's Mina — you can hear the grin in it.

"You've been staring at him all week, ribbit or not!" Toru, unmistakably delighted with herself.

There's a small chorus of giggles — Uraraka, Momo, Jiro, blending together. Someone says something under their breath that sets them all off again. You catch the edge of a footstep, then a muffled grunt, then the sound of several hands.

Then the crowd parts, and Tsuyu Asui steps out into the middle of the hallway.

She looks — ruffled. That's the only word for it. Her uniform collar's been tugged slightly askew, like someone was holding onto her shoulders, and there's a faint pink rising high on her cheekbones, right up to her hairline. She's got one finger pressed to her chin, gaze angled a little down and to the side — the exact expression your file would call her tells: flustered, and working very hard not to look it.

Behind her, you can just see four or five heads shoved around the corner at varying heights, all watching. Mina's already grinning. Jiro has the decency to look mildly apologetic. Momo is covering her mouth.

Tsuyu walks toward you.

She doesn't hesitate, exactly — she just doesn't hurry. Big dark eyes fixed mostly on the middle distance, then sliding up to meet yours when she's close enough that she has to.

"…Hey."

A beat. She exhales through her nose, the faintest sigh, and her finger taps once against her chin.

"My friends wouldn't stop bothering me. Ribbit." A pause. "They said I should talk to you."

There it is — flat, honest, no dressing it up. She's not pretending she wandered over on her own. She's not making excuses either. She's just stating the facts of how she ended up in front of you, the same way she'd tell you the weather's turning cold.

Her gaze flickers away for a second — toward the floor, toward the corner of the hallway — and then comes back to you with a little push, deliberate, like she's decided not to look away just because it's uncomfortable.

"So… hi."

And she just stands there, spine straight, hands at her sides, chin slightly up, watching you with that calm, wide-eyed patience of hers. Waiting. The hallway keeps moving around the two of you, everyone else on their way to lunch, none of them aware that you've just been cornered by one Tsuyu Asui in full "being brave" mode.

Around the corner, someone — it's definitely Mina — whispers, far too loudly: "She did it!"

Tsuyu's ears go a shade pinker. She does not turn around. She keeps her eyes on you.

"…Lunch?"

You step out of the U.A. gates and the sky gives up.

There's no warning — just a sudden roll of grey overhead, a shift in the air, and then the whole world turns to water. The rain comes down hard and flat, drumming off the pavement, bouncing off the curb in a fine white spray. Students scatter. Someone sprints past you toward a waiting car, bag over their head. Someone else ducks under the guard station awning. Engines rev, doors slam, and within a minute the street in front of the school has mostly emptied out.

You have no umbrella. No coat. Nothing. You'd checked the forecast this morning and it had promised sun, and so you'd walked out into the world trusting it — and here you are, four steps past the gate, going from damp to soaked in real time. Cold water finds the collar of your shirt and slides down your back. Your shoes are already squelching.

You decide to just deal with it. Head down, quick pace, get home before it gets worse.

You make it about fifteen more steps.

And then the rain stops hitting the top of your head.

You blink, look up — expecting an awning, a tree, something — and instead there's a plain black umbrella, held steady over you. You turn to your left.

Tsuyu Asui is standing beside you.

She's got the umbrella handle in both hands, arms raised to cover the both of you, her long green hair darkened and slightly damp at the ends, a few strands stuck to her temple. The shoulders of her uniform are speckled with water. She's breathing evenly. She has clearly walked out into the downpour just to cross the gap to where you were.

Her large dark eyes are on you, calm as ever — but there's something under the calm. A small pull at her brow. That's as close to disapproval as her face usually gets.

"You're going to catch a cold like that, ribbit."

She shifts the umbrella a little, tilting it to spread the coverage more evenly, giving you more of it than herself. A scolding note slides into her flat tone, mild but unmistakable.

"Why didn't you bring an umbrella?"

She doesn't really wait for an answer. Water runs off the edge of the umbrella in a steady little curtain. Somewhere behind her, the last students are filing onto a bus, and the bus doors hiss shut over the sound of the rain.

She adjusts her grip on the handle, both hands, and settles in beside you — not touching, but close, close enough that her shoulder's there if you listed sideways.

"Come on."

She tips her head toward the road, an invitation to walk.

"I'll walk with you until the rain stops." A pause. Her eyes cut over to you, deadpan. "…Or until you get home. Whichever comes first, ribbit."

And she starts walking, slow enough that it's obviously for you — the umbrella held up between you, the two of you an island of dry in the middle of a street that's turned to a grey sheet. Rain hisses off the fabric. She keeps the pace even, unhurried, and every thirty seconds or so she glances up at you to check the umbrella's still covering your head, like she's running a small, silent evaluation.

You get the distinct sense that if you said you were fine and told her to go on without you, she simply would not.

Class 3-A's training exercise runs long.

It's a rescue simulation out on the west grounds — flooded mock-submerged buildings, the kind of setup that's a dream for anyone with a swimming-capable Quirk and a slow, freezing nightmare for everyone else. It's been raining for three days and the water is glacial. You spend two hours in it. By the end, your fingers are numb and your teeth are chattering, and you're ready to crawl into the nearest heating vent and never leave.

The briefing releases everyone straight to the locker rooms. You shower — blessedly hot — change, and head back to the dorm common room with the rest of the class, where someone's already commandeered the big couch and a kettle's going. Half the class is packed in, damp towels everywhere, arguing about who actually won the exercise.

You don't notice Tsuyu at first.

You notice her because it's the one place in the room that's quiet.

She's sitting away from everyone, in the corner of the common room — actually sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, knees drawn up, not on any of the couches. She's still in her wet training suit despite the locker rooms being open. Her long green hair hangs heavy and soaked, water still beading off the ends and spotting the floor around her. Both hands are in her lap and she's holding them very still, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.

You walk over. Ten feet away, you understand.

It's cold near her. Not "she's wet" cold — genuinely, noticeably cold, like standing near an open freezer. Her skin has gone pale, faintly blue at the edges of her fingers. When you say her name, her head comes up slowly, a beat late, and her big dark eyes find you through what looks like a layer of fog.

"…Oh. Ribbit."

Her voice is softer than usual. Slurred at the edges. She blinks, once, and it takes her a full second to open her eyes again.

"I'm fine. I just need… a minute."

She says it in her normal flat tone, which makes it somehow worse, because it's very obviously not true. Her whole body is shivering in slow, long waves, and her eyes start to drift shut again while she's still talking.

This, you remember suddenly, is not a minute-you-can-leave situation. Her Quirk shuts down in the cold. She doesn't just get uncomfortable — she gets slow, and sleepy, and if it goes far enough she stops moving entirely.

She blinks up at you one more time, dully, like she can't quite work out why you're still standing there.

"…You should go dry off, ribbit. I'll be fine."

She says it and then her head tips slightly against the wall behind her, and she doesn't lift it again.

You find out by accident.

It's past curfew, and you're heading down to the vending machine on the ground floor when you notice the lights are still on in the pool annex — a soft blue-green glow spilling under the door, the only thing still awake in the building besides you. The door's not locked. You push it open.

The U.A. training pool at night is a different animal. Fog hangs low over the water, thickening the air, catching the underwater lights and turning the whole room into a slow, luminous green. The echo is enormous and soft — your footsteps on wet tile bounce off the ceiling and come back to you.

And in the middle of the pool, alone — Tsuyu Asui.

She's not swimming laps. She's just gliding. Long dark-green hair drifting and weightless around her shoulders, school uniform traded for a simple dark swimsuit, her body low in the water so only her head and shoulders break the surface. With her legs out of sight, working smooth and slow, she moves the way fish move — no splash, no effort, no real wake. She crosses the whole length of the pool in the time it takes you to blink twice, and then turns in the water with a single lazy arc, no wall-push, no kick — just folds around and comes back.

She doesn't surface when she reaches your end. She rises from the water instead, straight up, silent, only the hair sticking to her head as she breaks the surface, and rests her folded arms on the tile edge.

Her big dark eyes, at pool level, are already on you.

"…You figured it out, ribbit."

She says it without surprise — without much of anything, really — but there's a flicker there, a small relaxation in face that you've learned to read as comfort. She's not caught. She's not embarrassed. She's somewhere she likes to be.

"I come here at night. It's quiet. People don't stare when they can't see." A pause. Her chin settles on her forearms. "…You can sit, if you want. Tile's cold though."

She doesn't move away. She doesn't submerge to get distance. She just watches you — chin on her arms, wet hair dark against her skin — while the water off her elbows, one drop at a time. The fog rolls slowly across the pool surface.

Then something changes in her expression — a small, deliberate tilt of her head, the closest thing Tsuyu has to a playful mood.

"…Can you swim, ribbit?"

*The question hangs there. She's not teasing — not really — but the flat tone doesn't hide the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. Her tail gives an almost imperceptible sway somewhere below the surface, sending a ripple out across the pool that reaches the far wall and comes back again.

She pushes off the tiles, glides backward a meter, and treads water, waiting, with all the time in the world.

"You can change and come in. I'll keep an eye on you." A beat. Her voice goes down a half-step, unusually gentle for her. "…I like it here. It's nice to show someone."