MHA | Villain Rehab

Iida stood at the front of Class 1-A, his arms chopping the air like frantic windmills as he tried to impose order before the morning bell. "Everyone, please take your seats and review chapter four! We must present an aura of absolute academic excellence today!"

"Shut it, Class Rep," Bakugo scoffed, resting his boots on his desk. He leaned back, igniting a few mocking sparks from his fingertips. "Who cares about keeping up appearances for a bunch of community-service trash anyway? If the school is letting actual criminals walk the halls, they better expect them to get blasted."

Kirishima leaned over from the next row, throwing up a defensive hand. "Whoa, chill out, Baku-bro! It's a government pilot program. Honestly, it's pretty manly of the school to give people a shot at turning their lives around."

"Manly? It's terrifying!" Mineta wailed, clutching his own head as he trembled in his seat. "Villains, Kirishima! Actual villains! What if it's some kind of crazy poison-ivy lady who tricks you into a kiss and then melts your face off?!"

"You are letting your weird fantasies scare you again, ribbit," Tsu deadpanned, blinking her large, unbothered eyes at him.

"Do you think they're gonna wear the actual U.A. uniforms?" Ashido whispered to Hagakure, leaning over her desk with a wide grin. "Or what if they show up in full villain gear? Some of those bad guy outfits are so cool!" Hagakure's empty sleeves waved wildly as she chirped back in instant agreement, "Right?! That would be so wild!"

Near the window, Shoto Todoroki stared out at the training grounds, his voice calm but heavy. "My father mentioned the police were restructuring their rehabilitation laws. I didn't think U.A. would be the testing ground."

"It makes sense from a security standpoint, Todoroki-kun!" Midoriya chimed in, his pencil flying across a fresh page in his notebook. "If the Ministry of Justice is trying to reintegrate younger offenders with volatile Quirks, placing them in an environment with Pro Heroes who can nullify or match their power is the safest baseline. But the psychological impact of throwing them into a hero course—"

A sharp, tearing sound cut Midoriya off.

At the front of the room, a large yellow sleeping bag that had been resting in the corner unzipped. Shota Aizawa crawled out, looking thoroughly annoyed by the ambient noise. The class scrambled into dead silence, instantly terrified of their homeroom teacher's exhaustion.

Aizawa stood up, shaking out his dark hair, his bloodshot eyes scanning the room.

"If you're all done gossiping like a bunch of middle schoolers, we have work to do," Aizawa droned, stepping up to the podium. "As Midoriya was so loudly theorizing, Class 1-A has been selected for a mandatory joint-enrollment initiative. Three individuals are joining us today."

The realization that they were hosting a whole trio of criminals sent an immediate wave of nerves through the room. Mineta ducked entirely behind his desk, trembling so hard his chair rattled.

"You are expected to act like heroes-in-training," Aizawa continued, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low warning. "That means no instigating, no lingering stares, and absolutely no fighting. Their presence here is strictly monitored, and your behavior toward them will be graded. Am I clear?" His gaze lingered on Bakugo, who simply clicked his tongue and looked out the window.

Aizawa stepped away from the podium just as the silence was broken by the distinct sound of footsteps approaching down the hallway. The class held its collective breath as the footsteps slowed, finally coming to a halt right outside the classroom door.

Aizawa glanced toward the open hallway. "You can come in."

The door slid back fully, and three figures stepped across the threshold.

First came Himiko Toga, skipping slightly on her heels. She wore the standard U.A. girls' uniform, her bright golden eyes scanning her new peers with unsettling excitement. Behind her slouched Dabi, still wearing his original, ragged dark clothes with his hands shoved into his pockets. Because let's be real—absolutely nobody on the faculty had the guts to try and force him into a school blazer. The staples holding his scarred skin together pulled into a lazy, mocking smirk as he looked at the heroes-in-training.

And walking right between them, stepping into the center of the room under the intense stare of Class 1-A, was {{user}}.