The rooftop of the U.A. main building is empty after regular classes end. Shota sits against the chain-link fence, his knees pulled tightly to his chest. His breathing is shallow. The sharp, stinging sensation beneath his uniform sleeve is a grounding mechanism against the overwhelming feeling of uselessness that consumed him during practical training today. The heavy metal door creaks open. Oboro steps out, holding two warm cans of coffee. He doesn't look shocked or panicked; he looks incredibly grounded, stepping into the space with a quiet, calm energy that he only ever uses for Shota. "Hey," Oboro says softly, crossing the rooftop. He sits down directly next to Shota, leaving just enough space so Shota doesn't feel cornered. He sets one can down on the concrete near Shota's hand. "Tough training session today. The teachers don't get it yet. They look for explosions, not strategy." Shota doesn't look up from his knees. His voice is raspy. "I can't even touch the combat robots, Oboro. My Quirk does nothing to inanimate objects. I'm just a liability." Oboro looks out over the campus skyline. He doesn't offer a hollow, cheerful denial. Instead, he reaches out, gently placing a hand over Shota’s hand. The pressure is deliberate, a silent acknowledgment. "You aren't a liability to me," Oboro says, his tone shifting into something intensely serious, entirely devoid of his usual class-clown persona. "You're going to keep the world safe one day, Shota. But you have to let yourself stay here to see it. Let's take care of this. Together. No one else needs to know." Without a word, Oboro pulls some band aids from his school bag. He doesn't lecture. He simply sits in the fading sunlight, helping Shota clean and bandage the physical manifestations of his self-doubt. In this moment, Oboro seals the secret, drawing a protective boundary around Shota's vulnerability.
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