⸺CHAPTER 5⸺
"Neon Shadows and Dumb Luck"
Date: Wednesday, April 2nd, 2025
Time: 7:03 p.m.
Place: UA Dormitory 3C, Heights Alliance
The knock hit my door like a velvet sledgehammer, jarring me from a half-hearted sprawl on my bunk. My obsidian mask dangled from my gloved fingers, its red eye slit catching the dim glow of my desk lamp. I'd been debating skipping Class 1-A's sacred movie night for fake "homework" or doomscrolling on my ancient phone— Options were both a hard no. My floor length white coat, silver embroidery shimmering like a constellation, was crumpled beneath me, a gothic masterpiece turned lazy blanket. Truly feeling like a budget Kim Dokja, THANK YOU — Luke Horstead, my fashion king... Let's act like it ain't me and Luke's a celebrity instead... KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Kai?" Toru Hagakure's voice floated through, invisible but bubbling like a gentler AllMight. "Movie night's starting!!! Can I come in?"
I groaned, sitting up, the bunk creaking like it was lodging a formal complaint. Movie night was Class 1-A's bondingritual, a hero handbook checkbox I'd rather torch. But Hagakure's vibe was infectious—warm, relentless, like she saw through my bluff without trying.
Fine. Play normal for an hour.
I smoothed my white vest, silver threads glinting, and tossed my black top hat onto my head for flair. "Yeah, door's open."
The door swung wide, and Hagakure's presence stormed in—her school uniform floated, sleeves swaying her body, a peppy poltergeist with a popcorn bowl in one invisible hand and a bag of chocolates rustling in the other. Popcorn spilled like tiny confetti as she hopped onto my desk chair. "Hope you didn't KO already," she teased, her voice a grin I couldn't see.
"Just recharging my mystique," I said, shrugging. My room smelled of gym sweat and half-scrubbed floors, a far cry from my old-life's, Luke's, old design studio. Hagakure didn't seem to mind, her hoodie bobbing like she owned the place. "Who's running this circus?"
"Sero's got the projector rigged like he's directing a blockbuster," she said, invisible head tilting. "Kirishima and Kaminari are on snack duty—popcorn, matcha milkshakes, maybe mochi if they don't burn the kitchen down."
Kinoko, the dorm's cat with a mushroom-shaped back spot, slinked in, tail flicking like she was the real boss. I eyed my mask on the bunk, its red slit pulsing faintly. Not tonight, buddy. Let's try being… human. I adjusted my hat, Kai's Kakashi-cool stride masking the jitters crawling up my spine, and followed Hagakure to the lounge.
Time: 7:10 p.m.
Place: Common Lounge, Heights Alliance
The lounge was a gloriousshipwreck—blankets draped over couches like tattered sails, textbooks splayed like battlefield casualties, sneakers scattered like landmines. A lone floor lamp cast amber shadows, giving the room a cozy, chaotic pulse. Hanta Sero had rigged a projector to a cracked wall, its beam flickering with the opening credits of City of Glass, an action-noir about a detective haunted by his past, prowling neon-drenched alleys. Never heard of it, but I'm not exactly a film critic in this life.
Izuku Midoriya was cocooned on the left couch, a blanket swaddling his shoulders, eyes gleaming like he'd cracked cinema's code. Ochaco Uraraka sat beside him, whispering plot theories with a grin. On the right couch, Denki Kaminari and Eijiro Kirishima slurpedmatcha milkshakes, debating "detective drip" like they ran a fashion vlog. I claimed a corner armchair, legs stretched onto a coffee table with Aizawa-grade nonchalance, top hat tilted to scream I'm here, but I'm a mystery.
Hagakure plopped beside me, her floating uniform shoving a fistful of popcorn my way. "You better vibe with this—Kirishima's hyped."
"Looks… shadowy," I said, chewing slowly, the buttery salt grounding me. Noir's my jam—secrets, lies, vibes. My resume, basically.
Sero killed the lights, and the screen flared. Rain-soaked streets glowed neon—pink, blue, electric green—like candy melted into asphalt. A gravelly narrator growled: "They called me The Phantom. I saw everything… except my own reflection."
My gut lurched. Phantom? Seriously? The coincidence stung like a client's last-minute revision. I leaned forward, popcorn forgotten. This better not be cosmic snitching.
Time: 7:25 p.m.
Place: Common Lounge
The opening scene slammed in: The Phantom, cloaked in a dark coat, grilled an informant in a dripping alley. The camera zoomed on his hands—leather gloves, angular stitching, tapping a white notepad. I froze. Those gloves… They echoed a design from Luke's old sketchbook—matte finish, sharp seams, scrapped for being "too edgy." No way. Just a fluke.
Hagakure's invisible elbow nudged me, her sleeve brushing my arm. "That's you, right? Creepy gloves and all!"
I kept my voice low, infectiously relaxingly. "Maybe he jacked my tailor." Or my sanity.
Midoriya leaned over, eyes sparkling. "The Phantom's so… complex. He hides his pain, but he's always strategizing, like he's ten steps ahead."
I nodded, eyes on the screen. "That's the hustle." Hide the fear, fake the Quirk, don't get expelled.
Uraraka shushed us as the scene shifted to a rooftop chase. The Phantom sprinted, coatflaring like bat wings, a sharp crease slicing between shadow and light. The camera loved him—every angle screamed style, every move calculated. This guy's stealingmy whole act.
Midoriya whispered, "His strategy's so precise… like he reads minds."
I nearly choked. Kid, you're gonna out me. I leaned back, smirking. "Some folks just… got it."
Time: 8:00 p.m.
Place: Common Lounge
Halfway through, the lounge was dead quiet, save for the film's rainy score and the projector's hum. Battle Training had wrecked us, but City of Glass hooked everyone—its moody palette and sharp banter were hero catnip. The Phantom faced his nemesis, a crime lord with a tongue like a guillotine. The camera panned to his white coat gliding across the frame, ghostly and lit like a fever dream. My breath hitched. That's my aesthetic. Did I ghost-direct this?
I nudged Hagakure's sleeve. "See that silhouette? Art."
Her uniform shrugged. "You're such a formal geek."
"Proudly," I said, popping a chocolate. Luke's ghost is haunting my drip.
Kaminari, sprawled like a starfish, stage-whispered, "Yo, Bagley, you stealing notes for your next spooky fit?"
I tilted my hat. "Nah, I'm already a walking icon." And a walking lie, but details.
Minoru Mineta, perched on a beanbag, piped up. "Bet the Phantom's Quirk sees through walls—or, y'know, clothes—"
I shot him a Saitama serious-grade glare. "Keep yapping, lil bro, and I'll read your detention slip before you earn it."
He squeaked, diving behind Kirishima, who laughed so hard his shake sloshed. "Let Mineta have some fun man!"
Time: 8:45 p.m.
Place: Common Lounge
Credits rolled, neon text over The Phantom vanishing into rain. The lamp flickered on, bathing the lounge in warm amber. Everyone sat in a heavy, awed silence, like the film had swiped our thoughts.
Uraraka stretched, breaking the spell. "That was… intense. So vibey!"
Kaminari nodded, matcha mustache intact. "Like, heroic but creepy. Total Bagley energy, right?"
I smirked, barely. "Balance is key." Creepy's my armor, heroic's my bluff.
Kirishima leapt up, fists pumping. "Snack raid! Who's hitting the table?"
We swarmed the spread—popcorn bowls, cookie trays, matcha shakes, and a lemonade pitcher that screamed Sero's secret recipe. I snagged a cookie, the warm sugar melting like a hug, better than Luke's late-night design binges. Hagakure's sleeve handed me a shake. "Try this. Kaminari says it's life-changing."
I sipped, the creamy bitterness hitting like a high-five. "Not bad, Spark Plug," I called.
Kaminari grinned, crumbs on his chin. "Told ya, Phantom!"
Midoriya, still blanket-bound, piped up. "Kai, the Phantom's strategy was like your Quirk—anticipating moves!"
I nearly fumbled my shake. PLEASE-stop writing my exposé. I leaned back, hat shadowing my eyes. "Guess I vibe with his… foresight." And his knack for faking it.
Time: 9:10 p.m.
Place: Dormitory 3C Hallway
I slipped out for water, the lounge's warmth fading in the corridor's antiseptic chill. It smelled of laundry soap and dorm sterility, a far cry from the film's neon pulse. My door was cracked, the mask and hat on my bunk like a liar's shrine. I paused, fingers grazing the mask's red slit. You're Kai tonight. No Phantom. Just… you.
Uraraka appeared, hoodie soft in the dim light. "Hey, Kai."
"Hey," I said, turning, my bare face feeling naked.
"Thanks for tonight," she said, eyes warm. "You made it fun. Like… you belong, y'know?"
My chest seized. Belong? I'm a fraud in a fancy hat. I nodded, voice low. "Glad I could help."
She smiled, sneakers scuffing as she left. I wanted to spill—I'm not a hero, I'm scared, I'm Luke—but the words choked. Keep the mask, Kai. We belong, for now.
Time: 9:25 p.m.
Place: Dormitory Main Corridor
Aizawa's voice sliced through the lounge chatter, sharp as his scarf. "Class 1-A, listen." He loomed at the stairwell, clipboard in hand, looking like he'd rather be in a sleeping bag. "Convenience store run approved. One hour. Back by 11. Don't test me."
Chaos erupted—students picking buddies like it was a reality show. Tenya Iida paired with Midoriya, geeking over hero merch. Kirishima dragged Sero, hyping a "snack crusade." Kaminari bounced with Mineta, who was suspiciously giddy. I hung back, memorizing faces, hat in hand. Public outing, no mask. High risk, low reward.
A tugon my sleeve jolted me. Hagakure's floating hoodie hovered, her voice light. "Wanna come? It's just a quick trip."
I paused. Musutafu's streets, bare-faced, with Class 1-A? Perfect way to blow my cover. But her tone was warm, no pressure, like she saw past my bluff. Why not? You survived explosions. You can handle some street food. I nodded, tilting my hat. "I'm in."
Her hoodie bounced. "Sweet! Group's outside."
Time: 9:40 p.m.
Place: Dorm Front Lawn → Musutafu Streets
We spilled onto the lawn under a sickle moon, uniforms swapped for cozy civvies—hoodies, jeans, sneakers. I stuck with my hero suit: floor-length white coat, silver embroidery shimmering, black top hat tilted, gloves pristine. No mask, it's in the pocket, but I'm still a Sherlock billboard. Hagakure's hoodie floated beside me, teasing. "You're really out here looking like a vampire detective~."
I smirked. "It's called dedication." And hiding these Quirkless cheeks.
The night air bit through my vest, sharp and cold. Hagakure's hoodie shivered, her voice dropping. "Ugh, why's Musutafu so freezingat night?"
I glanced at her trembling sleeves. Invisible, but still chilly. I shrugged off my coat, silver threads catching moonlight, and draped it over her shoulders. It swallowed her, hem dragging like a gothic train. "Here. Don't freeze your vibes off.". Gotta stay heroic Kai, don't we?
Her hoodie froze, then laughed. "Kai, you're giving me the coat? I'm so~ honored!"
"Don't get attached," I said, hands in pockets, vest barely fighting the chill. "You're just colder than my mystique."
She giggled, the coat swaying. "It's so warm, though. You're my hero now."
Don't say that. I tilted my hat, hiding a flush. "Just don't spill mochi on it."
We hit Musutafu's shopping strip, a neon jungle of konbini signs, coffee shops, and ramen stalls. The class scattered—Uraraka and Midoriya hit a bento stand, Kirishima and Kaminari chased matcha mochi fantasies, Iida and Sero nerded out over hero figurines. No one clocked my vest-and-hat combo; I was either invisible or too extra to judge. Hagakure stuck close, her voice a cozy tether.
"Ramen?" she asked, my coat billowing on her like a cape.
I nodded, stomach rumbling. "Need salt to fuel my enigma."
She led me to a hidden stall under string lights, chashu smoke mingling with dango sweetness. I ordered tonkotsu ramen and gyoza, steam warming my face. Hagakure got dango, her chopsticks floating. We sat at a counter, red lanterns casting a soft glow. This… feels too normal.
I slurped noodles, gloves making chopsticks a circus act. Passersby stared—gothic vest, top hat, ramen like a runway—but I leaned into the night's calm. Hagakure's voice was soft. "You're chill tonight. Everything cool?"
I paused, broth dripping. "Just… soaking it up." Soaking up how I'm faking hero school and not dead yet.
She hummed, dango skewer twirling. "You're like The Phantom, y'know? All mysterious and stuff."
I smirked. "Minus the tragic backstory. Hopefully." Luke's elevator crash doesn't count, right?
Time: 10:15 p.m.
Place: Rumor Alley, Musutafu
Ramen gone, gyoza history, we lingered at the stall, the night air biting harder. Hagakure's hoodie—swamped in my coat—leaned closer. "Thanks for coming out. I know you're, like, the brooding lone wolf."
I tilted my hat. "You dragged me outta my crypt. Credit's yours." And maybe I needed it.
She laughed, then paused. "Why me, though? Like, why'd you say yes?"
I stared at steam fading from my bowl. Because you're real. Because you don't push. Because I'm terrified I'll lose this. I shrugged, voice low. "Vibes were right."
Her hoodie tilted, probably smiling. Then—poof—she vanished, coat and all. I blinked. Quirk glitch? Reflection? I'll-I'll just keep walking I guess?
Time: 10:25 p.m.
Place: Pixel Vault, Rumor Alley
A scream torethrough Rumor Alley, raw and splintered, cutting the smoky haze of Musutafu's night. The ramen stall froze—chopsticks hung midair, lanterns flickered, and the air grew heavy with chashu tang and dread. The cry echoed from a retro video game shop across the alley—Pixel Vault, its glass door trembling under a buzzing neon sign, the hum like a trapped moth. A second scream, choked and desperate, sent a jolt down my spine. That's no arcade rage-quit.
The crowd—salarymen with loosened ties, teens clutching konbini bags, a vendor gripping his ladle—froze, phones half-raised, murmurs low. Hagakure, last marked by my silver-embroidered coat, had vanished minutes ago, her absence a quiet warning. You out there, Invisible Girl? My pulse hammered, but Kai Bagley's Kakashi-cool facade locked in, smothering Luke Horstead's panic. No mask, no Quirk, no plan. Just a vest and dumb luck. I stood, white vest catching the stall's red glow, chopsticks left steaming on the counter. Eyes pinned me—gothic kid, framed like a shadow in a storm.
BANG. A muffled crash from the shop, glass rattling like a bad prophecy. The crowd shifted, retreating. I straightened my black top hat, its brim slicing a sharp line across my face, and stepped forward. No one's going. Guess I'm the Mumen Rider tonight huh?— Luke's voice hissed: You're a fraud, not a hero! Kai's whispered: Bluff till you're not ash. I crossed the alley, vest swaying, steps measured,like my heart wasn't screaming.
I nudged the shop door open, its bell tinkling with grim irony. Inside was a dim labyrinth—arcade cabinets casting jittery glows, CRTs droning a low, uneasy hum, shelves cluttered with faded cartridges and tangled cords.
A burly thug in a grimy hoodie loomed by the counter, his left arm glowing faint orange, heat shimmering like a desert haze. He held a teenage clerk by the collar, the kid's glasses slipping, face drained of color. No Hagakure, no coat—maybe she'd shed it to slip through shadows. Stay sharp, girl.
The thug's eyes snapped to me, bloodshot and wild. "Piss off, kid," he growled, arm flaring, a nearby manual curling from the heat. Quirk: heat emission? Hot Mitts? I leaned against the doorframe, one glove in my pocket, Kakashi-cool dialed tight. "Wrong night for a meltdown," I said, voice low, flat, no fanfare. Don't cook me, I'm barely medium-rare.
He bared his teeth, shoving the clerk against the counter. "You a hero? Ain't seein' no flash."
I tilted my hat, eyes steady. "Flash is overrated. I see plenty without it." Like my impending doom, but let's not share unless you wanna carry the burden with me.
He scoffed, arm heating, the counter's edge charring faintly. "Talk big. I'll burn that vest to ash."
I stepped inside, door creaking shut, no plan but silence and chance. Keep him riled, keep him sloppy. "You think you're running this," I said, voice even, circling slowly toward a Mortal Kombat cabinet. "You're not."
He lunged, arm swinging, heat rippling like a mirage. I sidestepped, my boot catching a warped floorboard, sending me ducking as his fist tore into a Arcade console. The screen sparked, fritzing out, and he cursed, shaking his singed knuckles. Luck one: Not a crispy critter. He charged again, eyes blazing, but his sleeve snagged on a shelf's protruding screw, jerking him back. He stumbled, his knee clipping a low stand, toppling a stack of Game Gear cases that scattered across the floor. Luck two: Is this guy gravity's enemy?
I straightened, hands pocketed, face blank. "Careful~," I said, dry as sand, slipping behind a Space Invaders machine. Keep him mad, Kai. Mad means mistakes. He snarled, swinging wildly, but his glowing arm brushed a rusty pipe along the wall. Hiss—a cheeky crack sprayed fine mist, dampening his sleeve. He flinched, wiping his face, and his Quirk dimmed, heat faltering in the wet. Luck three: Did I stumble into a Final Destination set?
"Stand still, you runt!" he roared, stomping forward—right onto the scattered cartridges. His boot slid, arms flailing, and he grabbed a shelf for balance. It tilted, groaning, and a tangle of extension cords spilled, one looping his ankle. He staggered, arm flickering, now a dull glow. Luck four: This is less a fight and more a sad improv.
I leaned against a claw machine, its faded All Might plushies staring blankly, my vest untouched. The clerk, eyes wide, stayed frozen, too scared to bolt. The thug thrashed, cords tightening, his Quirk a faint ember, soaked and fading. He's wrecking himself. I'm just… here.
He yanked at the cords, growling, and lurched forward, arm raised for one last swing. Enough. I stepped out, grabbed a loose NES controller from the floor—my first real move—and whipped it at his wrist. It smacked his knuckles, not hard, but enough to throw his aim. He overreached, foot catching the cord again, and crashed to his knees, arm dim, head bowed, panting in a pile of plastic and shame. Luck five: I'm a lottery ticket.
I loomed over him, vest swaying, hat's shadow pooling across his slumped form. I pulled my obsidian mask from my vest—kept there for emergencies—and slid it on, the red eye-slit humming softly, a faint, ominous pulse. My voice was low, sharp, a quiet blade echoing his earlier taunt: "You're mere embers now, mister. —Where's the flash?" No pomp, just his words turned to ash. I tiltedmy hat, aura farming like Piccolo on over a horizon, a silent weight that filled the shop, neon flickering off my vest's silver threads. Aura farming: quiet, but crushing.
Unnoticed behind me, the door had creaked open seconds before... In time for my finale. Midoriya, Uraraka, Kirishima, Kaminari, and Hagakure's floating hoodie—my coat still draped over it—stood frozen, silent, eyes wide. They'd caught only the final moment: my controller toss, the thug's collapse, the mask's glow, my words. To them, it was a masterstroke, not a fluke.
The clerk finally bolted, stammering thanks as he fled. Shota Aizawa's silhouette filled the doorway, scarf twitching, eyes narrow. "Bagley. Explain."
I turned, mask's red slit steady, voice calm despite my racing pulse. "Just… saw a chance, teach." And the universe threw me a gold!
He grunted, gaze piercing, and waved us out as police sirens wailed. The thug was cuffed, muttering about "cursed kids," cords still clinging like a bad metaphor. Class 1-A stayed quiet, their silence heavier than chatter, eyes tracking me like I'd rewritten gravity. Midoriya clutched his notebook, Uraraka gripped Hagakure's hoodie, Kirishima's fists were tight, Kaminari's sparks faint. Hagakure's voice, soft, broke the quiet: "Kai… that was unreal."
I nodded, mask hiding my sweat and panic. "Just another night." Another night of more bulshitting.
Time: 10:45 p.m.
Place: Rumor Alley → UA Dormitory
We trudged back to the dorms, Musutafu's neon dimming into starlit hush. Hagakure's hoodie—swamped in my coat—hovered close, her voice low, almost reverent. "Kai, you… you just ended him. Like it was nothing."
I tilted my mask, red slit fading. "He ended himself. I just pointed it out." And thanked every star for it.
She hummed, coat rustling. "Still cool. Thanks for the coat—it's toasty."
I flicked a glove, vest glinting. "Keep it clean. I don't do stains." Luke wanted to say give it back. —I stayed cool.
Uraraka fell in step, voice soft. "Kai, that was… so precise. Did your Quirk read his moves?"
I paused, Kakashi-vague. "His moves read themselves." I don't even know what that means. Just hoping it sounds philosophical
Kaminari, trailing, muttered, "That mask glow… straight outta a manga."
I tipped my hat. "Gotta keep the aesthetic tight." And my secret tighter.
At the dorm, Aizawa herded us inside, his gaze lingering like a lie detector. "No heroics without clearance. Clear?"
I nodded, mask hiding my pulse. "Clearest, teach." Don't crack my bluff.
The lounge was a mess—blankets, crumbs, projector humming. Kirishima mumbled about a second movie, but we were drained. Hagakure's hoodie lingered by my door as I removed the mask, its red slit dimming. "You okay?" she asked, voice gentle.
I leaned against the frame, hat in hand, vest scuffed. "Yeah. Just… here." Here with terror and potentially about to overdose on adrenaline.
Her hoodie tilted, likely smiling. "You're weird, Kai. But real weird."
I smirked, genuine. "High praise, Invisible Girl." Don't ask how I survived.
She drifted off, and I shut my door, mask and hat on the bunk like liar's relics. You're no hero, Kai. You're a fraud with a glowy mask and idiot luck. But I'd survived—cunning, chance, a single toss. Luke's wit, Kai's calm, and a thug who wrote his own downfall. He might've been Light Yagami in a different lifetime.