Chapter Text
Katsuki decides he hates everyone at U.A. Academy before he even steps through the gates.
The place looks less like a school and more like a corporate headquarters built by people with superiority complexes and too much money than what they know to do with. Steel and glass stretch toward the sky in sharp, reflective angles, massive sponsor banners hanging from the buildings high overhead. His eyes travel around looking at each banner all bold and in each groups colors.
Haas F1 Team, Alpine, Racing Bulls, Audi, Aston Martin, Williams, Cadillac names that seemed big but for him meant mostly little leagues
no his focus was hovering over 4 teams he had watched since childhood,
Red Bull Racing, McLaren, Mercedes and of course Ferrari.
The only grop deserving of him he was sure of it.
Media crews crowd the front entrance despite the security barriers, cameras tracking every expensive car that pulls into the circular drive. Students climb out in pristine academy uniforms like they’ve already practiced being famous. He simply rolls his eyes at the sight.
Katsuki adjusts the strap of his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder and keeps walking.
Half these extras already look unbearable.
A black town car glides past him toward the main building, polished enough to reflect sunlight. Some rich kid steps out wearing sunglasses indoors somehow. Another arrives flanked by parents already talking sponsorships with academy staff.
Pathetic.
Twenty-two seats.
That’s all this class is.
Twenty-two future grid projections.
Three years at U.A. Academy. Three years on the professional circuit if you survived long enough to earn a contract. By twenty-five, the sport either kept you or spat you out before you got too old to matter.
Simple.
Katsuki likes simple.
A massive electronic board hangs above the entrance plaza, cycling through academy statistics and old race footage. Past graduates spray champagne across podiums while commentators scream over championship finishes.
FUTURE CHAMPIONS START HERE.
“Damn,” somebody behind him says loudly. “This place is insane.”
Katsuki glances sideways automatically.
Red hair. Broad shoulders. Easy grin. Looks like the kind of guy who high-fives strangers recreationally.
“Bro, look at the track.” Katsuki follows his line of sight despite himself.
The academy circuit wraps around the back half of campus, visible between buildings in flashes of silver barriers and dark asphalt. Even from here he can hear engines somewhere in the distance. Testing, probably.
His pulse jumps before he can stop it.
Yeah.
Okay.
Maybe this place is real.
“You in the driver program too?” Red Hair asks, Katsuki snorts “What gave it away?”
“The attitude mostly.”
“Hah?”
The guy just grins wider instead of backing off like a normal person “We’re probably classmates then. Kirishima Eijirou.” Katsuki eyes him for a second. Friendly. Loud. Built like somebody who likes endurance training. Not weak, at least. “…Bakugou Katsuki.”
“Nice to meet—” Katsuki walks away before he can finish the sentence.
The lobby somehow looks even more expensive than the outside. Dark marble floors. Massive digital telemetry displays covering entire walls. Historical academy photos line the hallways: champions, podium finishers, exhausted-looking teenagers standing beside racecars worth more money than Katsuki can comprehend.
Every single one of them looks tired. Good. At least the academy’s honest.
Class 1-A sits on the highest floor of the motorsport division.
Of fucking course it does.
By the time Katsuki reaches the classroom, students have already started gathering inside. Conversations buzz low and awkward under the surface tension filling the room.
Nobody knows each other. Nobody wants to look nervous. And everybody’s pretending not to stare while obviously staring. Katsuki immediately clocks the rich kids.
There’s one girl sitting near the windows wearing a watch that probably costs more than his middle school education. Another guy’s posture screams private coaching since childhood. Somebody in the back is muttering to himself while scribbling notes already.
Weird.
A pink-haired girl laughs too loudly at something nobody said that funny. Glasses Kid is standing ramrod straight beside his desk like the classroom personally insulted him somehow. Everybody here wants the same thing. The grid.
Katsuki drops into an empty seat near the middle of the room and props one boot against the desk leg in front of him.
A tired-looking man wrapped in a capture scarf sits behind the instructor desk.
Black clothes. Messy hair. Looks one inconvenience away from homicide. Immediately the most tolerable adult Katsuki’s seen all morning. The man glances slowly across the room conversation dies almost instantly.
"If your goal here is fame instead of racing,” he says flatly, “leave now.” Silence Follows.
“The grid doesn’t care about your dreams.”
Something in Katsuki’s chest settles pleasantly at that.
Yeah Finally, somebody speaking normally.
The instructor sighs like existing physically pains him. “I’m Aizawa. Homeroom instructor for the driver program.” No dramatic introduction. No academy speech. No inspirational bullshit. Perfect.
“Since apparently none of you know how to interact socially yet, introduce yourselves before I lose patience.” A few students laugh nervously.
Aizawa doesn’t.
The introductions start awkwardly.
Glasses Kid stands first “Iida Tenya. It is an honor to race alongside all of you. I hope we can maintain a respectful and mutually beneficial competitive environment.” Katsuki already has a headache.
Pink Hair goes next, cheerful enough to be medically concerning, then the rich girl by the windows. Yaoyorozu Momo, Calm voice Expensive posture.
The muttering guy nearly trips over his own words introducing himself as Midoriya Izuku. Kirishima somehow sounds friendly even talking about racing.
Interesting.
The obe thing Katsuki clocks is that nobody here sounds weak. That’s good. Katsuki’s halfway through deciding which people look like genuine competition when the classroom door slides open.
Silence falls immediately.
Not dramatic silence.
Recognition.
A girl steps into the room wearing the academy uniform like she was born in it. Split white and red Hair done up in a tight high ponytail and a bright white and red jacket folded neatly over one arm. Expression calm to the point of unreadable.
Everybody knows who she is.
Ferrari’s prodigy daughter.
Todoroki Shouto.
The only student in the class already famous before school even starts, heck before her life even started.
She pauses just inside the doorway while half the room suddenly remembers how to sit properly. Katsuki hates that immediately. Not her. The effect she holds. People are already treating her differently.
Aizawa barely glances up “You’re late.” “Traffic,” she says, Calm not apologetic. Not arrogant either just calm.
Like walking into a room full of future rivals means absolutely nothing to her. Bullshit. Nobody that good stays calm naturally. “Todoroki Shouto,” she says when Aizawa gestures vaguely for introductions. That’s it. No speech. No smile no trying too hard somehow that’s worse.
Katsuki watches her scan the room once before taking an empty seat three rows ahead of him near the windows overlooking the track.
She doesn’t look nervous. Katsuki immediately decides that’s annoying as hell. Aizawa stands slowly from his desk. “Good. Now listen carefully, because I’m only explaining this once.” The room stills. “You were accepted into U.A. because the academy believes you’re capable of reaching the professional grid.” A pause. “Only believes.” Nobody moves.
“Some of you won’t make it past junior divisions. Some of you won’t survive Formula placement consideration. Some of you are already relying too heavily on reputations you haven’t earned yet.” For the first time, his eyes flick briefly toward Todoroki. Her expression doesn’t change.
Interesting.
“Your evaluations begin tomorrow morning. Rankings are provisional and constantly changing.” Katsuki feels his pulse spike automatically. Good. Finally.
“Figure out quickly whether you belong here,” Aizawa says. “The industry won’t wait for you to catch up.” Nobody speaks after that. Class ends thirty minutes later in a blur of schedules, academy regulations, and warning speeches about media conduct. Students leave in uneven clusters almost immediately afterward, conversation slowly returning once Aizawa disappears into the hallway.
Kirishima tries waving goodbye at Katsuki on the way out. Katsuki ignores him professionally. By the time the classroom empties, only a few students remain.
Todoroki stands alone near the massive windows overlooking the academy circuit below. The late afternoon sun catches silver guardrails outside, track winding through the campus like something alive. She’s staring at it quietly, not dreamy, not emotional just Focused.
Katsuki doesn’t entirely mean to walk over his feet do it anyway. “You planning your victory speech already?” he asks. She glances sideways at him. Her eyes are mismatched he notices. Grey and turquoise.
Sharp enough to feel cold even from here. “No,” she says.
Up close, she somehow looks even calmer. Katsuki already wants to beat her more than everybody else combined. “You’re staring,” she says after a second. “You’re standing in front of a window, genius.” “That sounds inconvenient for you.” Katsuki scowls automatically. “You always talk like a robot?” Finally, something almost shifts in her expression. Not offense exactly rather just curiosity. “You always sound angry?” “Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Silence settles between them outside, an engine screams somewhere across the academy grounds. Todoroki turns back toward the track, Katsuki watches her for another second before looking out at it too. Twenty-two seats. Twenty-two futures.
And suddenly, violently, Katsuki knows exactly who he wants to beat first.