Even with the day off, a handful of clubs still insisted on meeting. Most students still carried the soreness of the Sports Festival in their shoulders, their steps a fraction slower than usual. Specifically, it was the occult and gastronomy clubs that called meetings.

  At five in the afternoon, the front gates caught an odd assortment of first-years on their way in.

  Uraraka, in a soft pastel sundress, was midway through re-enacting one of yesterday’s matches for Tetsutetsu, her fists swinging in light, bouncy arcs through the air. He nodded along, expression caught between polite interest and confusion over her footwork.

  Todoroki crossed the courtyard toward them, dressed plainly in a white tee and dark jeans. Behind him drifted Reiko, not in step with anyone, moving at her own measured pace. The robe she wore was stark white and hung loose at the wrists, as though she’d walked out of a ceremony and never changed.

  Mineta and Tokoyami slipped into the group last, the small boy's shoulders hunched and his eyes following Reiko’s robe hem with far too much attention. He leaned toward Tokoyami with a muttered comment that earned no acknowledgment. Before he could try again, a shadow spilled wide across the ground at their feet. Kuroiro rose from it like a figure stepping out of a curtain, the darkness pulling away from his form.

  Mineta’s knees gave out and he toppled backward, pale and gasping. Kuroiro hunched his shoulders in mock modesty, grinning to himself.

  The group thinned as they reached the building, splitting into two quiet smaller groups heading in opposite directions.

  The occult club’s room sat behind a door painted black and scratched near the handle. Inside, the overhead light was dim enough to leave the corners in shadow. A black marble table dominated the center of the room, the surface cool and polished, with a dust-fogged crystal ball at its heart. Shelves along the walls sagged under the weight of books about UFO sightings, paranormal theories, and dubious grainy photographs.

  At the head of the table sat Club President Senzaki Haruto, a second-year with a short blue horn curving forward from his hairline. He wore the club’s black jacket even in the heat, fingers steepled as he surveyed the room like a priest waiting for a confession. Beside him, Vice President Miyasaki Kana lazily wound colored yarn around her fingers, using her quirk and turning it into a doll so small it could sit in a teacup.

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  The music in the background was low, full of slow, scraping notes from some stringed instrument no one could name.

  Only Mineta was spooked. He’d regretted ever joining the club, signing up under the impression that "occult" meant something entirely different. The thought of quitting had crossed his mind before, but Reiko, standing near the wall, posture tilted just enough to unsettle, made him consider it again.

  Tokoyami and Kuroiro claimed seats opposite one another. They did not speak, but the set of their shoulders and the narrowing of their eyes announced the start of an unspoken rivalry. Who could drift closest to the eternal darkness.

  The meeting itself was uneventful, Haruto reading off requirements from the student council in a tone that implied they were ancient curses rather than paperwork. No one argued.

  Across the hall, the gastronomy club was a world apart.

  Its door opened into warm light and the constant low hum of ovens at work. The air was rich with the scent of sugar and butter, and the far corner was claimed by a nap area piled with mismatched cushions and a lopsided quilt, Uraraka's favorite spot in the club room.

  The club president, Nishihara Takumi, a tall, self-assured second-year from general studies had called the meeting under false pretenses. There was no business to discuss, he simply wanted an audience for the dessert he’d been perfecting for his upcoming work study with Lunch Rush. A pale, airy sponge cake sat cooling at the center counter, its surface dusted with fine sugar.

  The general studies first-year who had been roped into the club by friends muttered something about wasted time. His fork moved faster than his criticism.

  Uraraka all but glowed, visibly softening with each bite, her appreciation for Takumi’s work as unguarded as ever. Tetsutetsu ate with the same casual determination he brought to most things, still baffled by the appeal of cooking as a hobby, but unwilling to pass up free food. Todoroki sat at the far end of the table, posture straight, pace slow. His expression didn’t change, but his plate was emptied all the same.

  Halfway through the tasting, the door flew open to admit Vice President Fujiwara Akemi. She tripped the last step inside, and the carton of eggs in her arms tumbled to the floor. She collapsed into a deep bow, right there on the eggs... her apologies spilling from her in a breathless stream as her glasses slid off and clattered onto the yolky floor.

  Cleanup was quick, and the dessert was gone even quicker. Takumi accepted the praise with the faint, practiced smile of someone already imagining his next creation. When he dismissed the meeting, it was with a little flick of his wrist like a stage performer ending a bow. Apologies from Akemi still followed the group into the hall.

  Not long after, the occult club dispersed. Their members scattered into the building’s shadows and empty corners. Only Reiko crossed over to the gastronomy crowd, drifting toward the snack table and orbiting Todoroki in slow, deliberate arcs. She left with an oddly deep bow, pockets slightly fuller than when she arrived.

  The walk to the gardening club was unhurried.

  The garden lay in evening light, the air smelling faintly of damp soil and green leaves. Ibara worked with her vines, a watering can in each, moving along the rows with the quiet ease of someone tending a chapel. Reiko sat on the edge of a flowerbed, her sweets resting beside her, head tilted in mild observation.

  Eventually, she started talking, about how Todoroki smelled today, like pastries and sugar. Ibara’s only response was a dry scoff, a reminder that relationships were unbecoming of U.A. students. Reiko’s mouth curved in a crooked smile. Treats were enough for her, she'd even unwrapped one on the walk to the garden.

  When Ibara finished, she rinsed the dirt from her hands. The two left together, the low orange of

  the setting sun painting their path toward home.