Rei Todoroki
The room they brought Rei Todoroki into was warmer than she expected. Not comforting—just warm. The sort of temperature chosen by committees who believed warmth made people more agreeable. She stepped inside without hesitation, her hands folded lightly in front of her, sleeves brushing against her wrists.
The walls were pale. The table was pale. The people waiting for her wore expressions so carefully arranged they might as well have been printed. A pitcher of water sat in the center, an attempt at hospitality that felt more like staging.
Rei took her seat with the unhurried grace of someone who had been summoned to enough meetings to know that hurrying only served the people running them. Her eyes went to the folder with her name on it—black ink on cream paper. She didn't open it. She breathed, slow and even, as if keeping the air from frosting over required concentration.
Across the table, the lead official cleared his throat.
Rei looked up. Not challenging. Not deferential. Just watching.
“I’m listening,” she said.
The officials exchanged the briefest glances, visibly relieved by her calm response. They didn't understand that her calm had never meant compliance.
A sheet of paper slid toward her.
A pen followed.
And Rei, hands still in her lap, waited for them to say the words they had practiced: the ones that would turn her past into leverage, her future into policy, her freedom into a conditional privilege.
The closest official folded his hands, settling into the expression people used at funerals.
“As you know,” he began, “the Quirk Marriage Initiative has undergone several refinements in recent years. Our goal is not merely population stability, but the long-term strengthening of hero society through strategic pairings that promote synergy, balance, and—”
He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“—healing.”
Rei didn't move. She'd learned that stillness made people keep talking.
Another official took over, sliding a neatly bound packet toward her. Inside, she could see charts, legal language, projected timelines. They had prepared this long before she walked in.
Rei's fingers touched the folder's edge.
“And,” the woman added, “a conception window will be discussed at a later stage, pending mutual readiness.”
A polite way to say: non-negotiable, but not today.
The lead official leaned in, lowering his voice as though sharing a kindness.
There it was. The soft cruelty.
“If you choose to participate, the Commission is prepared to process an annulment of your previous marriage. Quietly. Respectfully.”
A pause.
“Permanently.”
Rei’s lashes lowered—not in surprise, but in recognition.
“And,” he continued, “your cooperation would demonstrate to the public your ongoing commitment to stabilizing hero society—particularly in light of recent… family events.”
Dabi’s name was not spoken. It didn’t need to be.
“And if I decline?” Rei asked gently.
All three officials stiffened, just slightly.
The woman answered first. “You are not required to accept. Of course not. No civilian is compelled.”
Then the man added what that really meant:
He paused, then softened his voice.
A smile.
Sympathetic.
Practiced.
Rei felt the cold settle in her chest. Not fear—clarity.
“I understand,” she murmured.
They smiled back, relieved, mistaking understanding for agreement.
The door opened behind her, but Rei didn't turn.
“Ah,” the lead official said, brightening. “Perfect timing.”
Footsteps entered the room as someone approached the table. The officials straightened, their performances sharpening.
“Mrs. Todoroki,” the woman announced warmly, “we’d like you to meet the candidate selected for your pairing.”
Rei lifted her gaze.
Her new spouse.
Their expression—not the Commission’s—would be the first real truth she received all morning.
And Rei, composed as falling snow, prepared herself for whatever kind of winter—or thaw—this person might bring.
The walls were pale. The table was pale. The people waiting for her wore expressions so carefully arranged they might as well have been printed. A pitcher of water sat in the center, an attempt at hospitality that felt more like staging.
Rei took her seat with the unhurried grace of someone who had been summoned to enough meetings to know that hurrying only served the people running them. Her eyes went to the folder with her name on it—black ink on cream paper. She didn't open it. She breathed, slow and even, as if keeping the air from frosting over required concentration.
Across the table, the lead official cleared his throat.
Mrs. Todoroki,he began, his voice carrying the particular gentleness that preceded bad news,
thank you for coming in. We know this isn't easy.
Rei looked up. Not challenging. Not deferential. Just watching.
“I’m listening,” she said.
The officials exchanged the briefest glances, visibly relieved by her calm response. They didn't understand that her calm had never meant compliance.
A sheet of paper slid toward her.
A pen followed.
And Rei, hands still in her lap, waited for them to say the words they had practiced: the ones that would turn her past into leverage, her future into policy, her freedom into a conditional privilege.
The closest official folded his hands, settling into the expression people used at funerals.
“As you know,” he began, “the Quirk Marriage Initiative has undergone several refinements in recent years. Our goal is not merely population stability, but the long-term strengthening of hero society through strategic pairings that promote synergy, balance, and—”
He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“—healing.”
Rei didn't move. She'd learned that stillness made people keep talking.
Another official took over, sliding a neatly bound packet toward her. Inside, she could see charts, legal language, projected timelines. They had prepared this long before she walked in.
Participants are expected to cohabitate with their assigned partner within seventy-two hours,the woman continued.
Regular evaluations follow—emotional compatibility, quirk compatibility, domestic adjustment metrics.She softened her voice.
Nothing invasive unless necessary.
Rei's fingers touched the folder's edge.
“And,” the woman added, “a conception window will be discussed at a later stage, pending mutual readiness.”
A polite way to say: non-negotiable, but not today.
The lead official leaned in, lowering his voice as though sharing a kindness.
Mrs. Todoroki. We know you've had difficulties in the past. We want to help you move forward.
There it was. The soft cruelty.
“If you choose to participate, the Commission is prepared to process an annulment of your previous marriage. Quietly. Respectfully.”
A pause.
“Permanently.”
Rei’s lashes lowered—not in surprise, but in recognition.
“And,” he continued, “your cooperation would demonstrate to the public your ongoing commitment to stabilizing hero society—particularly in light of recent… family events.”
Dabi’s name was not spoken. It didn’t need to be.
“And if I decline?” Rei asked gently.
All three officials stiffened, just slightly.
The woman answered first. “You are not required to accept. Of course not. No civilian is compelled.”
Then the man added what that really meant:
However, declining the program would also mean declining the annulment.
He paused, then softened his voice.
Given your son's recent actions, public sentiment is delicate. While you bear no legal responsibility, people look to the families of high-profile offenders for reassurance. Your participation would demonstrate willingness to help restore confidence. Declining may complicate future requests for legal accommodations.
A smile.
Sympathetic.
Practiced.
Rei felt the cold settle in her chest. Not fear—clarity.
“I understand,” she murmured.
They smiled back, relieved, mistaking understanding for agreement.
The door opened behind her, but Rei didn't turn.
“Ah,” the lead official said, brightening. “Perfect timing.”
Footsteps entered the room as someone approached the table. The officials straightened, their performances sharpening.
“Mrs. Todoroki,” the woman announced warmly, “we’d like you to meet the candidate selected for your pairing.”
Rei lifted her gaze.
Her new spouse.
Their expression—not the Commission’s—would be the first real truth she received all morning.
And Rei, composed as falling snow, prepared herself for whatever kind of winter—or thaw—this person might bring.
2455
