On May 20, the memorial was set up on the main lawn. Chairs in neat rows. A podium nobody wanted to approach. A framed photo of Iida Tenya placed front and center, polished so hard it caught the light and threw it back at the crowd.
Khan stood with the staff, hands folded, posture clean. He'd shaved. Put on a proper tie. He looked exactly how a counselor was supposed to look on a day like this.
Students settled. Class 1-A took their seats together, shoulders tight, eyes forward. There was an empty space among them that nobody filled.
Midoriya sat with General Studies off to the side. He kept his hands on his knees. He stared straight ahead. He hadn't slept much. It showed in the way his eyes blinked slower than usual.
Nezu opened the memorial with a short speech. He spoke about loss. About responsibility. About how the school failed a student and would carry that weight.
Aizawa followed. He didn't look at the crowd much. He talked about Iida as a classmate, as a student. He talked about how anger made you stupid and grief didn't care who it hit.
When he stepped back, Midnight took the podium. She kept it brief. She didn't flirt with the mic. She talked about mistakes and how pretending they didn't happen was worse than making them.
Students shifted. Some cried. Some stared at the grass. A few clenched their fists and didn't move.
When it ended, nobody rushed out. They stood. Bowed their heads. A few students stepped forward to place flowers. Nobody from 1-A moved at first.
Then Uraraka stood. She walked up with Tsuyu at her side. They placed a single white flower beneath the frame. Uraraka's hands shook.
Yaoyorozu followed. She placed hers carefully. Straightened the ribbon without thinking. Stepped back and stood there longer than needed.
Bakugo didn't go up. He stared at the photo until someone nudged him. He snapped at them and folded his arms tighter.
After the memorial, the day didn't return to normal. Teachers kept voices low. Students drifted instead of walking. Classes ran but nobody pushed.
Khan kept his door open. A few students stopped by. Some cried. Some talked. Some sat in silence and left without a word. He didn't press.
Midoriya didn't come.
On May 21, the bell rang.
Final exams were announced on the boards early. Written tests. Practical evaluations. Stress layered on top of grief because the school machine didn't stop for funerals.
Khan was pouring coffee when Nezu walked in without knocking.
"Khan," Nezu said. "Do you have a moment."
Khan capped the thermos. "For you. Always."
Nezu gestured toward the chair. Khan sat. Nezu didn't.
"We're making a change," Nezu said. "Effective immediately."
Khan waited.
"Midoriya Izuku will be shifted to Class 1-A," Nezu continued. "Before the practical portion of the exams."
Khan raised an eyebrow. "That's fast."
"Yes," Nezu said. "And necessary."
Khan considered it. "You're dropping him into a class still bleeding."
"Yes."
"You're replacing a dead kid with a living one."
Nezu's eyes stayed sharp. "We're not replacing anyone."
"That's how it'll feel."
Nezu sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"That's why I'm here," he said. "I know Class 1-A will feel that way. I want you to counsel them into accepting Midoriya."
"It's too soon," Khan frowned. "I doubt counseling can fix it."
Nezu nodded. "I'm aware. Just do your best."
That was Nezu. Set the board, trust the pieces to fall where they may. He turned and left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Khan's shoulders eased.
The grief slid off his face.
"As planned," he muttered, a grin cutting across his mouth.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a beat. Midoriya was the perfect patch.
Alive. Earnest. Guilt-ridden. Easy to frame as opportunity instead of replacement.
And just as easy to poison.
Khan stood and rolled his shoulders. He'd need to be careful now. Too much pressure and the room would snap the wrong way. Too much sympathy and the class would bond around Midoriya instead of icing him out. The trick was tone. Words that sounded like acceptance while steering the gut reaction elsewhere.
He grabbed his folder and headed out.
Class 1-A waited in their room, scattered in seats that hadn't quite settled back into routine. The empty desk still sat there.
Aizawa stood at the front, arms crossed, eyes tired.
"Khan," he said. "Thank you for coming."
Khan nodded and stepped forward. He didn't take the podium. He leaned against the teacher's desk instead.
Khan leaned against the teacher's desk instead of standing tall at the front. It kept him close enough to feel human and far enough to keep control. Aizawa stayed where he was, arms crossed, eyes on the class.
"Hey," he said. "I know this isn't easy. I won't pretend it is."
A few students shifted. Nobody spoke.
"I'm sorry for our loss," Khan went on. "I didn't know Iida as long as you did. I didn't train with him. I didn't run drills with him. I didn't share a classroom with him every day."
He paused and looked at the empty desk.
"But I did get one session with him. Just one. And in that hour, I met a kid who carried himself with pride and rules and a sense of right that never bent, even when it cost him."
He paused and swallowed.
"Honor. Duty. Responsibility. He didn't wear those words. He lived in them."
Todoroki's eyes flicked up at that.
"My only regret," Khan said, slower now, "is that I didn't get the chance to reach him deeper. To touch his heart in a way that might have slowed him down. At the time, his brother wasn't injured yet. The storm hadn't hit. And I tell myself there was nothing I could have done."
He pressed his lips together. His eyes shone. He didn't wipe them.
"And my heart still bleeds anyway."
The room went quiet.
"I know some of you feel the same," Khan said. "That pull in your chest that says, maybe if I had been there. Maybe if I had said something. Maybe if I'd noticed sooner."
His gaze moved.
"Maybe you were interning nearby," he said, eyes passing over a few students who stiffened.
Then he looked straight at Todoroki.
"Maybe you saw the change in him when he learned about his brother."
Todoroki didn't look away. His hand curled on his knee.
Khan turned slightly.
"Maybe you think you missed a moment where things could have gone another way."
Uraraka's fingers twisted together in her lap.
"But holding onto those what ifs," Khan continued, "won't do justice to you. And it won't do justice to Iida."
He straightened a little, pushing off the desk just enough to shift the energy.
"He made a choice. A hard one. One rooted in who he was. You don't honor that by tearing yourselves apart over it."
Bakugo scoffed under his breath.
Khan didn't call him out. He nodded in Bakugo's direction.
"Anger makes sense," Khan said. "So does guilt. So does wanting to punch a hole through something until the noise stops."
Bakugo's jaw tightened.
"But none of that gives you a redo," Khan said. "It just gives you scars."
**-**
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