The first thing he noticed was the ceiling—plain, off-white, a single crack zigzagging like a lightning scar through plaster. His senses returned one by one: the scratch of polyester sheets against his skin, the dull ache in his neck, the faint scent of body spray and shampoo that smelled way too fruity.
He opened his eyes wider. The world felt… smaller.
Why did the bed feel huge?
He sat up—and froze.
His legs. They were short. His arms… pudgy. His hands, stubby fingers and all, trembled slightly as he raised them to his face.
"What the hell...?" he whispered, voice higher than it should've been.
A mirror sat across the room, hung crooked above a battered dresser. He stumbled toward it, each step like walking through jelly.
The face that stared back stopped him cold.
Round cheeks. Big eyes. A body far too short for a teenager. And—
Grapes?
Purple, glossy, spherical… things stuck to his scalp like overgrown bubble wrap. They bounced slightly as he touched them.
He knew this face. Everyone did. From the memes, the fan forums, the hate posts and the jokes.
Minoru Mineta.
"No. No, no, no, no, NO."
This had to be a nightmare.
He rushed to the window, flung it open. The neighborhood outside wasn't one he recognized—clean roads, compact houses, everything just slightly off from reality.
He ran to the calendar on the desk.Year: Two years before the start of U.A. High School.
Everything felt wrong, and yet too vivid to be a dream.
He pinched his cheek. Slapped his own face. Even dug a thumbnail into the skin of his arm until it turned red.
Still here.
Still Mineta.
He sat down slowly on the bed, feeling the weight of the truth settle on his chest like a boulder.
"I… died, didn't I?" he whispered.
His memories before waking up were hazy. He remembered crossing the road, looking down at his phone. Something fast. A loud horn. Pain.
Then the void. Then… this.
"Why him?" he muttered. "Why not Bakugo or Shoto or someone cool?"
He curled in on himself, pressing his palms to his face. It was suffocating. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.
Mineta. The joke of the fandom. The pervy side character. The kid who had potential but became a symbol of comic relief and wasted opportunities.
And now he was Mineta.
He wanted to scream, cry, punch a wall—but all he did was sit there, quietly stewing in a cocktail of disbelief and grief.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, he stood up again and walked to the mirror. The same face stared back—innocent, dopey, annoying.
But this time, he looked deeper.
Behind the goofy purple hairstyle was a body.
A canvas.
Untrained. Undisciplined. But changeable.
He reached up and gently pulled one of the grape-like balls from his head. It came off with a faint pop and stuck to the wall when he threw it in frustration.
"Gross."
But useful?
His mind ticked. In the show, Mineta's Quirk—Pop-Off—was all about these sticky balls. He could pull them from his scalp, stick them to surfaces or enemies. They didn't stick to him, and they regrew over time.
Lame. But not worthless.
The problem wasn't the Quirk—it was how it was used.
And maybe… maybe that could be fixed.
He sat down again, this time with less panic and more clarity. His heart had stopped racing. His breathing was steady. The weight of the situation still pressed down on him, but now there was something else building inside him.
Resolve.
He looked around the room again—his room, now. Posters of female pop idols on the wall. A dumbbell set in the corner that looked barely touched. A desk cluttered with half-finished homework and empty snack wrappers.
Not ideal. But it was a starting point.
"I'm not going to be him. Not the way people remember."
He stood up and faced the mirror, eyes narrowing.
"I don't care what body I've been given. I'll train it, change it, make it better. I'll grow stronger, taller, smarter. I'll turn this joke into a damn headline."
A smile pulled at the corner of his lips, not of amusement, but defiance.
"I don't know why I got sent here. But I won't waste this life."
This world had heroes. Villains. Power. Adventure. Everything he'd dreamed of as a kid. And now he had the chance to live it—not as a spectator, but as a player.
Two years until U.A.
That was time. Time to build, to train, to rewrite a story that was never meant to be his.
And he would start now.