Chapter 1: Crafting the Instrument of Her Own Downfall
The drill’s high-pitched whine bit into the thick silence of the woodshop, a sound that set Kyoka Jiro’s teeth on edge. Sawdust hung heavy in the stale air, catching the weak light from the single bulb overhead, making everything feel gritty and unreal. Her palms were slick, the handle of the chisel slippery in her grip. Every scrape of the blade against the pale wood echoed like a grim countdown.
Across the workbench, Midnight leaned against a rack of clamps, arms folded. Her black leather outfit looked absurdly out of place amidst the rough pine boards and scattered tools. Kyoka kept her head down, focusing fiercely on the curve she was carving. She tried to ignore the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Midnight’s boot heel on the concrete floor.
"Focus, ladies," Midnight purred, her voice cutting through the whir of machines and the nervous shuffling of the other girls scattered at various benches. "Quality craftsmanship isn't just aesthetic. It's functional. Precision affects… feedback." A ripple of uneasy tension went through the room. Kyoka risked a glance. Midnight was inspecting another girl's paddle blank, running a gloved finger along the edge. "Too sharp here, Akari," she murmured, almost kindly. "You want a sting, not a slice. Smooth it out." Akari flinched, grabbing a sanding block with trembling fingers.
Kyoka swallowed hard, forcing her attention back to her own piece of maple. Make it smooth. Don’t screw this up. Midnight had distributed the pattern just after they filed in – an identical, deceptively simple silhouette for everyone: a broad oval head narrowing into a sturdy handle. Identical paddles for identical embarrassments. The uniformity somehow made it worse. It wasn't just punishment; it was institutional. Assembly line humiliation.
Her Earphone Jack plugs felt heavy, a comforting pressure against her ears, muffling the worst of the ambient noise but doing nothing to block Midnight's voice or the frantic hammering of her own heart. She traced the pattern lines she’d carefully penciled onto the wood. Too thick here? Too thin there? Every imperfection felt like a personal failure, magnified a hundred times knowing it would be the instrument of her own… correction.
The chisel slipped.
A tiny, ragged chip flew off the edge of the paddle head.
Kyoka froze. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her chest. She jammed her thumb against the flaw, trying to push the splintered wood fibers back into place like it was a wound.Stupid. Pointless. Midnight’s shadow fell across her workbench.
"Trouble, Jiro?" Midnight asked, her tone light but laced with something sharper.
Kyoka kept her head down. "No, sensei. Just… taking my time." Her voice sounded thin, reedy. So unlike her usual low rasp.
Midnight’s gloved fingertip brushed Kyoka’s knuckles, startling her into looking up. Those dark eyes held hers, assessing. "Nervous fingers make for messy work. And messy work," Midnight leaned in slightly, lowering her voice, "makes for a messy punishment. You want clean lines. Controlled force. Don’t you?"
Kyoka felt heat flood her face, a mixture of shame and anger. She hated this feeling – the exposure, the powerlessness wrapped in Midnight’s velvet threat. She pulled her hand back, knuckles white around the chisel handle. "I've got it," she muttered, forcing a steadiness into her voice she didn’t feel.
"See that you do." Midnight straightened, the leather creaking softly. She moved down the line, stopping to murmur quiet critiques or offer unnervingly practical advice about wood grain direction and impact distribution.
Kyoka attacked the flawed spot with the sanding block, gritting her teeth. The coarse paper rasped against the maple, erasing the nick, smoothing the wood until it was seamless. Her movements grew more certain, fueled by a stubborn refusal to give Midnight another reason to hover. It’s just wood. It’s just a shape. But she knew it wasn't. This rough rectangle in her hands was becoming a conduit for future pain, shaped by her own reluctant skill. The irony tasted bitter. She was good with her hands, coordinated. Just usually with guitar strings, not gouges and sandpaper.
Minutes crawled by, filled only by the sandpaper's whisper, the distant whir of a bandsaw, and the oppressive weight of anticipation. Kyoka smoothed the handle, rounding the edges carefully, obsessively. Smooth meant sting, Midnight said. Not a slice. The thought sent another prickle of dread down her spine. How much sting? How much can I take without…? She pushed the thought away violently. Focus. Sand.
Finally, she set the sanding block down. Her paddle lay before her on the bench. It felt alien. Heavy. Too real. The maple’s pale surface was flawless now, polished to a soft sheen by her hands. It was a good paddle. Strong. Efficient. Damningly perfect.
"Time’s up, girls," Midnight announced, her voice cutting the tension like a knife. "Final inspection."
Kyoka watched as Midnight moved from bench to bench, her gloved fingers expertly probing each paddle, testing the balance, the edge, the smoothness of the face. She offered curt nods or brief, clipped instructions for last-minute touch-ups. The air vibrated with nervous energy.
Midnight reached Kyoka’s bench. She picked up the paddle, her touch impersonal, professional. She ran her thumb over the surface Kyoka had sanded so meticulously. Tested the flex of the handle. Kyoka held her breath, her eyes fixed on the tool that felt like a betrayal of her own hands.
"Acceptable," Midnight stated flatly. No praise, no critique. Just a verdict. She placed the paddle back on the bench. "Now, the final step. Personalization." A cruel smirk touched her lips. She gestured towards a small, humming machine on a sturdy table at the far end of the workshop. "Engraver. Line up. You know what to put."
Kyoka’s stomach clenched. Personalization. Like it’s a damn gift.
She shuffled into the short line behind two other girls. Ahead, a girl named Sumire positioned her paddle under the engraver’s stylus. The machine emitted a high-frequency buzz, sharp and invasive. It moved swiftly, etching deep, clean lines into the wood. When Sumire lifted her paddle, Kyoka could see it clearly, even from a few steps back: SUMIRE KOBAYASHI in bold, block capitals across the broad face of the paddle.
Sumire’s cheeks flushed crimson. She clutched the paddle to her chest like a shield, hurrying away without looking back.
Kyoka’s turn.
The engraver’s work surface was smooth metal, cool under her fingertips as she placed her paddle down. The machine’s stylus hovered, waiting. Midnight stood beside the machine, observing, arms crossed. Kyoka could feel the weight of that gaze.
"Your name, Jiro," Midnight prompted, her voice silky. "Make it legible. This is your signature piece, after all."
Kyoka’s finger trembled slightly as she keyed the letters into the small, glowing display beside the machine: K Y O K A J I R O. Each keypress felt like a hammer blow. She hesitated over the final 'O', then punched it decisively.
The engraver buzzed to life again, the sound drilling straight into Kyoka’s already frayed nerves. She watched, transfixed by horror and a strange detachment, as the needle danced across the pale wood. Tiny curls of maple flew up like miniature shavings as the stylus carved her identity into the instrument of her humiliation. K-Y-O-K-A. Space. J-I-R-O. Each letter forming with unnerving precision.
The machine stopped. The buzz died. Silence rushed back in, thick and suffocating.
Kyoka stared down. There it was. Her name. Inescapable. Permanent. KYOKA JIRO etched deep into the smooth, unforgiving surface of the maple paddle she had crafted with her own trembling hands. It was no longer just a paddle. It was hers. Branded. Awaiting use.
The weight of the wood felt immense, solid, final. She picked it up. The engraving felt rough under her thumb, a stark contrast to the polished wood around it. A constant, tactile reminder. Her rebellion felt distant now, swallowed by the cold reality of the thing in her grasp. The sawdust seemed to settle heavier on her shoulders. The path ahead narrowed to a single, unavoidable point: the moment this wood would meet its intended target. The countdown wasn't an echo anymore. It was the deafening pulse of her own blood in her ears, syncing with the imagined, inevitable crack of wood against skin. Her skin. She tightened her grip, the engraved letters biting into her palm.
Kyoka’s knuckles went bone-white around the paddle’s handle. The rough bite of her own name etched into the wood was a brand. Across the crowded workshop, Ochaco Uraraka caught her eye. The gravity girl offered a wobbly smile, her own paddle clutched like a shield against her chest. Her face was pale, her usual bright energy dimmed to a flicker of nervous dread. She mouthed, ‘You okay?’ Kyoka just gave a tight, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Okay was galaxies away.
Midnight clapped her gloved hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the low murmur of terrified whispers and the lingering scent of pine resin. "Alright, recruits! Showtime! Line 'em up against the long bench. Alphabetical order, ladies." Her voice was bright, almost chipper, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere.
The sharp clap of Midnight's gloved hands sliced through the thick air. "Alright, recruits! Showtime! Line 'em up against the long bench." Her voice was unnervingly bright against the backdrop of terrified silence and the scent of sawdust and dread. "Alphabetical order, ladies. Let's see what you've crafted."
A collective flinch went through the room. Alphabetical order. That meant facing Midnight one by one. Kyoka’s stomach clenched like a fist. She found herself shuffling into place beside Ochaco Uraraka near the end of the long, scarred workbench. Ochaco’s knuckles were as white as Kyoka’s felt, wrapped around her own paddle, the name "OCHACO URARAKA" starkly visible across its face. Ochaco offered a weak, wobbly smile. "Deep breaths, yeah?" she whispered, her Mie accent thickening with anxiety. "Just… deep breaths."
"Yeah," Kyoka rasped, the single word scraping her dry throat. Deep breaths wouldn't stop the fire that paddle was destined to ignite. She stared at her own name – KYOKA JIRO – carved into the maple she’d shaped. The engraving felt like a brand.
"Ashido Mina!" Midnight called out, her tone crisp and businesslike. "Front and center."
Mina bounced forward, trying hard to maintain her usual bubbly energy, but the strain showed in the slight tremor of her hands as she presented her paddle. It was well-made, the edges smooth, the handle polished. Midnight took it, her blue eyes scanning its surface with unnerving thoroughness. She tested its weight, flexed the handle slightly, ran a thumb over the engraving – MINA ASHIDO.
"Well done, Ashido," Midnight stated, offering no warmth, just assessment. "Adequate density. It will deliver a consistent sting." She turned and walked towards a tall, grey metal filing cabinet Kyoka hadn't noticed before, tucked near the drill press. Midnight pulled open a drawer labeled 'A-D'. With deliberate care, she placed Mina's paddle inside. The soft thunk as it settled amongst the shadows of the drawer echoed loudly. "Dismissed." Mina scurried back to the line, her shoulders slumping with momentary relief, quickly replaced by the heavy knowledge of what 'dismissed' truly meant: a temporary reprieve.
"Hagakure Toru!"
Toru, or rather, her floating clothes and gloves holding her paddle, moved forward with surprising cheer. "Here you go, Midnight-sensei!" Her voice sounded bright, almost eager. "Made it extra smooth! Figured it might, y'know, not hurt as much? Since you can't really see where to aim perfectly anyway?" Her hopeful tone hung in the air.
Midnight took the invisible paddle, her expression unreadable as her gloved hands felt its dimensions and the raised letters 'TORU HAGAKURE'. She gave a short, humorless chuckle. "Intriguing theory, Hagakure. Pity it holds no water. Impact is impact. Visibility optional." She slid the unseen paddle into the same drawer as Mina’s. "Dismissed." Toru's gloves seemed to deflate slightly before she drifted back.
"Uraraka Ochaco!"
Ochaco jumped. "Y-yes, sensei!" She stepped forward, clutching her paddle like a lifeline. Kyoka saw the tremor in her friend's chin. Midnight took the paddle, her gaze lingering on Ochaco's pale face for a beat longer than necessary. She inspected it with the same clinical detachment, testing its balance. It was simple, functional, the wood grain clearly visible beneath the clear varnish Ochaco had meticulously applied. "Sufficient, Uraraka. Clean lines." Midnight placed it in the drawer. Ochaco practically wilted with relief at the verdict but flinched again at the sound of the drawer closing. "Dismissed." Ochaco hurried back, bumping gently against Kyoka. "She didn't say anything bad," she whispered, her eyes wide. "That's good, right?"
Kyoka just nodded, unable to speak. Good was relative. It was still going to hurt.
"Yaoyorozu Momo!"
Momo walked forward with characteristic poise, her spine straight, chin slightly lifted. She presented her paddle with a calm dignity that Kyoka envied. It was flawless – the wood was a beautiful, deep walnut, expertly finished to a mirror shine, the engraving precise and elegant. Midnight’s eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly as she took it. She examined it minutely, tapping the face lightly against her palm. "Impressive craftsmanship, Yaoyorozu. Excellent choice of wood. Dense. Resilient." A flicker of something – respect? Anticipation? – crossed Midnight's face. "This will provide a remarkably… memorable experience." She placed it carefully into the drawer. "Dismissed." Momo returned to the line, her expression unreadably stoic, though Kyoka saw the faint tightening around her eyes.
Midnight scanned the few remaining girls. The air grew heavier, the rhythmic hum of the drill press sounding like a funeral dirge. Kyoka felt Ochaco’s shoulder press harder against hers. Her turn was coming.
"Jiro Kyoka!"
Kyoka’s breath caught. She forced her legs to move, stepping away from the relative safety of the line. The walk to Midnight felt endless, the rough concrete floor cold under her boots, the eyes of her classmates burning into her back. She held out her paddle, willing her hand not to shake. It felt heavier than it had moments before, the engraved letters seeming to pulse against her palm.
Midnight plucked it from her grasp. Her gaze swept over Kyoka’s creation, her gloved fingers tracing the smooth curve of the head, the polished handle, the deep, inescapable carving: KYOKA JIRO. They lingered over the spot where Kyoka had chipped and then obsessively sanded. Midnight made a small, thoughtful sound in her throat. "Hmm. You corrected the flaw." Her eyes met Kyoka's, sharp and assessing. "Good. Sloppy work doesn't deserve a clean result." She flexed the paddle slightly. "Maple. Solid. Takes a good edge." She tapped the flat face against her other palm with a sharp snap that made Kyoka flinch internally. "Yes. This will bite effectively. Well done… and well anticipated." A faint, knowing smirk touched Midnight's lips. "Dismissed."
Kyoka stumbled back a step, the dismissal hitting her like a physical blow. Well anticipated. Midnight knew. She knew exactly how much thought, how much dread, how much reluctant perfectionism Kyoka had poured into this damned piece of wood. She watched, frozen, as Midnight turned to the grey cabinet. The drawer labeled 'I-M' slid open with a metallic groan. Midnight held Kyoka's paddle for one unbearable second longer, letting the engraved name catch the dim light. Then, with a finality that echoed through Kyoka's bones, she placed it inside the dark drawer. The sound of it settling amongst the others was soft, yet deafening. Thud.
Midnight closed the drawer with a resonant clang and twisted the small, brass lock with a decisive click. The sound was like a tomb slamming shut. Kyoka stared at the locked cabinet, the cold metal seeming to absorb the faint light. Her paddle was in there. Hers. The instrument meticulously crafted by her own hands, bearing her own name, locked away until tomorrow when she'd be summoned back. She'd have to come here, face Midnight again, and collect it. Collect the tool specifically designed and personalized to deliver her punishment, to light her ass on fire. The anticipation wasn't just waiting; it was knowing exactly where the destruction was stored, knowing she'd have to willingly retrieve it and present herself for its use. The lesson wasn't just the spanking; it was every agonizing step leading up to it. Kyoka felt a cold sweat prickle her spine as Midnight turned, her smirk widening, the keys dangling from her finger like a promise of pain.