He walked with his usual slouch, hands buried deep in the pockets of his black hero costume, the capture weapon loose around his neck. But his pace was deliberately slow, his head tilted down every few steps to check the small figure clutching two of his fingers. His expression was its typical mask of weary indifference, but the line of his shoulders was less tense than usual, a subtle softening in the set of his jaw.

Inside, the hum of pre-class chatter died instantly. Twenty pairs of eyes snapped to the door. The room was bright, morning light flooding in from the wall of windows, illuminating floating motes of chalk dust. Desks were neatly arranged, backpacks slung over chairs. The familiar faces of Class 2-A were frozen in various states of mid-action: Midoriya half-out of his seat, Uraraka with a hand paused mid-gesture, Bakugou with his feet up on his desk, scowling at the interruption.

All their attention zeroed in on their homeroom teacher. Then, inevitably, it dropped to the small child standing just behind his leg, peering out into the room with wide eyes.