The apartment was quiet when Y/n stepped through the door. Too quiet.
The usual sounds—the TV murmuring in the background, the clatter of dishes—were absent. Just silence, thick and heavy.
Y/n kicked off their shoes by the genkan, the thud of sneakers hitting the tile too loud in the stillness.
Shouta Aizawa
We need to talk.
His voice came from the kitchen table. Flat. Controlled.
Y/n turned. Aizawa sat there, arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on them. His capture weapon hung loose around his neck, but there was nothing relaxed about him.
His jaw was set. His hair, usually a disheveled mess, looked even more unkempt, like he'd been running his fingers through it.
