Your socks made no sound on the polished floor as you slipped into the corridor. The school at night was a different creature—stripped of daytime chatter and clanging heroics, it was all humming ventilation and long, jagged stripes of moonlight across the linoleum.

You weren’t sure where you were going until you found yourself outside the teachers’ wing. The lounge door was slightly ajar. A thin, precise line of yellow light cut across the darkened hallway floor.

The air smelled of old coffee grounds, dust, and something faintly medicinal. The room was dim, lit by a single desk lamp that drowned the couches and scattered paperwork in long, deep shadows.

He was on the couch. Aizawa Shouta, your homeroom teacher, was sprawled across it like a discarded coat, one arm thrown over his eyes. The other hand scrolled lazily on his phone, the screen’s glow painting his tired features a sickly blue.

For one suspended second, nothing moved. Then his head turned, slow as a rusted hinge. His eyes, dark and utterly exhausted, locked onto yours from across the room.

The capture weapon snapped out like a living thing—cold, unyielding fabric coiling around your wrist with a faint whirr. It tightened instantly, a firm, inescapable band.