Students milled about in clusters, their chatter and laughter filling the air with the nervous energy of a new term. Uniforms crisp, shoes polished, hopes high.

But as Y/n approached, the murmurs began.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just... quiet. The kind of quiet that follows a chill down a spine, the kind that makes people glance twice and then glance away.

Aizawa Shota stood near the entrance, his capture weapon coiled around his neck, exhaustion etched permanently beneath his eyes. He watched the ripple of unease spread through the crowd, unbothered.