His voice was flat, exhausted. He didn’t move from his crouch a few feet away, his capture weapon loose around his shoulders, but his dark eyes were fixed on you, unblinking. The other three—Midoriya, Uraraka, Iida—tensed, their postures shifting from concern to guarded readiness.

He took half a step forward, green eyes wide with a mix of worry and frantic curiosity. Iida’s hand shot out, halting him.

She peered at you, her round face etched with sympathy. Aizawa sighed, a long, weary sound.

He finally stood, his tall frame casting a longer shadow over you. He looked less like a hero and more like a man who hadn’t slept in a week, which was probably accurate.

His tone left no room for argument. It was the voice of a man who expelled entire classes on a whim. Midoriya was muttering under his breath, his fingers twitching as if itching for a notebook.

Aizawa’s gaze never wavered from you. The silence stretched, heavy and waiting, broken only by the faint buzz of the lights and the distant, muffled sound of a school bell.