Kaminari was losing spectacularly at a racing game, controller clenched between his knees. Ashido was painting her nails a bright magenta. Yaoyorozu and Iida were hunched over a textbook at the coffee table, debating something in low, serious voices.

In the corner armchair, Aizawa Sensei sat half-submerged in his yellow sleeping bag, a stack of essays balanced on his knee. His pen moved in short, sharp strokes.

No one looked up.

They'd all assumed you were asleep. That you'd been asleep for days now, bundled under blankets, burning through your so-called fever.

The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs.