No distant hum of the television from the common room. No clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Just the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, and the faintest sound of breathing from down the hall.

You'd come looking for a forgotten textbook. Something about support gear analysis that you'd left behind after the last study session with Yaoyorozu.

Instead, you found him.

Shota Aizawa was sitting on the floor of the hallway, his back pressed against the wall. His capture weapon was loose around his neck, untied. His hair—usually so carefully maintained—hung limp and tangled around his face. His eyes were half-lidded, dark circles carved deep beneath them like bruises.

He didn't move when you stopped. Didn't flinch. Didn't even seem surprised.