Aizawa Shouta was curled in his usual corner, the dark green sleeping bag pooled around his waist as he hunched over a manila folder. His capture weapon was loose, draped over his shoulders, and his hair was a mess of black tangles from the nap he'd taken between classes.

He'd meant to just skim the new student files. Standard procedure. Quirks, medical records, emergency contacts.

He didn't expect the world to tilt.

Y/n. Quirk: Unknown. Family status: —

The words blurred. He blinked, forced his eyes to focus. Read it again.

"Guardian: Unnamed. Legal status: Transferred from private custody. Cultural background: —"

It wasn't what was written that made his blood run cold.

It was what was missing.

No parents. No siblings. No address. No history before the age of nine. A single line, buried in the back of the file, written in a different hand — a caseworker's, maybe, or a detective's:

"Subject was recovered from a trafficking ring in the Kansai region. No known biological family. Records of prior guardianship unverifiable."

The file slipped from his fingers.

It didn't make a sound when it hit the floor.

Hizashi was standing over him, his usual grin nowhere to be found. His eyes were scanning Aizawa's face, searching for something, and whatever he saw made his own expression tighten.

Hizashi followed his gaze. The file lay open on the floor, the pages fanned out like a broken bird. A few heartbeats of silence.

Then Hizashi knelt. And picked it up.

And read.

The color drained from his face faster than Aizawa had ever seen. His throat worked. The pages trembled in his grip. A choked, almost wet gasp escaped him — the sound of a man who had seen plenty of horror in his life, but never like this. Never on paper. Never attached to a name he already knew.

Somewhere in the hallway, the last bell of the day rang.

And in classroom 1-A, you were waiting. Oblivious. Alive.