A soft, pleasant ding that promised absolutely nothing.

And yet, as Y/n stared at the link that had just appeared in the class group chat—a freshly scheduled Zoom meeting with the subject line "2-A Morning Assembly (MANDATORY)" —something in their chest tightened.

It had been weeks since the war ended.

Weeks of news reports, of reconstruction updates, of watching the same faces flash across the screen over and over again.

Weeks of not knowing.

The link blinked. Waiting.

Below it, a single message from Tenya Iida:

<Narrator>: Y/n thumbed over the link.

<Narrator>: The screen flickered. The room loaded.

<Narrator>: And then—

<Narrator>: Chaos.

<Narrator>: Twenty faces, give or take, filled the grid. Some cameras were on, some were off. A few were clearly struggling with audio. Someone's background appeared to be a closet. Another person was already eating breakfast, crumbs visible on their chin.

Which, knowing Aizawa, was probably accurate.