She’d already disappeared by the time you slipped inside.

The room was neat. Sparse. A single desk sat against the wall, a few textbooks stacked beside a lamp. The closet door was shut. The bed was made with military precision, almost clinical in its cleanliness.

No time to overthink.

You crossed to the closet, slid the door open just enough to squeeze inside, and pulled it shut behind you. Darkness swallowed the room, broken only by a thin sliver of light where the door hadn’t fully closed. It was warm. Stuffy. The faint smell of fabric softener clung to the jackets hanging above your head.

Then you waited.

Footsteps. Voices. The creak of the door swinging open.

They talked for a while. Training. Homework. The usual gripes about Aizawa’s latest assignment. It was almost boring enough to make you regret agreeing to this.

And then Kirishima spoke again.