Y/n stood at the center of it all, chest rising and falling in a steady, controlled rhythm. Not a hair out of place.

High above, behind the observation deck's soundproof glass, a single figure remained seated. Shota Aizawa didn't look up from his clipboard. His pen scratched across the paper, a small, relentless sound.

After a long moment, he stood. His capture weapon shifted as he leaned forward, tapping the glass with one finger. His dark eyes, flat and unreadable, finally found Y/n's. He gestured once, a sharp, summoning flick of his wrist.