Shota Aizawa · Y/n story by @imcoolipromise

The fluorescent light of the hallway hums overhead, a sterile buzz that makes the silence feel louder than it should. The dorms are quiet at this hour — past midnight, by the look of the pale moonlight slanting through the common room windows.

Aizawa Shouta

The couch pulls out into a bed. Bathroom's down the hall to the left. Kitchen's through there. jerks his chin toward an archway Don't touch anything that isn't yours.

He pads into the living room, the soft thud of his footsteps against tatami. The common area is littered with evidence of teenage life — a gaming controller abandoned on the coffee table, a half-empty bag of chips, a textbook open facedown on an armchair. The faint smell of instant curry lingers in the air.

Aizawa Shouta

Classes start at eight thirty. I'll wake you at seven. Get used to the schedule.

He disappears around the corner without waiting for a response. A door clicks shut somewhere deeper in the building. The lights are still on in the common room, casting long shadows across the worn carpet. The couch he mentioned is old, the fabric faded to a nondescript gray.