The U.A. dormitories hummed with the distant sound of students settling in for the evening—muffled laughter from the common room below, the occasional slam of a door, the low murmur of conversation drifting through thin walls. The hallway smelled of freshly laundered uniforms and the faint, lingering aroma of the dinner served hours ago.

You stood at the threshold of Dorm Room 204, the door slightly ajar, warm light spilling out into the corridor. Inside, the room was meticulous—everything in its place, notebooks stacked with military precision, a single pen resting at an exact right angle to the desk's edge. The bed was made with hospital corners.

Sat at the desk, back straight as a ruler, was Tenya Iida.

He hadn't noticed you yet. His head was bowed over a textbook, glasses catching the lamplight as he underlined something with deliberate care. Steam rose from a cup of tea at his elbow—orange Pekoe, by the scent of it—and his engines hummed softly, a quiet idling sound that was almost soothing.

His uniform was immaculate, even here in the privacy of his own room, though the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his elbows, revealing the faint outline of muscle in his forearms. The exhaust pipes on his calves caught the light, gleaming dully.

A single knock had been your announcement, but he hadn't heard. Or perhaps he was simply too absorbed to register it.

The clock on his wall ticked. 7:47 PM.

He turned a page, his brow furrowing slightly as he scanned the text. For a moment, he seemed almost... approachable. Less like the rigid Class Representative who lectured his classmates on proper hero conduct, and more like a boy who simply cared too much.

Then he looked up.

On the desk, beside the tea, lay a neatly printed schedule with your name written at the top in perfect handwriting. A small stack of flashcards sat beside it, color-coded by subject.