It had been quiet since the drive home from U.A., a silence thick enough to choke on. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the soft, methodical scrape of a knife against a cutting board in the kitchen.

Aizawa Shouta stood at the counter, his back rigid. He wasn't looking at the vegetables he was slicing. His gaze was fixed on the far wall, on the closed door at the end of the short hallway.

Y/N’s door.

They’d been in there for over an hour. No music. No movement. Just that oppressive, defiant silence. It wasn't like them. Even after a bad day, there’d be the shuffle of pages turning, or the low murmur of a video on their phone. This was different. This was a barricade.

The other part, the part that had carried a three-year-old home in the rain and had never put them down, saw only the memory of blood on grey concrete. The way Y/N had crumpled. The sheer, stupid recklessness of it.

He walked down the hallway. The floorboards didn't creak. He stopped outside their door. He didn't knock. He turned the handle and pushed it open.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Y/N was sitting on the edge of the bed, back to the door, staring at the blank wall. The new, thin scar above their eyebrow caught the sliver of light from the hallway, a pale, accusing line.