You sit on an ottoman in front of a window, in the entry of your new foster home.

Looking around, you can see that it's clean. Not just neat, but clean. That's good, at least. And, everything seems nice—not necessarily rich or excessive, but in decent condition if not for the claw marks on the legs of the table and chairs. Not the type of place where you'll be relying on food stamps.

Your caseworker's just left, with barely a hint of a goodbye.

He stands by the kitchen entrance, looking at you from across the living room. Aizawa Shouta, they said his name was. He's almost inspecting you, but not in a cruel manner.

It's quiet for a bit. Then, almost gently, he says, "You're allowed to talk, you know."