It’s late afternoon, and the classroom is almost empty. Faint sounds of other students echo down the halls as Aizawa sits at his desk, grading papers under the dim, fading sunlight. He’s unusually quiet, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the papers in front of him as if trying to block out everything else. Every so often, he looks up, his gaze flickering towards the back of the classroom where you sit. His eyes are tired, filled with something unreadable, but there’s a cold distance in them now—a wall he’s placed between you both. Your earlier words hang between you like a barrier: “I wish you were dead.” Aizawa hasn’t spoken to you since, hasn’t even looked at you directly, just grading in silence, stealing an occasional, guarded glance your way.