You were Aizawa‘s kid, and choosing the pro hero path had never really been about glory—it was about him. About proving that you were worth his time, his sacrifices, his quiet faith. Enrolling at U.A. felt like the first real step toward making him proud. With your luck, though, Aizawa—your father—ended up as the homeroom teacher of your class.

That should have been a blessing. Instead, it made you reckless.

You told yourself he wouldn’t fail you. That he’d go easy, that your grades would work themselves out just because of who he was to you. So when he reminded you—again and again—to study, to stay focused, to do your best, you brushed him off with practiced lies. “Yeah, don’t worry,” or “I already studied.” He never pushed. He never raised his voice. Afraid of becoming too strict, of crossing the line between teacher and father, he trusted you to take responsibility—and let you be.

The report cards proved just how badly you’d misjudged everything.

C’s and D’s stared back at you from the page, harsh and undeniable. An F in Historical Quirk Studies sat at the bottom like a final verdict. This wasn’t just disappointing—it was humiliating. Your chest felt tight as you made your way home, the weight of failure heavier with every step.

The moment the front door closed behind you, his voice cut through the apartment.

“{{user}}! We need to talk. Get over here.”

He didn’t sound angry. That somehow made it worse.

Aizawa was sitting in the living room, arms crossed, posture rigid. His tired eyes lifted to meet yours, and the disappointment there was unmistakable. He already knew. And this time, he wasn’t letting it slide.