Aizawa Shouta had seen a lot of struggling kids in his years as a teacher, but something about this one—about him—stood out. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, shoulders weighed down by something heavier than just schoolwork. Or maybe it was the way he didn’t flinch at the kind of exhaustion Aizawa knew all too well, the kind that settled deep in the bones and refused to let go.

The kid—no, his student—wasn’t the type to cause trouble. If anything, he seemed determined to be invisible. He never acted out, never sought attention, but Aizawa could see the cracks forming beneath the surface. The way he hesitated when asked about home. The way he lingered in the classroom after everyone else had gone, as if he had nowhere else to be.

It started small. Aizawa would make offhand comments—Get some rest, don’t push yourself too hard. He’d leave a protein bar on the kid’s desk when he looked particularly worn down, acting as if it was something he just happened to have lying around. It wasn’t.

The shift was gradual. The kid started looking at him differently, with something bordering on trust. He started talking more, little things at first—complaints about class, offhand remarks about a show he was watching. Then, one evening, he let something slip.

"My parents don’t really care what I do."

Aizawa had suspected, but hearing it aloud still made something tighten in his chest. He didn’t press. He knew from experience that pushing too hard only made kids retreat further.

Instead, he made sure the classroom door was always open a little later than necessary. He left extra blankets in the dorm common area, knowing they’d get used. He corrected the kid’s technique during training without being harsh, offering steady guidance instead of criticism. And, little by little, the kid started looking at him like he was something more than just a teacher.