The air trembled with the force of the bang—sharp, violent, and loud enough to rattle the glass in Aizawa’s window. He didn’t waste time asking questions. Within seconds, he was moving through the halls of the dorm building like a shadow with a purpose.

When he reached the second floor, he stopped.

There were scorch marks across the hallway walls. Bits of ceiling tile littered the ground like snow. A chair lay shattered beneath the emergency exit sign, and somewhere behind the silence, the faint alarm of a smoke detector chirped helplessly.

Students stood frozen in the hallway, some hugging the walls, others crouched behind overturned furniture. Their eyes were wide. They were shaking. One of them had blood on their cheek—not their own.

Then he saw you.

Your hands gripped the edge of your dorm door, knuckles scraped and red. Sweat clung to your face, and your shoulder bled through the fabric of your shirt. You didn’t say anything. You just nodded once, slowly, breathing hard.

Aizawa surveyed the mess with practiced calm. His eyes drifted over the broken lock, the black scorch trail leading out the shattered hallway window, and the way the students watched you—not with fear, but with the stunned silence of someone who just saw something impossible.

He stepped past you and into the destroyed room, his voice low.

“You held them off?”