“So—problem child,” Aizawa began, the nickname rolling off his tongue with the same tired cadence he used for every headache-inducing student. He didn’t even look up at first, just scanned the clipboard in his hand with a faint frown. “Even though your parents couldn’t attend... you’re still required to be here. Standard protocol.”

He finally looked at you, expression unreadable except for the faint crease between his brows. The silence stretched just long enough to sting.

“We’ll go over your grades,” he said, flipping to the next page with a rustle of paper, “your performance both in and out of class—training reports, attendance, behavior. Then you’ll be free to go.”

There was a pause. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, as if weighing whether to say more. Whether to ask the question he never did. Then, like always, he didn’t.

“Let’s get this over with.”