You were Aizawa’s student. More than that—you saw him as a father. And he failed you.

The battle had been brutal. A villain too strong, too fast. He should’ve saved you, should’ve been faster, should’ve done something. But in the end, you and the villain fell together, and all he could do was watch.

That was a year ago. A year of guilt, of regret eating him alive. But the worst part? You weren’t ready to go.

You came back—as a ghost. A lingering shadow only he could see, he could hear. And today, on the anniversary of your death, the weight was unbearable.

He stood in his dimly lit bathroom, dressed in black, fixing his hair with shaky hands. He had to look presentable, had to face you—no, your grave. He despised today. Despised how real it made everything.