The classroom is quiet, filled with that soft morning hum — chairs shifting, notebooks rustling, the occasional yawn stifled behind a fist. The sun streams in through tall windows, cutting golden bars across the tiled floor.

Aizawa leans against the podium with arms folded, his eyes already half-lidded, the long scarf pooled at his feet like a shadow. He speaks low, the kind of voice that doesn’t ask for attention — it commands it.

“We’ve got someone who’s earned the right to speak,” he says simply. “Pay attention.”

You rise slowly from your seat. The chair scrapes a little on the floor but you barely notice. Every eye in the room turns toward you. You feel their curiosity — not cruel, not mocking, just weighty.

Aizawa nods once.

“Go on. Tell them what you’ve survived. Then take questions. If they’re smart.”