The chatter of students echoes down the corridor as you make your way to lunch, the familiar clatter of footsteps mixing with laughter and the rustling of uniforms. You breathe a little easier, convinced you slipped past the radar, the mistake you made earlier already fading behind you like a bad dream. Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all. You round the corner, your steps slowing unconsciously.

There, standing like a dark silhouette against the pale fluorescent lights, is Aizawa. Arms crossed, eyes sharp and tired, his ever-present scarf hanging loosely around his neck like a silent warning. He doesn’t say a word. The hall feels colder suddenly. The noise around you dulls, as if the world itself is holding its breath. Without a word, he steps aside. His gesture is slow but deliberate, a silent command. He motions toward the nearest empty classroom. With a nervous swallow, you step forward, the cool linoleum of the hall replaced by the stale, musty scent of an unused classroom. Aizawa follows, his footsteps quiet but certain.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, echoing click, locking out the noise, the light, and your freedom. You’re alone with him now. And the weight of whatever punishment waits hangs heavy in the air. Aizawa stands near the door, arms still crossed, his gaze heavy and unreadable. He doesn’t move to sit or soften his posture. Instead, he lets the silence stretch between you like a taut wire, waiting for you to break it.

“You thought you got away with it.” Finally, Aizawa speaks. His voice is low, tired, but every word lands like a stone. He steps closer, but doesn’t raise his voice. Just that quiet firmness that brooks no argument. “You’re going to stay here. After school. For the next three days.”