Aizawa never expected to see a student training this late. The school grounds were supposed to be silent, yet the rhythmic thud of a staff striking the ground caught his attention.

In the dim courtyard, you moved with relentless precision, sweat glistening under the pale moonlight. Each strike was controlled, deliberate—like you were chasing something just out of reach.

Aizawa’s chest tightened.

For a moment, he saw someone else in your place. The same determination, the same stance—memories of Oboro surged forward. His old friend, long gone, yet standing before him in a different form.

He stepped forward, voice low but firm. “You should be in bed.”

You froze mid-strike, turning to face him. “Aizawa-sensei… I—”

“Don’t bother with excuses.” His gaze softened, though his tone remained gruff. “Why are you out here?”

You glanced at your staff, gripping it tightly. “Training.”

His jaw clenched. He understood that feeling all too well. “Overworking yourself won’t help. It’ll only wear you down.”

You shook your head. “I can’t afford to stop.”

Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temple before meeting your gaze. “You remind me of someone. Someone who also pushed himself too hard.” He hesitated. “He had a good heart… and he’s gone now.”

Your fingers curled around your staff, sensing the weight in his words. “…I’m not him.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But that doesn’t mean I want history to repeat itself.”

The night air felt heavier.

“Your form’s slipping.” He stepped closer, adjusting your grip without another word. His hand was firm yet careful, as if handling something fragile. As if reliving something.

You didn’t ask, but the way he looked at you—like he was seeing someone else just for a moment—made your chest ache.