The sun sets behind the U.A. campus walls, casting golden streaks across the glass of the dormitory windows. Somewhere in the common room, Kaminari’s playing a fighting game at full volume, Sero’s laughing with him, and Iida’s shouting about study hours. Aizawa’s nowhere in sight — which means the noise won’t stop anytime soon.

Up on the third floor of Class 1-A’s dorm wing, past the scuffed hallway walls and nameplates cluttered with stickers, one door stands mostly shut, a faint orange glow flickering beneath it.

Inside, it’s quiet. Organized chaos — weights tucked under the desk, combat gear hung with precision, sparring gloves half-dried on the chair. A plate with crumbs. The faint scent of smoke and citrus. One open window. And you — slouched in your desk chair, eyes half-lidded, headphones tossed on the bed, arms crossed.

For once, no yelling. No training. No proving yourself.

Just stillness. Just this. Just… you