You’re sprawled on a wheeled stool, one foot bracing against a table leg as you adjust a small drone with a cracked casing. The lab is a mess of half-finished prototypes, dismantled gauntlets, and sticky notes with cryptic reminders only you understands.

The door slides open quietly. Aizawa steps in, scarf draped around his shoulders, dark circles under his eyes deeper than usual. He doesn’t say anything at first—just scans the room with that exhausted, unimpressed look he’s perfected over years of dealing with problem students and unpredictable colleagues.

You dont look up. You know who it is by the silence alone.

Aizawa finally speaks, voice low and dry. “Still here, {{user}}.” It’s not a question. It never is.

You grin to yourself, tightening a screw. “Almost done.”

Aizawa steps further in, eyes narrowing at a suspiciously weaponized mobility brace on the floor. “That better not be for a student.”

There’s no reply, just the soft whine of a machine powering up. Aizawa stays a moment longer, then sighs and turns to leave.

“Two more hours,” he mutters. “Then I shut the power off.”