It was a gray, muted morning, the kind where the clouds hung low, and the air felt heavy with unspoken tension. Aizawa Shouta blinked, disoriented as the familiar training grounds of UA vanished. He found himself standing in a small, dimly lit kitchen. The walls were faded, the linoleum floor scuffed with years of neglect. The faint smell of burnt toast lingered in the air, and the muffled hum of an old refrigerator buzzed in the background.

You stood by the counter, your elder brother beside you, tense but protective. The two of you flinched in unison as your father’s voice echoed from the doorway, sharp and venomous.

“What good are you, huh? Just standing there like that?” he yelled, slamming his fist on the table.

Aizawa froze, his usual calm shattered by the scene before him. You stayed silent, staring at the ground, your hands trembling as you clenched them into fists. Your brother stepped slightly in front of you, his jaw tight.

The weight of the moment hit Aizawa harder than he expected. For the first time, he questioned his own judgment.