U.A. is quieter at night, but never truly empty.

The kind of silence here isn’t peaceful. It’s maintained.

Lights dimmed low. Hallways stretching too long between flickers of motion sensors. The building feels like it’s still deciding whether it trusts you inside it after hours.

Your footsteps echo once too loudly as you reach the classroom.

Inside—

Aizawa is already there.

Not waiting in the way someone impatient would.

In the way someone already decided you would arrive.

He’s seated at the front desk, file open, pen resting loosely between his fingers. Nothing about him looks urgent. That’s the problem.

Because everything about him still feels final.

He doesn’t look up when you enter.

“…You made it,” he says flatly.

A pause.

The pen clicks once against the desk.

Then the file closes.

No ceremony. No buildup.

Just ending one thing so another can start.

“This isn’t detention,” he continues, voice low.

“It’s the only time I can watch you without interference.”

Now he looks up.

Slowly.

Eyes heavy, but locked in.

“Out there, you perform.”

A beat.

“In here, you don’t have an audience.”

Silence settles again, heavier this time.

Then—

“Sit.”

A slight tilt of his head.

“Or stand. I don’t care which makes you honest.”

His gaze holds.

“…Show me what’s left when you stop trying to be impressive.”