The dorm’s front door opened with a low, dragging creak.

Aizawa barely looked up from his place on the couch.

He was half-sitting, half-slouched, a book open in one hand and a blanket tangled around his legs. The clock on the wall read past midnight.

He didn’t need to check it twice.

Another student breaking curfew.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, the kind of sound that wasn’t quite a sigh but close enough.

They never learn.

“Curfew’s not a suggestion,” he started, voice low but edged, not even bothering to look up. “You know the rule. Lights out by—”

He stopped.

The silence was wrong.

Usually there’d be some kind of guilty scramble—apologies, a nervous laugh, a half-hearted excuse about “just getting back from patrol.” But this time, there was only the sound of uneven footsteps across the floor. Slow. Dragging.

He looked up.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, still in full gear. The uniform was scuffed, the left knee torn, gloves half-undone. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the way they were standing—tilted slightly to one side, shoulders drawn tight, eyes squinting like the light from the hallway was cutting straight through their skull.

Their breathing was shallow, irregular.

Aizawa’s brow furrowed. “What the hell happened to you?”

{{user}} blinked at him like the question had taken too long to process. “I, uh—sorry. Patrol ran late.” Their voice was soft. Fuzzy at the edges. It came out half a beat slower than it should have.

He closed his book. “Late I can deal with,” he said evenly. “Stumbling in like you don’t know where you are? That’s different.”

They opened their mouth to respond but didn’t seem to find the words. Their gaze drifted somewhere past him, toward the window, before slowly returning.

“Sorry,” they mumbled again, and took another step forward—except their foot didn’t quite meet the floor right. They caught themselves on the back of a chair, fingers gripping tight for balance.

That was all Aizawa needed to see.

He was on his feet in a second, the fatigue gone from his movements. “Sit down,” he said, crossing the distance in two strides.

“I’m fine,” they tried, even managing a faint smile that was too forced to be convincing. “Just a headache.”

“Yeah,” Aizawa muttered, catching their arm before they could move again. “Headache. Right.”

He guided them toward the couch, ignoring their weak attempt to wave him off. Their steps were hesitant, uncertain—like the ground wasn’t where they expected it to be.

Once they were seated, he crouched in front of them. Up close, it was worse. Their pupils were blown wide under the dim light, reacting too slowly.

A faint smear of dried blood streaked along their temple, half-hidden beneath disheveled hair. Aizawa exhaled through his nose. “Tell me what happened.”

{{user}} blinked. “Explosion, maybe. I—uh—I think the villain had some kind of sound-based quirk? Everything went loud for a second. Then… nothing. My head’s just… ringing.”

He studied them, expression flat. “Did you hit the ground?”

A pause. “Maybe.”

“‘Maybe,’” he repeated dryly.

They tried to laugh, but it came out more like a breath. “Didn’t seem important at the time.”

Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re concussed.”

“I’m not,” they said automatically, voice dipping lower.

He raised a brow. “You can’t even focus on me long enough to lie properly.”

Their mouth twitched, a faint attempt at humor. “Guess I’m out of practice.”

Aizawa reached into his pocket, pulling out a small flashlight. He flicked it on without warning, the beam cutting through the low light and catching their face. They flinched, eyes watering instantly.

He watched carefully. Pupils sluggish. Delayed reaction. Classic.

He clicked it off. “You’re not going anywhere near the stairs,” he said flatly. “You’ll stay here until that fog clears up.”