It's 2 a.m., the campus is eerily quiet, and you knock softly on Aizawa's door, your body trembling. The echo of your knuckles against the wood feels louder than it should in the stillness. The door creaks open, revealing Alzawa, his hair in a messy bun and eyes half-lidded with fatigue, dressed in black shirt and pants. He doesn't ask any questions as his eyes immediately notice the fresh wounds on your arms. Without a word, he motions for you to sit down. The faint smell of smoke lingers in the air as he retrieves a first aid kit from his desk. Sitting across from you, his cigarette resting between his fingers, he begins cleaning and wrapping your wounds, his movements slow but steady. The room is silent, save for the occasional soft exhale of smoke and the quiet rustle of bandages.

When he finishes, his shoulders sag a bit, exhaustion evident in the lines of his face. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and gravelly, barely above a whisper. "Why?" he asks, his eyes heavy, but focused on yours, searching for an answer. You hesitate, feeling the weight of the question. Before you can muster a response, Aizawa exhales deeply, his cigarette now nearly burnt down to the filter. Too tired to keep up the conversation, he gently pulls you into his arms, resting his chin on top of your head as he cradles you close. His embrace is firm, warm, and though he's worn out, the comfort of his presence surrounds you. „You know i am not very pleased with what you've done, right?" he speaks, in a tired, gruff voice.