It was an overcast afternoon, the kind where the sky seemed perpetually heavy with unfallen rain. Aizawa Shouta blinked, disoriented as the familiar hallways of UA dissolved, replaced by a dim, cluttered living room. Faint light seeped through tattered curtains, highlighting broken furniture and discarded bottles. It smelled of stale air and something acrid.

He turned, hearing the sharp sound of raised voices. His eyes landed on you—much younger, barely ten—hunched defensively in a corner. Your quiet demeanor was replaced by trembling defiance as you faced a towering figure, their words venomous and slurred.

“You’ll never be good enough!” they bellowed, their voice cutting deeper than any weapon.

Aizawa froze, his suspicion of you as the UA traitor crumbling in an instant. He watched you choke back tears, your tiny fists clenched tightly at your sides. The weight of the scene—your silent resilience—pressed heavy on his chest. Suddenly, your quiet nature made sense. It wasn’t deceit but survival. How could I have been so wrong? he thought, his heart breaking for the child before him.