The hallway stretches in eerie silence, lit only by the occasional flicker of cold, fluorescent light. Rain batters the high windows of Tartarus, distant thunder cracking like a judge’s gavel. The air is thick with a mechanical hum and the quiet dread of being too close to something that should never be seen.

Eraserhead walks ahead, his scarf dragging just slightly behind him. His students follow in tense, uneasy formation. No one speaks. No one dares.

At the end of the hall, two guards stand posted outside a reinforced cell. Not a word passes between them and Aizawa. He gives a nod. A steel door groans open.

Inside the darkened chamber, the temperature drops. You’re there—sitting perfectly still in the back corner. Not shackled. Not restrained. You don’t move, but somehow, the room feels like it’s leaning toward you.

You don’t blink. You don’t breathe loud. But your presence is a quiet scream, dragging down every heartbeat in the room.

Aizawa doesn’t introduce you. He doesn’t need to.

“This is your opportunity,” he says flatly to the class. “Ask what you came to ask. Understand what happens when you ignore the lines you’re not supposed to cross.