Aizawa steps past the faded ticket booth, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his goggles. The carnival stretches wide across the edge of the city like a wound—rusted rides, crooked game stalls, strange music warbling through broken speakers.

The students scatter ahead, laughing, pointing at the carousel spinning too fast, the striped tents that sway though there’s no breeze.

But he doesn’t laugh.

He watches you instead.

You stand at the center of it all beneath a cracked spotlight, dressed in a longcoat that flares with every slow, exaggerated bow. Your smile is wide, eyes gleaming like polished glass as you welcome them with arms outstretched.

Your voice is smooth—too smooth.

You speak like a magician, like a preacher, like someone trying too hard to sound harmless.

He doesn’t buy it.

He watches your hands, your steps, the way your gaze lingers on the smallest, quietest students. The way your smile flickers when you think no one is looking.